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She’s so damn pretty.

“I’m starving.” I tap my hands on the wheel. “I’m not sure I’ll make it back to Rubble Ridge alive if I don’t eat soon.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t give me a full Faye smile. I wish she would. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a real smile like the ones before—before she fell into the world of adulting she’s always feared so much.

I suppose her fear was valid, considering.

“I guess we better feed you then,” she says, already sliding from the passenger seat.

I hurry around my truck to meet her, getting the door to Sweets before she can get it for herself. She walks in and I watch as her head swivels to take in the bakery.

I’ve lived in Rubble Ridge my whole life, so I’ve been to Creekwood Valley more than a handful of times. This is one of Mom’s favorite places to stop to refuel after I’ve played a game of soccer.

But I remember my first time taking in the black and white checkered floor—and the pink. There’s a lot of pink in Sweets. Bubble-gum pink checkered booths line the walls that enclose both round and square tables with yard-sale collected chairs reupholstered with the same bubble-gum pink checkered fabric as the booths. The walls are painted pink, and the retro-style bakery boxes have been slathered in teal.

It’s horrendous and somehow perfect all at the same time.

“Wow,” Faye breathes.

“Never been here before, I take it?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

Inside, I pound my chest because this is a first with her I’ll covet—even as I’m an asshole for harboring it.

“What do you think?”

“I think whoever owns this place and Cherry would get alone really well—” Her head does another swivel around the bakery. “Or they’d be nemeses.”

“Let’s never introduce them, then.”

She agrees, “Probably for the best.”

I touch my hand to the small of her back, guiding her to a booth. She slides in as I tell her, “You can’t leave without trying a milkshake.”

A woman with a matching pink apron and a pot of piping hot coffee pauses. “Your man’s right, honey, you really can’t. I’m a chocolate girly, myself, but the vanilla is the true hit.”

I ignore how good it feels to be called her man. Or I try to ignore it.

I fail. It feels too fucking good.

I say, “Strawberry all the way.”

Faye scrunches her nose. “I’ll take the vanilla, please.”

“Another vanilla.” The waitress sighs dramatically. “When will I find my people?”

Faye laughs, and I think I love the woman for that. For making her laugh today of all days.

The waitress promises, “I’ll get those shakes right to you. In the meantime, you take your time with the menus.”

She leaves me alone with Faye.

I slide one of the two menus to her as my phone vibrates again in my pocket. My gut twists painfully, but I force a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

In the restroom, I pull my phone from my pocket. I open Holt’s text stream and feel sick with guilt at the worry that comes through.

I should call him and settle his worries, but how? What am I supposed to say? I haven’t even spoken to Faye about why she’s not talking to Holt. This is his kid, too. His future—his dreams—on the line.