Dalton left his house early in the morning. Thankfully, the paparazzi weren’t early risers. The only cameras present belonged to the reporters sleeping in their cars. In his rearview mirror, he watched as the red paint on his house faded from sight.

Not wanting to cause his mom or his business problems, he snuck into the kitchen from the back entrance and went to work. He liked to visit their patrons, but he knew he’d be stuck in the kitchen all day.

When his mother walked in, she did what all good mothers do. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug. It was the same hug she’d given him seven years ago after sentencing, and the same hug she gave him last year when he came home. The hug that said, “I love you unconditionally, and I wish I could improve your life.”

No words were exchanged. They didn’t need words. It was always them against the world, and both knew they had each other’s back.

Maisey stood back. “How’s the road rash?”

“Feels better than it looks.” He’d inspected the scabbing after his shower. There were a few deep places where he’d scar, but all in all, considering he’d slid about fifty feet across the pavement, he was in good shape.

“How is Samantha?” Maisey had visited them in the bed and breakfast several times. Dalton wasn’t sure if it was to spend time with him and Samantha or save them from frozen lasagna, because she always came with food. One night it was chicken fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. The second time, it was spaghetti and meatballs, the kind that simmered on a stovetop for hours.

“She’s good. Her life is a mess. Her manager is a jerk. The press continues to hound her. They’re trying her for my crime.”

“She seems tough enough to handle it all.”

“For a tiny thing, she’s filled with tough stuff. I worry that my presence in her life will ruin her career. Fans are fickle.”

Mom prepped several coffee filters, filling them with grounds and stacking them up so they were ready when she opened the door. One positive thing about the influx of press was that it would bring more customers to the diner. So far, no one had put two and two together and figured out that Dalton was Maisey’s son. She was a Bishop now, and that would help. Plus, they were too focused on Samantha and Dalton to give other family connections much thought.

He hated that one act years ago would define his life forever and possibly ruin the lives of those he loved.

“I like her, Dalton. It takes courage to be the one percent.”

Samantha was part of the ‘one percent’ that saw him for the man he was, and not the man the press made him out to be.

“I like her too.” He liked everything about her, from the way he fit inside her body to the way she sang when no one was looking. Those were the songs from her heart. She spent hours each day curled up next to him, scribbling on a notepad. She said she was writing her next album and that it would be a secret.

Maisey took the stack of prepped coffee filters and walked through the swinging doors. It was seven o’clock and time to open.

Business was booming. Dalton didn’t have time to slow down until the doors closed at two. He was scraping the grill when the back door opened and Samantha walked inside.

“How did you get away?”

“The sheriff came and got me. He said he had some errands to run and thought I might like lunch. He told the reporters that if they followed him, he’d cite them for interfering with an investigation. When they asked him what kind of investigation, he spouted off a dozen things that started with invasion of privacy to slander. They packed up their bags and left. If I wasn’t there, there was no story. I’m sure they’ll be back.”

“Are you hungry?” Dalton lifted her and set her down on the stainless-steel prep table. He stepped between her legs and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “I can make you that omelet you like. Or how about a waffle?”

“I hoped you could start your culinary school and make me your first student.”

“You want to learn how to cook?”

“I want to learn how to cook something you like to eat.”

Dalton’s mind went straight to the gutter. His hands traveled up the thighs of her worn jeans and settled at the juncture between. “My favorite thing to eat requires absolutely no prep. The only ingredient is you.”

“Men.” She shook her head. “One-track mind. Besides, that’s dessert.” She winked at him and slid from the metal table to the tile floor. She wrapped her arms around his waist. He expected her to squeeze him tight like she always did. Instead, she removed his apron and tied it around her waist.

“Your student is ready.”

He laughed. The hem of his apron reached the tops of her tennis shoes. “You’re going to trip.” He rolled it up and retied it to her waist. “Can you boil water?”

She fisted up and slugged him in the arm. “I’m not Sage. I’ve got water boiling down to an art. I can also make a mean grilled cheese and an awesome mystery loaf.”

“Mystery loaf?”

She smiled. “Like you, when I was a kid, I did some cooking. Mom worked all day, so I made dinner, but I was limited to three things. It was cheesy potato and ham casserole, meatloaf or what I called mystery loaf because I tossed in whatever we had, or grilled cheese. I can’t say I mastered any of them, but grilled cheese was the best. The rest, I mostly ruined.” Her shoulders slumped forward. “I’m good at ruining things.”

He lifted her chin and kissed her sweetly. “Not everything.”

The sound that left her was a cross between a snort and a groan. “Look at your life now. Two weeks ago you were living a happy, quiet life, and now everything is a mess.”

“Sweetheart, two weeks ago I wasn’t even living. I didn’t know it until you arrived.”

She pulled a hair tie from her pocket and fastened her hair into a high ponytail. “You can’t say it’s been boring. I mean, I’ve brought a lot to Aspen Cove.” She said it in a tongue-in-cheek fashion. “There’s the pestilence that camps outside our cabins.” She walked around the kitchen, checking out the spices, the equipment, and him.

He nodded. “There’s that.”

“I sang you a song or two.” She hummed something he didn’t recognize.

Dalton thought about how much he liked her humming when her mouth was full—of him. “I like it when you sing.” He reached above the grill for a loaf of bread.

“And we can’t forget about the art.”

He placed the bread on the counter and pulled a block of cheese from the refrigerator below. “The art?”

She opened her eyes and tilted her head. “I like the band The Killers, but I wouldn’t have chosen to spray paint it on my cabin.”

He laughed even though it wasn’t funny. No one wanted to live in a place that was vandalized in such a way. “No accounting for taste.”

“Speaking of taste, what are you going to teach me to cook?”

“I thought we’d learn from each other. You teach me how to make a mean grilled cheese sandwich, and I’ll teach you how to make roasted creamy tomato soup from scratch.”

They went to work side by side. Her secret recipe was to throw in several varieties of cheese, and instead of butter, she slathered the bread with mayonnaise and cooked it to a golden brown. Dalton fire roasted several tomatoes, added them to the blender with stock and cream and a few spices.

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the diner with Maisey and Ben eating the best grilled cheese sandwich of his life with passable tomato soup. In a perfect world, this would be his forever. Sadly, the world was imperfect, but not in that moment.

Once the kitchen was cleaned, they piled into his truck. They didn’t return home right away because going back to the cabin meant ruining this perfect moment, so they headed to the other side of the lake to visit Sam and eat ice cream.

Today’s flavors were Bee’s Knees, with honeycomb chunks and mini chocolate chips; Bloody Sundae, with vanilla ice cream and raspberry sauce; and Monkey in the Middle, with chocolate ice cream with bananas. Sam sprinkled them all with his ‘ants’.

Samantha sat on Dalton’s right side, afraid she’d bump into his left and hurt him. He loved the way she looked out for him even though all thoughts of his injuries were gone the second they hit the sheets.

They finished their ice cream, and he helped her into the truck when his phone buzzed. Cannon messaged him and told him to pull between their cabins and park on the lakeside of his property.

“I think the press is back in full force.” He handed his phone to Samantha.

She read the text and groaned. “I’m so sorry. Maybe I should leave.”

Before he started the truck, he turned in her direction. “You are not leaving me. We’ll figure it all out. Eventually, they’ll get bored and leave us alone.”

She raised her perfectly plucked brow like she didn’t believe him. He had to get her to believe because he wanted her to stay.

“I didn’t come to Aspen Cove to ruin the town.”

He unbuckled her seat belt and pulled her to his side. “How have you ruined anything?” She straddled his lap, and he bit back a groan when her shoe scraped along the deepest part of his injured leg. “You make everything sweeter.” He kissed her passionately and pulled back. “You are the Bee’s Knees.”

She touched her forehead to his. “That’s the ice cream you’re tasting.”

“Doubtful. I’ve tasted you and the ice cream. You are infinitely more satisfying.”

“Remember that when something else goes wrong.”

He cupped her frowning face. “Samantha, life will never be easy. I knew that before I met you, but you make whatever we have to face worthwhile. We are better together.” They sat in the truck for another five minutes and held each other. They were enjoying their time together or maybe getting the courage to face what was to come.

When they arrived back in Aspen Cove, things weren’t as he expected. Gone was the word ‘Killers’. In front of his cabin was Wes Covington, the town’s resident contractor. He stood in front of the newly sandblasted cabin, winding up the cord to his equipment. Dalton waved as he passed.

Samantha turned her head and watched the reporters run for cover.

“Are those bees?”

In front of his cabin was Abby Garrett in full beekeeping gear, setting up her hives.

One thing he loved about the town was how the locals circled the wagons around their own.