Page 18 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

"I'll be the judge of whether or not it still sets mouths on fire."

"You mocked my lavender biscuits."

"I don't recall anything of the sort," he said, eyes warm. "But I do recall promising to try whatever you put on a spoon." He gestured toward the cooling rack where misshapen scraps had been left. "You got samples?"

Liv nodded toward the counter.

Mike swiped a bite of cooled torte on his finger, popped it into his mouth, and closed his eyes.

Silence. Reverent.

Then he licked his bottom lip. Slow.

"Damn, Ramsey. That's the kind of taste that makes people drive thirty miles barefoot just to get seconds."

She blinked. "Really?"

"Really." His eyes met hers, and something passed between them, something she wasn't ready to name but could feel all the way to her bones. "I think Bear Valley just got a whole lot sweeter."

They set up for supper in the clearing behind the barn, long picnic tables draped in white cloth that snapped in the breeze. Twinkle lights strung overhead. The sky turned copper and pink, fading slow.

Charlotte darted between the tables in a pink dress, one boot flopping untied, her stuffed sheep tucked under one arm like a football. Pudge trailed her from a distance, tail twitching, waiting for his moment.

"Charlotte Rose, if that cat gets on the table again, you're eating in the barn," Heather called out.

"He's not on the table yet," Charlotte shot back, all innocence.

"Yet," Lyle muttered, shaking his head as he poured lemonade into tall glasses.

Liv adjusted a stack of dessert plates and laughed under her breath.

Heather nudged her with a shoulder. "Every time we do this, it makes me believe in magic again."

Liv took in the scene. Wranglers and guests mingling. Joe deep in conversation with Cooter, who owned the restaurant in town. Kenny setting down a bowl of baked beans without a word. And at the head of the table, a man in a bolo tie and a Stetson that had seen better decades—Grandpa Quentin, leaning back in his chair like he owned the sunset.

"This feels like a wedding reception from a Hallmark movie," Liv said softly.

"It's better," Heather replied. "Because it's real."

Dinner was noisy, beautiful chaos. Mike's pork roast was a triumph, succulent and smoky. Arletta's collard greens had people going back for seconds. The cornbread bowl emptied three times over. Kenny and another ranch hand played guitar on the porch until the sun dipped low and the first stars blinked awake.

When it came time for dessert, Mike stood, fork tucked behind his ear like a pencil.

"We got ourselves a real treat tonight," he announced. "Miss Liv Ramsey whipped up something she calls Sweet Fire, which I didn't ask what it meant until there was cayenne inside me and tears outside of me."

Laughter rang out.

"But I know y'all trust me enough by now to know I don't dish compliments unless they're earned." He turned to her. "This was earned. Go on, pastry queen."

Liv blushed redder than the dusk-painted sky and shoved a strand of hair behind her ear. "Um. Thank you. I hope you like it. There are some simpler ones for the kids without spice... just in case."

"Too late!" Charlotte said in a scandalized voice. "I thought it was fudge! My tongue feels betrayed!"

More laughter.

"But also," Charlotte added dramatically, turning to Grandpa Quentin, "it's like a sunset and a secret had a baby. Do you feel betrayed, Grandpa?"

Quentin took another bite, slow and considering. Swallowed. Then he pointed his fork at Liv.