Page 17 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

Her old recipe journal sat wedged between the mason jars and a bag of corn meal, spine cracked, pages stained with oil and cinnamon.

She hadn't opened it since New York.

Her hand hovered. Pulled back. Hovered again.

Then she yanked it free and let it fall open.

The page it landed on was worn at the edges, corners smudged, notes scribbled in her own handwriting.

Sweet Fire.

Her signature dessert. The one she'd created on the worst night of her culinary career. The night a table full of investors had laughed her out of the room, dismissing her food as "too emotional."

She'd gone home that night, furious and humiliated, and baked until her hands ached. The result was this. A dark chili-chocolate torte with ancho pepper, sea salt, and cayenne whipped cream. Sophisticated but simple. Bold. Soft in the center, with a kick that lingered.

It had power. Soul. Delicate enough to make someone sigh. Brave enough to make someone sweat.

Yes. That was the one. Perfect for a Texas banquet.

"You look like you're planning a heist."

Liv jumped. Arletta stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.

"Just a dessert," Liv said.

"Mmm-hmm." Arletta moved to the sink, started washing greens. "The kind of dessert that means something, or the kind that just tastes good?"

Liv stared at the open page. At the smudged notes in her own handwriting. At the memory of the night she'd created it. Brand new in the industry. Angry and desperate to prove herself.

"Both," she said quietly.

Arletta smiled. Didn't push. Just kept washing greens.

Liv rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

She pulled out cayenne and ancho. Locally sourced dark chocolate from a farm Heather had shown her during a supply run. And, after digging through the pantry, she found a jar of honey infused with ghost pepper, nestled beside the candied pecans.

Perfect.

As she sifted, chopped, melted, and whisked, the rhythm returned. Not just of cooking, but of creating. Her hands didn't tremble. Her body didn't tighten in fear at a noise in the hallway or a shadow passing the window.

Here, covered in flour and splatters of batter, she was simply Liv. Someone who loved to feed people and desperately wanted to be enough.

By the time she slid the pans into the oven, she had cayenne sugar dust on her sleeves and hope tingling on her skin.

"Please don't burn," she whispered into the oven door.

"It wouldn’t dare." Mike's voice, low and amused, came from the side doorway.

She yelped and spun. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to see that little sparkle you get when your hands are busy." He nodded at the oven. "Sweet Fire?"

Her mouth fell open. "You remember?"

"From your résumé. Last page. Tiny font. Signature dessert at some fancy place in Manhattan before you went all bakery-ninja and disappeared."

Liv flushed. Especially because she’d flat-out lied about the name of the bakery on her application. "It's been a while since I made it."