Page 7 of Wild Thorns

The brother from the window, the one that had winked, stood on my landing, up close and even more devastating than I'd imagined. Dark curls fell across his forehead in deliberate disarray, the kind of artful messiness that took either no effort or considerable effort, depending on the hair. His eyes were whiskey-warm, amber shot through with gold, framed by lashes that were frankly unfair on a man. His face was magazine-cover beautiful, all sharp angles and perfect symmetry.

He knew exactly how good-looking he was. It showed in the way he held himself, the easy confidence of someone who'd learned early that his face opened doors.

He was holding a pie.

I opened the door.

"I was in the neighborhood," he said, with a grin that suggested he knew exactly how ridiculous that sounded, given that we lived on the same property. "Thought you might not have unpacked your kitchen yet. I'm Jasper, by the way. The handsome one."

"The modest one, clearly."

His grin widened, showing teeth that were white, perfect, and entirely normal. No strange sharpness, no flicker of something wrong. Just a man with a beautiful smile and a baked good.

"I like you already," he said.

He was wearing a white henley that clung to shoulders slightly narrower than the brother with the axe but no less defined; the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that flexed as he held out the pie. I found myself cataloguing the details the way I catalogued design elements: the contrast of the white fabric against his tan skin, the way the afternoon light caught the fine dark hair on his arms, the easy strength in his hands.

My eyes caught on his chest, the muscle definition, the trail of dark hair. When I dragged them back up to his face, his grin had turned knowing.

"Are you going to invite me in," he asked, "or should I just eat this on your doorstep? Because I will. I have absolutely no shame."

"I believe you."

"You should. I once ate an entire casserole standing at the kitchen counter because Callum said I wouldn't." He tilted his head, studying me with an openness that felt deliberate, like he was showing me he had nothing to hide. Like transparency was a choice he was making, a gift he was offering. "So what's it going to be? Doorstep pie or civilized company?"

I should have said no.

I didn't know this man. I didn't know anyone here, really, and months of looking over my shoulder had taught me that charming men were often the most dangerous kind. Marcus had been charming. Marcus had been all smiles and easy warmth right up until he wasn't, right up until the charm became a weapon, a way of making me doubt my own perceptions because how could someone so charming be cruel?

But something about Jasper's transparency, the way he acknowledged his own ridiculousness, the way he wasn't trying to be anything other than exactly what he appeared to be, made me step back from the door.

"The porch," I said. "Compromise."

"I'll take it."

We settled into the mismatched chairs I'd found at a thrift store in town, the pie dish balanced on the railing between us. The view from up here was better than I'd expected: the magnolia tree dominating the foreground, its white blooms catching the afternoon light, and beyond it the preserve stretching toward the horizon like a green and shadowed sea.

The pie was peach. Homemade, clearly, with a lattice crust that was almost too pretty to cut. He produced a knife and two forks from somewhere, served me a slice on a paper plate, He watched me take the first bite, his eyes tracking my reaction with intensity that made my breath catch.

The filling was sweet but not overly so; the peaches soft but not mushy, seasoned with something I couldn't quite identify. Cinnamon, yes, but something else too. The damn pie tasted like summer itself.

"Good?" he asked.

"Where did you learn to bake?"

"Mom taught all of us. Said it was a useful life skill." He stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles, and I tried not to notice how his jeans fit. Tried and failed. "Callum's actually the best at it, but he'll never admit it. Too busy being stoic and serious. Eli prefers savory foods. Put him in a kitchen and he'll make you the best gumbo you've ever had, but ask him to make a dessert and he looks at you like you've given him homework."

I took another bite, filing away the information. Eli. The third brother, the one I hadn't seen yet. The one who preferred savory and apparently found desserts distasteful.

"I'm the pie specialist." Jasper gestured at the dish with evident pride. "Crusts are my thing. There's a whole technique: cold butter, minimal handling, the right ratio of water to flour. Eli thinks it's more art than science. He's wrong. It's entirely science; I just happen to have good instincts."

The crust was flaky, buttery, perfect. It shattered against my tongue and melted into something rich and golden.

"Your instincts are apparently excellent."

"I know." No false modesty. Just a cocky grin that landed somewhere between confidence and self-awareness. "It's nice to have someone appreciate it. Callum eats everything like it's fuel. Doesn't matter if it's a masterpiece or a gas station sandwich, he consumes it with the same mechanical efficiency. Very discouraging for the chef."

"And Eli?"