Page 14 of Red, White, and You

As I wipe caramel from the edge of the cake stand, my mind drifts to what Phoenix said about finding something fulfilling. About Hart Health and endorsements not being enough. About today being the first time in months he felt like he was doing something that mattered.

What if he stays here?

The thought hits like a sugar rush—sudden, dizzying, a little dangerous.

What if Phoenix really does leave Hart Health behind? What if he decides Honeysuckle Ridge has something worth sticking around for?

What if that something is me?

My hands still, a smear of frosting clinging to my knuckles. That’s the thing about hope—it sneaks in before you even realize the door’s unlocked.

And hope? Hope is terrifying.

He’s a celebrity. A former NFL star with millions of fans and a life that exists on a completely different plane from mine.

He can have the kind of life other men dream of, filled with yacht parties and supermodels. Why would he choose a normal, small-time life with the local baker?

But then I remember the patience he showed with the customers who wanted selfies. The way he encouraged kids to show him their arm muscles and told them they could be great football players someday. The genuine smile on his face when we sold out of cupcakes.

Maybe Phoenix the celebrity and Phoenix the person aren’t the same thing.

Maybe the person is someone I could fall for.

Maybe I already am.

I step back to admire my creation. The caramel drips unevenly. The frosting shows faint fingerprints where I smoothed it by hand. The whole thing looks like it was made by someone who cares more about flavor than flawless presentation.

I wouldn’t sell it in my shop. I baked this one just for me.

But I feel an overwhelming desire to share it with Phoenix.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I cut a generous slice and cover it with plastic wrap. Then I grab my keys and head for the door.

Chapter 9

Phoenix

Theknockonmydoor at 11:47 PM is either very good news or very bad news.

Given that I’m staying in a rental house on the quiet end of Maple Street and exactly three people in town have my address, I’m hoping for good news.

I stumble out of bed in boxer shorts, pull on sweatpants, and pad barefoot to the door. Through the peephole, I catch sight of a familiar silhouette clutching a cake container like it’s a life raft.

Gigi.

When I open the door, she’s standing there wild-eyed, flour on her jeans, strands of hair escaping her ponytail like they’re trying to make a run for it.

“Did I wake you?” she blurts, then immediately waves herself off. “Of course I did. Normal people sleep at this hour. I should go—”

“Gigi.” I step aside. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” She thrusts the plate toward me like it’s a peace offering—or maybe a shield. “I made cake.”

I peel back the plastic wrap and blink. It’s stunning—pink layers, white frosting, golden caramel drizzled in perfect spirals.

“You brought me a midnight snack?”

“I know. It’s insane. I just…” She gestures helplessly. “You said that thing about Hart Health. About wanting something more. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

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