We can't all be bakers or chefs. Many of us have modest ambitions. But we can all buy a piece of the pie.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss away her uncertainty. But if he did that she would bolt. So he brushed stray hairs that had fallen out of her ponytail off her face instead. Ignored how soft the strands felt against his fingers. Pretended his pulse wasn't stampeding like a herd of bison on the plain.

He sauntered across the kitchen, six feet of male hotness and charm, heading in her direction like a drone missile locked on a target.

She wore a simple purple long-sleeved turtleneck, but streaks of white across her chest - flour perhaps? - distracted him, made him want to volunteer for cleanup duty.

How did the date go?" "Bad. A text-a-holic...." "Not the good kind of trouble." "There's only one thing to say when this happens." "What's that?" "Next.

Polly had a gift for baking pies, and she poured her heart and soul into every one she made.