Snowed in with Mr. Heartbreaker (Copper Valley Bro Code #5)

Sneak Peek of Dirty Talking Rival

Love dirty-talking bakers, small town rivalries, and falling back in love with the one who got away? Read on for a sample of Dirty Talking Rival !

Grady Rock, aka a master baker who’s man enough to handle any jokes about his nickname, but still unprepared for today’s gossip hour

“That’s right, baby,” I whisper as I ease deeper inside into her creamy depths. She’s tight. So full already. “Oh, yeah, just like that. You feel that? Is that good for you too?”

The donut doesn’t answer, but she does grunt under the strain of all the pudding I’m stuffing inside her.

Or possibly that was my pastry bag burping.

“You can take a little more,” I murmur while my kitchen door opens. “I know you can. And then I’m going to eat you so good?—”

“Ugh, you are so disgusting,” my sister announces as she breezes in.

I smile at the donut. “Don’t listen to her. You’re beautiful.”

“You realize if you ever bothered to talk to a woman like that, Pop wouldn’t be trying so hard to set you up with every single woman in Virginia.”

“Don’t forget about the northern half of North Carolina too.” I brush a thumb over the top of the donut—smooth and firm, just like she should be—and move on to filling the next donut. “You ever seen a batch of donuts so beautiful?”

“You say that every morning.”

“The trick to life is getting better every day. You should try it sometime.”

Tillie Jean angles into my lair and makes herself comfortable on the spare stool across the metal worktable in my bakery kitchen.

My rolling racks are half full of all of the deliciousness I’ll sell out of before the day’s over. My ovens are baking muffins and scones. My mixing bowl is waiting for tomorrow’s donut dough. And my sink is overflowing with dirty dishes.

Just the way I like it.

If my bottom line would just start reflecting what my kitchen does—prosperity and productivity—life would be perfect.

I’m selling out almost every day. Hired an extra baker. Has to happen soon.

Or maybe never, because no matter how good I feel about what I’m selling every week, as soon as I sit down to trudge through my books on the weekends, I realize I’m still just barely breaking even.

Not like I can increase my clientele in a small town like this.

“You see Pop yet today?” Tillie Jean asks.

“It’s five AM.”

“Yep.”

“On a Tuesday.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s sex in the shower day. We won’t see Pop or Nana for at least another four hours.”

She doesn’t answer. Not to tell me I’m disgusting again, or to sigh and hope out loud that when she’s eighty, she’ll be married to someone who still wants to do her in the shower.

Suspicious.

Especially since she’s never out of bed before five AM either.

I finish the last of the donut filling and glance up at her.

She has this pensive look tightening her eyes and pursing her lips that I don’t see often, but that always manages to inch my pulse up and make me want to stick my head in the sand.

Or maybe whip up a batch of macarons, because those take time and concentration and are an excellent distraction.

Not to mention delicious, and they particularly like it when I compliment their smooth, perfect mounds.

None of which Tillie Jean seems to be thinking about.

“What?” I ask while I reach back to grab the donut glaze.

She blinks and shakes her head. “What flavor today?”

“Mascarpone and Nutella. Why do you look like you’re about to tell me my goat died?”

“Like you’d be sad if Sue died.”

“Avoiding the question, Tillie Jean. What’s got you in here before the sun on a Tuesday talking about Pop?”

Her lids close over her blue eyes, and I can see her fighting to keep from just blurting out whatever’s eating at her when the back door opens again, this time with a slam.

Georgia Mayberry, my second-in-command, marches in with a flier in hand and outrage in her brown eyes. She’s so mad that the braids at the ends of her cornrows are standing up and hissing too.

“Did you see this ?” she demands indignantly, flapping the paper around.

Tillie Jean leaps up and grabs it from her. “No, he has not ,” she says on a high-pitched whisper, “and we’re going to ease him into it, okay?”

“Ease me into what ?”

“Freaking Duh-Nuts advertising all over Shipwreck !” Georgia announces. She snorts and marches to the fridge, where she starts yanking out butter and eggs. “Couldn’t keep it in Sarcasm like they should’ve. Oh, no. They have to come over here to Shipwreck and try to steal our customers. The nerve of those—those—those donut holes .”

“The nerve,” I agree, because agreeing with Georgia keeps her happy, and keeping Georgia happy keeps her employed here without asking for a raise, and her blueberry muffins are better than mine, which is saying something.

Am I worried?

Of course not. Duh-Nuts has already gone out of business once since I bought Crow’s Nest. They’ll go out of business again.

But my blood pressure still spikes.

Logically, I know the vast majority of my limited customer base would never voluntarily set foot in Sarcasm—and yes, that’s really what they call their town down the road. But it’s still competition, and my profits aren’t where I want them to be.

Not even close.

Plus, she said Sarcasm .

I used to know someone from Sarcasm. A long time ago.

Tillie Jean’s bedhead swivels back in my direction, and—huh.

She’s still in her pajamas. Are those—they are . They’re dancing lips with little stick arms and feet. Cute.

And also possibly why she’s still single.

I make a mental note to remember this the next time Pop tries to talk me into going on a date with a woman he’s hand-picked.

Just because it’s been a couple—several—fine, many months since my last casual girlfriend doesn’t mean my goat and I need someone right now, and if I can persuade him to concentrate on Tillie Jean’s love life instead of mine, bonus.

“Grady,” she says quietly.

I start dipping the donuts in the Nutella glaze and lift a yes? brow at her.

She holds out the flier for me to scan it.

Duh-Nuts Grand Re-opening and Homecoming! it says proudly.

But that’s not what makes my nuts suddenly retract.

Nope.

That’s the next line.

Now I get why Tillie Jean’s lurking around at this hour of the day.

My smile leaps off a cliff, I drop the donut in the glaze, and I feel like someone’s been shoving pudding up my ass.

“Thinking they can be all oh, come to our second-rate town for a grand re-opening of a donut shop that made bad donuts, it’s so exciting! ” Georgia mutters with a snort while she slams flour and sugar onto the smaller worktable. “Sarcasm assholes. Who gives a chocolate chip that some chick came home?”

“So Duh-Nuts over in Sarcasm is re-opening. So what?” I try to keep my voice level and unafflicted while I fish the donut out of the glaze bowl, but I don’t quite make it, because I read that second line too, and I know who’s home.

“Grady—” Tillie Jean starts, but Georgia plows her over.

Verbally, I mean.

“They’re trying to steal our customers. Right here. In our own town. Like they didn’t steal half our tourists last month with their freaking unicorn festival . We’ve had the pirate festival every second week of June since the dawn of time, and they think they can just suddenly put a competing festival the same week?”

I let her rant while I watch Tillie Jean watching everything in the kitchen except me.

“So she’s back for good?” I ask.

My sister not looking at me is answer enough.

Annika Williams is back. Back back.

Annika Williams, who couldn’t bake her way out of a paper bag.

Annika Williams, who spent high school counting the days until she could leave our little slice of the Blue Ridge Mountains behind, but still promised me once she’d come back one day and be my business manager when I opened the best bakery on this side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Annika Williams, who took my heart with her when she left.

She’s back.

Opening her own damn bakery .

Trying to steal my customers.

I thought I’d already felt everything I was ever going to feel about Annika Williams.

Turns out, I was wrong.