Excerpt 1:
“In one simple move—” Waving his hand across the links of the cuffs, my pulse skips and then plummets.

Nothing happens.

A consummate professional, he declares, “That was to show that no ordinary person has the ability to free these people from their bonds. No, it takes a special flick of the—” He motions again, and I expect the handcuffs to drop from our wrists, but they remain fixed, locked.

His smile wavers. My expression morphs into a scowl. Bailey grins as if this is all part of the act and she’s expecting the handcuffs to vanish like the coin from the box.

I know better … or at least, my stomach thinks it does.

The magician tries one more time, but we remain locked together.

“Ah, yes. I must’ve, um, we’ll just take a moment in my stall to—” Turning his back on the crowd, he ushers us inside and then closes the black curtain at our backs.

“Get these off, now,” I say, forgoing my manners and the word sir.

Bailey adds, “Please.”

Sweat dots his forehead. “I don’t know what went wrong. Yes, of course. Let me just find the key. It’s here—” He rifles through a little drawer in a wooden chest.

I glance at Bailey and her shoulders droop slightly. She mouths, I’m sorry.

No, it’s this clown show of a magician who should be sorry.

“Ah ha!” He says, pinching a small key between his fingers.

“Hurry up. We have a wedding to go to.” I belatedly realize I included myself when in reality I’m dropping Bailey off and then going, well, I’m not sure where. She must, though, having arranged my moving plans.

The magician slides the key into the lock, but again, nothing happens. Wrenching it from his fingers, I say, “Let me try.”

 

Excerpt 2:
I the plane lurches and my elbow hits the molded plastic wall.

The overhead speaker crackles and a male voice says, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some unexpected turbulence as we cross the Rockies. Please, return to your seats and fasten your—”

Another jolt. I stumble forward as the bathroom door swings open, colliding with someone as momentum then shunts us back into the bathroom. The door springs closed as the woman shrieks.

An arm flies forward, mushing against the side of my face as the hand towel dispenser cushions the blow to the back of my head.

“What the—?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The lavatory in coach was occupied and I really needed to—” She goes quiet.

“Bailey?” I say at the same time she says, “Mr. Crane?”

Pressed against the sink, Bailey’s eyes wide with shock, and still wearing her mismatched pantsuit and pineapple blouse, somehow makes this whole scenario even more absurd.

The plane dips again. I brace myself with one hand against the wall and find Bailey’s waist to hold her steady. So much for maintaining professional boundaries.

“We keep meeting like this,” she says.

“In an airplane bathroom?” I immediately regret it, belatedly realizing what she means.

“Small confined spaces. The elevator, my cubicle, and now—”

The plane shakes again, jostling us with the reminder of how very close together we are.

“We were lucky earlier and didn’t get stuck in the elevator. Let’s hope the plane—” I stop myself because not only do I seem to struggle with stringing sentences together around this woman, but I don’t want to scare her.

I jiggle the sliding lock mechanism on the door to try to open it and show her we’re fine, but it’s jammed.

She can’t crane her head to see, but asks, “Is it stuck?”

“Appears so.”

I knock on the door a few times but refrain from hollering, Help! I’m impossibly close to a beautiful woman who makes my pulse bounce off my ribs like a puck against a stick during close passing drills.

Lifting her voice, she calls, “Excuse me. I think we’re stuck in here. Please open the door.”

Bailey is shorter and smaller than me, but having had to stuff myself in here, now with the extra occupant, we’re nearly face-to-face. She makes me feel like a rookie again and not because I was abruptly traded to a brand-new team. More like off balance, unsure, hyper-aware of everything … including how very close we are, mashed together, right now.

Her inhales and exhales press against mine like a seesaw. I peer down at her. The fluorescent light casts a bluish glow over her face. Strands of her blonde hair have fallen loose from their clip. I’d brush them away from her wide, hazel eyes, but my arm is pinned. The scattering of freckles dotting her nose are brighter now as if her makeup wore off over the course of the long day.

I draw a shaky breath. “It’s going to be okay. Promise,” I say when no one responds to her cry for help.

She swallows thickly.

To help set her at ease, I try humor and I say, “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

Excerpt 3:
“We always use my grandfather’s syrup and my grandmother’s recipe cards,” she says, nodding toward a wooden box on the counter. “Handwritten. Some of them go back three generations.”

I flip through them carefully, noticing how the paper has yellowed, how different handwritings show the passing of time, of homespun knowledge.

“Do you have a favorite?” I ask.

“The classic maple butter. Well, technically, we start with making maple cream, which is when you boil out any remaining water from pure maple syrup. After it cools, you whip it with butter, resulting in a light, fluffy spread. But in between, exists a careful balance of temperature control because you don’t want it too thin or for it to crystallize. I make other flavors too.”

Listening intently, the room fills with the scents of autumn—apples, cinnamon, maple—and I’m fascinated as this colorful, chaotic woman who hides how scattered she can be behind schedules and planners transforms into a confident and passionate master of the kitchen.

She goes on, lit up by the topic. “For the custom flavors, I put my own spin on the classic, including apple cinnamon—I use apples from the orchard and dehydrate them, then slice them super small. Vanilla bourbon was Pappa’s favorite. Plus, there’s pumpkin spice and blueberry walnut.”

I admire her creativity, dedication, and skill, along with the graceful curve of her neck as she ties her hair back, the pink tint to her full lips, and the low-simmering, sweet but complex chemical reaction of the bubbling syrup and steam as it warms her cheeks.

“You know,” she says, glancing at me while she stirs, “I’ve always dreamed of having the brand go big. That VIP thing you were talking about would be amazing.”

“Why don’t you?”

Her shoulders tense slightly. “For one, there’s the shiny thing I chased instead. You know, my job with you and the team? I needed the stability, the regular paycheck. And hustling specialty foods is hard.”

“But it’s what you love.”

She looks up, meeting my eyes. “It’s a hobby now. It’s best that I accept that.”

Bailey has a little smudge of maple butter on her cheek from when she’d tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.

Leaning in, I press my lips to it, to her soft skin. She goes still and then her lips tug with a smile as the sweet taste fills my mouth. Bailey’s eyes meet mine with the answer to my silent question.

Shifting positions, I press my lips to hers. The connection is immediate—there’s so much softness I’m afraid I’ll never surface. Maybe I don’t want to.

“I’ve been hoping to do this again, properly,” she whispers.

“Me too.”

It’s undeniably true, yet it feels dangerous. I slide my palm to the nape of her neck, angling her head gently as I brush another kiss across her lips. Pulling back to make sure we’re not crossing lines, pink splashes her cheeks as she looks up at me through lashes that flutter like butterfly wings. Her freckles scatter across her cheeks like stars and in the glimmer of her eyes, I glimpse the entire universe.

“So you want to?” I repeat to be sure.

“Practice kissing?” Her expression is so sincere, so honest, I risk coming undone for her. One word and the fake could become real. All she’d have to do is say it.

However, I pull my mind back because that wasn’t the agreement. I want to answer differently, but say, “For the Bash, you know, just in case.”

For now, we will practice. We’ll see just how close we can get to the edge without tipping over.

Our lips meet again and the kiss is gentle, reverent even—a promise, not a demand. Her lips are like candy against mine, cautious at first, then responding with a sweetness that makes my heart ache. The kiss isn’t awkward, demanding, or rushed, but a tender exploration, a question and answer all at once.

When we part again, Bailey’s eyes dance with words unspoken, mirroring the same inside me.

“What if we start and we can’t stop?” she asks.

“What if I don’t want to?”