“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask Sloan as I enter the kitchen.

Usually, I’m glad to see him, but not right now. Not like this. I can't believe what I'm looking at.

He not only has Wendy backed up against the countertop like a scared cat, he’s leering at her with his patented hey, ladyyy look. Same damn thing I've seen a hundred times when he's hitting on anything with two long legs and a pair of tits.

Normally, I'd roll my eyes. But because it's her, because it's Sugar...this time it pisses me off like no tomorrow.

Sloan turns, his imposing tease melting into a scorned guard dog look.

“Whoa, dude, I just stopped in to check on you. Chill,” he says, backing up a few steps. “Didn’t expect you to have company. I'm assuming that's who she is, right? Seems too well put together to be a frigging cat burglar.”

“Right. Company. ” I step up, and I can't stop myself. I curl an arm around Wendy’s shoulder. The way she’s trembling raises my ire, plus this weird, primal urge to show she's mine. “Go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“How’s Ben?” Sloan asks. “That's why I stopped by, really. Figured maybe you guys would need some extra din-din or some shit tonight, and –”

“Ben's fine,” I snap. Harsher than I should considering it's my best friend. “Look, Sloan...”

“What? Just like that, everything's peachy-keen? You got that grade thing worked out already?”

I give him a solid glare. “Tomorrow, Sloan. We'll talk. Trust me. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.” He’s not stupid, and he shouldn’t be pressing his luck now.

I know he's just being a concerned friend, and Ben's uncle, but fuck. It's incredible how hard it is to get him to go now that I'm doing what he always wanted without even realizing it until now.

For a man who’s tried to hook me up with anything with an ass and tits for years, he should already be on his merry way. Actually, he shouldn’t be here at all.

“Gotcha, buddy. My bad for the intrusion. I'll be back soon to fill you in on the latest company reports,” he says, turning around and plodding down the hall.

Christ. I'm too on edge, glued to this woman I'm clinging to like we just said our vows.

It's not just Sloan showing up unexpectedly. I hadn’t even heard the alarm system go off. It dawns on me then that I’d shut it off when I’d opened the door to let the smoke out, hadn't I? Had to, otherwise it would've continued to squeal the whole time the door was open.

“Who was that?” Wendy asks, a tremor in her voice.

To most people, I call Sloan my business partner, but I’m not in the mood to cut him any slack right now. “An employee,” I say. “A friend. A royal idiot, sometimes. Don't worry about him. It's just business. Mostly.”

Her eyes are wide, her brows lifting as she asks, “What sort of business are you in?” She shakes her head. “No, forget I asked. I don’t want to know.” She dips out from beneath my arm and spins around. “Sorry, I gotta go.”

I open my mouth to protest but stop myself.

Sloan's appearance shattered the undercurrent growing between us. As annoyed as I am, maybe he'd done me a favor.

Had she not spilled the wine, who knows what might've happened. Who, being me.

Because I'm sickeningly sure I'd have done it. I'd have kissed her, deep and hard and just a hint of teeth. I'd have taken her sweet ass with both hands, pulled her into me, and then anything and everything might've happened next.

“I’ll walk you out.” I can tell she’s about to fight me on it, so I add, “Make sure Sloan's gone, too.”

She startles slightly, then agrees with a nod.

“Thanks again for the meal,” I say, guiding her into the hallway with my hand in the center of her back. “And for your help with Ben.”

“No thanks necessary.” She glances up at me. “Just, um, well, stay calm tomorrow morning, when talking to the game shop owner, for Ben’s sake. You get more bees with honey than you do vinegar.”

Sage advice from a lovely creature. I’d been trying to stay calm for Ben’s sake for the past twelve years, and I still haven’t mastered it. When he's in trouble, it's my problem, too.

“I'll do my best,” I tell her.

“I know.” Her eyes twinkle almost as bright as the ones she’d drawn on her unicorn cake. “And I’m right. It’s common sense, yet there’s a large number of people out there who don’t get that.”

“Lack of common sense,” I say.

She nods.

“What? Your customers?” I ask. “At the bakery?”

She shrugs as we enter the foyer. “Some, but mostly, I’ve lived with it my whole life. Seen enough mini-meltdowns that were so easily preventable.”

I wonder if she's talking about family. Her mother had been hard-nosed, but not flighty. Neither had her old man, Will. Not that I'd been around either of them long enough to pin her folks' personality types down.

“My sister,” she says as if catching my thoughts. “Rochelle.”

I stop in the doorway as she enters the formal living room to retrieve her purse.

Lifting the brown leather bag off the sofa, she says, “Last week, she was upset...beyond upset that she couldn’t release a thousand Monarch butterflies at her wedding. In Minnesota. In early winter.”

Fuck. Now, I'm starting to understand what she means about missing common sense.

“The wedding in two weeks?” I ask, just to clarify we're talking about the same sister. The same wedding.

“That's it. The one and only.” She walks toward me, flipping the handle of her purse over her shoulder. Her strawberry lips catch my eyes, pursed like a heart, so many pent up thoughts hanging there, I want to bury them all. However many reckless kisses it takes.

“It’s coming soon, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Just a few weeks out. Nothing says wedding like Minnesota in December, a few weeks before Christmas.”

“Damn.” I can think of other things to say about that, but choose not to.

“There’s more. She wanted them to be white.”

“White butterflies?”

She shakes her head.

“Birds. Doves or something, too. I told her both bugs and birds were equally insane.”

“Your Rochelle sounds like something else,” I say. “Doesn't she know how to take no for an answer?”

Her grin answers that question.

One thing's for sure: Wendy Agnes is something.

Something sweet, something sexy, something wrong I shouldn't be wanting as bad as I do.

I shake my head as we finally walk to the closet to grab her coat. “Why would someone ever want to release a thousand butterflies?”

“I don’t know. Just like I don’t know why someone would want their wedding cake to be shaped like a yacht.”

Her eyes swell and her cheeks flush, but she's not smiling.

Shit. It's not a joke.

“Seriously?”

She nods. “Seriously.”

I open the closet door, remove her coat from the hanger, and hold it up for her to slip on. “Are you baking it? This yacht wedding cake?”

I'm intrigued, as insane as it is. After that unicorn cake, I want to see it.

She sets her purse on the table and slips both arms into her coat. “It’s times like this when I’m very thankful for my mother. She settled the butterfly issue and the yacht cake. I’m baking it, but it’s a simple tier cake because the big day's about Rochelle, not Wendy’s cakes.”

Something in the way she says that irritates me. Not at her, but for her.

She's not getting the recognition, the thanks, she deserves.

Zipping up her coat, she turns and picks up her purse. “About that. The wedding. There's no need for you to –”

“Yes, there is.” I’d have never imagined I’d ever become this committed to taking someone to a damn wedding as their make-believe date, but I am. More so than this morning. “You helped me with Ben, and I’m taking you to that wedding. We'll drink, we'll dance, we'll have an awesome time. End of conversation.” I open the door, holding it for her.

She gives a nod, but I can’t say it’s affirmative.

More like one of those we’ll see nods. I know them because I use them all the time. Used to, when I was working. The past couple of years, with Ben in school, I find myself twiddling my thumbs, and being as bored as an empty suit of armor in a museum.

I walk down the steps beside her. Sloan’s motorcycle isn’t in the driveway, or his pickup, just a gray Chevy Cruze.

She holds up her hand at the bottom of the last step. “I can make it the rest of the way on my own.” Glancing up at the house, she says, “You have a nice place. Real nice. And Ben’s a good kid. You've got nothing to worry about, Hunter.”

She walks to her car then. I consider following, but there's truly no reason.

The cold air penetrates my shirt as I watch her climb in her car and then back it around to pull out. I don’t go inside until after she drives around the corner, completely out of sight.

I enter the house and shut the door, remembering her words.

This is a nice house. It’s also a lonely one. It’s not empty, though.

Both Ben and I are home, but it’s still lonely. Haunted. Too many obligations and bad memories to relax.

But that's not just our place in Saint Paul. That's been everywhere for a long damn time, ever since Cory died.

More than my brother, he’d been half my soul. My twin.

Identical in so many ways, yet complete opposites in so many other ways.

Cory was smart. Hell, genius in some ways. He saw opportunities I didn't, but his intelligence made his better judgment waver at times. Especially when it came to Juno.

The two of them were fire and ice since the first day they hooked up.

I liked Juno, loved her, she was my sister-in-law, but I always wondered if Cory made her happy. Or vice versa.

Then Ben was born. He brought those two together like industrial strength epoxy. Ironed out their issues.

That’s why I’d brought Sloan into management, so Cory would have more time to spend with Juno and Ben. We'd given Landmark a kick off the ground, a brotherly team effort, and we were on track for over a cool two million in profit by the time we landed our first contract.

I sit in my office, slumping back in the chair, too damn exhausted from the day to pour myself a drink.

Not too exhausted for more bad memories, unfortunately.

Those relentless, shitty ghosts always have a way of catching up.

“You gotta check into it, Hunter. No fucking joke.” Cory sets his beer on the table. “Andre in IT said we were hacked, and it was by serious cyber-muscle. A foreign intel op, or their associates.”

I take a swig off my beer, slowly so the conversation won’t escalate.

Cory’s already had a rough couple of weeks. Scary weeks.

Ben was sick. Pneumonia. Bad enough to keep him in the hospital.

Poor little guy. My baby nephew isn't even two yet, and he's already given us the scare of our lives.

Swallowing, I nod. “I’ll have Sloan on it. He's good with IT.”

“No.” Cory slaps the glass top of the table on his patio. “You have to look, Hunt. Not Sloan. It's too important.”

Fuck, I hate this.

Feel as if I'm tiptoeing around shards of glass. I’d promoted Sloan to take some of the load off Cory’s shoulders. And mine, honestly, but I'm feeling the resistance.

My brother's the kind of guy who doesn't want to let anything go. He loves to micro-manage, especially the odds and ends of our company that could bring us down if anything hiccups.

No, he's never flat out said he didn’t like what I’d done, the restructuring, but it's there in his tone. Every single time we talk about this shit.

“Andre said the whole system was breached. Serious shit. Bad enough to compromise our clients, if any of that leaked. Jesus, bro. You do understand this could –”

I throw my hands up and he stops. I don’t want to hear anymore.

“We're fine, Cory. You know we've got the fucking NSA standing over our shoulders on this, right? They check to make sure we're crossing every T. If there was a breach that bad, we'd know.” I just don't understand why he keeps coming back to this. His suspicions of foreign agents around every corner have gotten old. “I promise you I’ll look into it,” I say.

I'll look, even though there's nothing there, I think to myself for the thousandth time.

Cory leans closer, lowering his voice. “Talk to Andre. And only Andre, Hunt.”

He's too paranoid. We're the only two people within hearing distance.

We’re sitting in his backyard for Christ's sake. “All right. Read you loud and clear.”

I nod, but can’t just have him believing it’s this serious. If there was a hack, which I doubt, it was probably some kid trying to hack into free wi-fi or something. “But Landmark’s a small company, Cory. We’re growing, and making money, better than we ever believed, but...come on, man. We're not big league. We're too small to attract any foreign espionage.”

He stiffens.

Guilt hits me. So does frustration. He looks down at his beer, quietly simmering.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll take care of it. I've always got your back.” I don’t point out that Sloan’s background is in security, and the reason we, Cory and I, had hired him on in the first place was because he had the right expertise. Plus he was an outsider.

There's nothing like an outside perspective to catch any missteps.

“I’ll talk to Andre. You just focus on that vacation you've got planned.”

Cory sits up again, taking a long pull off his beer. “No need. We aren’t going.”

I'm shocked because he'd been planning it for months. Had the cabin bought and renovated and everything, even had a sweet new boat dropped off at the refurbished dock. I lean back in my chair. “Why not?”

“Because we can’t put Ben on a plane right now. He just got out of the hospital, Hunt. Too many germs in all that closed up air.”

I nod, then reach over and clap his shoulder. Now, it makes sense.

I know how much he loves Ben. We all do.

More than I ever thought possible, really, but I can feel Cory’s frustration as strongly as I can feel my own. It’s always been this way between us. This strange sense binding us like blood.

“Then drive,” I say. “Take the extra time. Colorado isn’t that far, and the fresh air there will do Ben some good.”

Cory spins his beer around and picks at the label. “No. We’ve decided not to go, so we aren’t. End of story.”

I have to wonder who decided that. Both of them, or only him?

“Dad?”

I shake my head to dispel the memories. “Yeah?”

“I’m gonna have another bite of that dessert Wendy made,” Ben says, peering into my office. “You want some?”

I move away from the door. “No, you go ahead.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

Noting the frown on his face, I walk over and drape an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, I did. Damn good. You know, on second thought, I will have some more.”

I'm not really hungry, even if Wendy's sweets are divine. But a tasty, sugary distraction might be just the thing to take the edge off when I couldn't dive into whiskey.

His face lights up. “Cool. It really is something, isn't it?”

I look at him for a second, trying to remember the last time I heard him this chipper, this carefree.

This kid means the world to me. I give his shoulder a squeeze.

“No doubt about it,” I agree as we head to the kitchen together.

“And it looked really cool, too, before we started eating it. How does she do that?”

“Don't know, son. You've got yourself a chance to find out the inner secrets of Midnight Morning soon enough, though.”

“Yeah, sure hope so.” He grins, looking up at me. “The unicorn cake looked amazing, too. But really, Dad...you got your picture taken with it? A unicorn cake? You do know you're on their website now?”

It's not disgust on his face, just good-natured disbelief in that weird way kids have.

I chuckle. “Had to, Ben. Wendy needed a favor. You should've seen it from the start. The cake was just a blob of brown the first time I saw it. I would've bet money that she couldn't have turned that thing into a unicorn masterpiece. Lots of money, really.”

“What’s the bakery like?” he asks. “Is it big?”

“No. It’s pretty small, cozy back there, but nice and clean. Smells good.” I’d spent most of my time in Wendy’s cake room, and the garage where the van was parked, so I couldn’t really describe much of the shop as a whole. “Hard to believe you'll have it too rough. Mostly dishes and cups from the cafe part, I suspect, plus some pans and mixers.”

He asks several other questions about the bakery and jobs in general. I gave him my thoughts while we finished off Wendy's dessert.

Then we watched a movie in the den, some spy-action flick. I lose interest in the first ten minutes. A yacht comes roaring across the screen and my thoughts go straight back to wedding cakes. All sorts of cakes. And then to Wendy.

Damn, she was trouble. Too cute, too sassy, and too fucking likely to still be here if Sloan hadn’t shown up.

I tell myself again his clumsy pop-in was a good thing. He disrupted something that could've turned into disaster for her and me both.

I know my focus. It needs to stay on Ben for a few more years. Just until he's grown.

After the movie, we head to our rooms. I see an extra bounce in Ben's step before he shuts the door, something that makes me linger in the hall, just smiling.

Apparently, baking isn't the only kind of magic Wendy Agnes does.

And if I'm not careful, that woman might just make me a believer in miracles.

The next morning is less pleasant. It's time to visit the game shop owner.

Ben fidgets nervously in the passenger seat the whole way there. You know it's bad when a teenager is too freaked out to even look at his phone and check the latest dozen Snaps and texts coming in.

Mr. Murray isn't what I expect in a game shop owner. He's older, sixtyish, and overall a nice guy, but very tired of a specific group of kids.

The same ones who’d put the notion of stealing in Ben’s mind. He says they've cost him at least four grand in losses this year.

Naturally, I put the responsibility on Ben's shoulders for following through with their suggestion, and so does Murray. Ultimately, I'm relieved when I find out he’d wanted to talk to me because he could tell Ben wasn’t like the others.

He wants me to know that letting him hang around those other boys is only going to cause more problems if I don't put a stop to it.

I do.

Soon as we're done and back in the truck, I straight up tell Ben he'd better cut ties with those other brats. Stick to Tommy, and whoever else is a good kid.

I let him know I left Murray a card, and told him to call me if any of them ever show up at his place again. I hope the other kids do. Putting a bit of fear in those hoodlums by reporting them to the principal would suit me just fine.

Hell, maybe more than that, considering the resources I've got at my disposal. One little call to Sloan, and I'll have all their parents' names, numbers, addresses, and the color of their moms' panties.

I don't abuse privacy unless there's a damn good reason. Fucking with my son is one of them.

“So, uh, now that that's over...can we drive past the bakery today?” Ben asks after we're buckled in and pulling out for the ride home.

“It’s closed up early most Sundays,” I say.

“I know. I just want to know where it is. If it works out, maybe I can ride my bike.”

“Oh, no, buddy. Wrong time of year for bikes and skateboards,” I tell him, cringing inwardly. Especially because I know how much I hate bikers in the winter when I’m driving around downtown. There’s just no safe place for them to be, and one little patch of black ice and bad luck with brakes...

“I’ll drive you and pick you up. It's not a big deal. Maybe have Sloan do it the days I can't.”

“What? You don’t trust me? Dad, I'm not a total idiot. I know how to be careful. I've lived through these winters most of my life!”

“I trust you, Ben. You're getting too worked up. It’s others I don’t trust. The bakery opens at six in the morning. It’s still dark then. Snowstorms aren't always predictable, and besides being dangerous they could make you late. Look, I’m not having you down there alone in the dark.”

I pause, then add, “The first aspect of self-defense is knowing your surroundings.”

I'm exaggerating, of course. Midnight Morning is on one of Saint Paul's finest streets, very low crime, but I know he'll take me seriously if he thinks I'm worrying about some bigger, scarier danger than a bad slide on the ice.

He nods. “Fine, yeah. You’ve told me that before. Guess I forgot.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t ever forget it. Knowing how to kick, punch, fight, or even run...that's all secondary. Priority number one is keeping yourself out of trouble. Away from any scraps or surprises in the first place.”

My mind goes to Wendy, more seriously. To her being there alone sometimes, opening at five or six in the morning, and whether or not she’s ever taken a basic self-defense class.

I make a mental note to find out.

The next day, when she tells me herself, I’m not impressed. “How long ago?”

She shrugs. “Seven...eight years, maybe? It was a required class. A P.E. elective.”

We're in the bakery's kitchen, and she’s flipping pie crusts in tin pans two at a time. Ben is in the small office behind me being interviewed by Sammy, Wendy’s mother.

“A required class, in high school, years ago,” I say, rattling it back to her.

“Yeah, why?”

I refrain from voicing my real concern by asking, “What do you remember of it?”

Her hair is once again pulled up in a ponytail, but she’s also wearing a net over it, and she has a white apron tied around her waist, over the top of a navy-blue t-shirt.

She lines up six crust-covered pie tins and spoons pumpkin filling in one after the other while saying, “Let's see...always be aware of my surroundings, park under a light, know where the exits are, and to carry my keys in my hand, not my purse, if anything seems sketchy.”

Those are good answers, but I’m still not satisfied.

“What about maneuvers? Did they teach you any?”

Without missing a scoop of pumpkin, she says, “Oh, yes! I know how to maneuver you out of my kitchen.”

I bite back a smile. I can't resist her sass, but I stay on point. “I’m being serious, Wendy.”

She levels a stony stare my way. “So am I. No need for you to take care of me, Hunter. I'm a big girl.”

With a wave of her spoon, she points at not only the pies she's just filled, but the ones already baked before the spoon swings toward the massive stainless-steel ovens. “I have a hundred and twenty-four pumpkin pies to make today.”

She drops the spoon in the bowl with a clatter. “My mother said you could wait for Ben back here, but I have the authority to kick you out if you become a distraction.”

Inwardly, I'm grinning like a fool. Like she doesn't know she's the damn distraction?

How can someone look so illegally sexy while making pumpkin pies? A hundred and twenty-four of them?

My mind doesn’t work that way. It stays sharp, focused, unflinching. “Self-defense is a serious matter. Not here to distract you in the slightest, Sugar.”

Her eyes narrow. “Uh-huh. So, are you worried about Ben? Is that what the fifty questions are about? Well, don’t. This is a good neighborhood. One of the best in the city. It’s patrolled well, and he’ll never be here alone without an adult.”

I nod, trying to comprehend her sensible advice.

Right about now, I’d like to grab her hips, pull them against mine, and plant a kiss on her lips that she’ll never forget. I'd like to slide my tongue in, chasing hers, showing her a brash preview of everything I'd do to that sweet body.

Good thing I'm not completely gone. Because my own good senses tell me if I do any of that, I'll get whacked with her big metal spoon.

Instead, I shift my weight on the stool and ask, “What about you? Are you ever here alone?”

“Only all the time.” She scoops flour out of a big tin with a metal cup the size of a pitcher and dumps each batch in the big mixing bowl. “Been that way for years, ever since my parents decided I could handle everything here. Nothing new there. Big girl, remember?”

I’m about to tell her she’s not a big enough girl if the wrong, angry bastard ever corners her here alone, but the door opens beside me. Ben walks out, closely followed by her mother, Sammy.

The smile on his face eases my nerves. I hadn’t wanted to admit, even to myself, how worried I was for him. Job interviews at any age are nerve-racking, but especially for a kid on his first try.

“So?” Wendy asks. “Do I have a new dishwasher or not?”

The few gray hairs in Sammy Agnes’ brown hair defies the energy that flows in her wake. “Sure do, Wendy-doll,” she answers, hooking her arm with Ben’s. “I believe young Benjamin will be the perfect addition to our kitchen.”

“Yay!” Wendy’s smile lights up her whole face like a Christmas tree. “Congrats, Ben!”

She gives him a wink. “We’ll make a great team.”

Ben’s cheeks flush red. I give his shoulder a fatherly slap, refraining from saying anything more.

I’ve been in his shoes. Compliments, much less wild congratulations, can be uncomfortable at his age.

“I’ll show Ben around while you two get better acquainted,” Sammy says as she shoots Wendy a scheming lift of a brow.

“No, Mother,” she replies. “Ben will be working with me most of the time, so I’ll give him the grand tour.”

“Wendy –”

“Mr. Forsythe and I don't need to get better acquainted, if that's what you're thinking.” Wendy’s face turns serious. “And you have orders to check on. Better double-check to make sure a hundred and twenty-four pumpkin pies will be enough.”

“Who orders a hundred and twenty-four pies?” Ben asks.

I’m glad, because I was wondering the same thing.

“Anyone with a mammoth family who doesn’t want to bake their own for Thanksgiving,” Wendy answers.

“Speaking of that,” Sammy says, turning to me. “Ben can start on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. He doesn’t have school, and we’ll be extra busy with all the crazy shoppers buying their Christmas treats.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I answer. “How about you, Ben?”

“I only have school through Wednesday this week. So, uh, technically...I could start today. If that’s okay with you, Dad.”

Okay?

I haven’t seen this blown confetti-like excitement in his eyes for ages. Turning to Wendy, I tell her, “Guess that'd be up to your new boss.”

Within five minutes, I wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut because I find myself alone outside of the bakery, with gusts of freezing November wind circling me as I look through the glass windows.

I can’t see the kitchen from here, but I know it’s there. So is Ben. So is Wendy.

She flatly ordered me to leave and return at three, when the shop closes, to pick up Ben.

I don’t believe I’ve ever been ordered out of anywhere in my life.

“Excuse us, sir!”

I step aside so a woman holding a little girl’s hand can hurry toward the bakery door.

“This wind is brutal today,” the woman says.

“You ain't kidding.” I reach past them to pull the door open, my ears echoing with the ding that chimes whenever the bakery opens.

“Thank you,” the woman says gratefully, glancing to the little girl. “Say thank you, Maddie.”

“Thanks,” the little girl whispers. “I’m here to give this to Wendy.” She holds up a piece of paper. “See? I drew her a picture to say thank you for the unicorn cake she baked for my birthday. It was the best cake ever! So yummy and pretty.”

The mother smiles, then tugs the girl inside, and I let the door close slowly behind them.

A strange sense of satisfaction rolls through me. Like for the first time in forever, things are gonna be fine.

Midnight Morning will be good for him. Ben could've done a whole lot worse when it comes to first jobs. I consider following them inside, just to see Wendy’s reaction, but considering she’d kicked me out, I decide not to.

I’ll just let her believe she's won, this one time.

It's only a few hours, but the time between when I left the bakery and when I return are some of the longest I’d ever spent. This time I park in the back, next to Wendy’s gray Chevy.

And wait.