The Baseball Card Boyfriend (Starrycard Creek Bachelors #3)

Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

CHRISTIAN

Christian sat in a stiff wooden chair beside Maggie, facing a narrow table in the cramped hearing room. Every tick of the clock seemed louder, each second stretching out the suspense. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an unflattering glow over the room. He turned to Maggie. She sat with her hands in her lap, her fingers intertwining and releasing in a restless dance.

He placed his hand gently over hers, stilling their movement. “The storm?—”

“Always passes,” she finished, offering him a weak grin. “I know. I keep saying that to myself. But could we end up back in jail? Surely, the judge must know that it was an accident, and we meant no harm.”

That was the million-dollar question.

“Let’s hope the judge is feeling reasonable.”

“Aren’t we supposed to have a lawyer?” Maggie asked, scanning the room.

“Things run informally around here. Ironside is a magistrate. If he decides criminal charges are worth pursuing, it’ll escalate. For now, we present our case, answer the judge’s questions, and hope for the best.”

The doors in the back of the room swung open, and the rapid clap of sneakers hitting the tile floor echoed through the space.

“Uncle Chris,” McKenzie chimed, then skidded to a stop behind him. Decked in Maggie’s apron, the kid beamed at them.

He reluctantly removed his hand from Maggie’s, noticing the way his perceptive niece’s eyes flicked to the movement, taking it in with silent curiosity.

“Hey, Kenz,” he said with a nod. “You’re wearing Maggie’s apron.”

“I hope you don’t mind, Maggie. I like the way it feels, and I like that your name and my name start with the letter M .”

“I don’t mind at all. It looks great on you,” Maggie answered, her smile gentle and genuine.

Kenzie beamed and twirled. “It’s a teeny-tiny bit big, but I bet it’ll fit perfect when I’m ten or eleven.”

“Yeah, maybe when you’re eleven,” Maggie repeated with a far-off bend to her words.

His brow furrowed. He turned his attention to her, searching her face for any sign of what was troubling her. “Are you all right?”

“Sure, yes,” she murmured, but something was on her mind—a whisper of a memory? He couldn’t tell.

“Were you guys holding hands, or do they make people who get arrested hold hands like the kindergarteners at school who have to make a big, long chain when they walk down the hall so nobody gets lost or runs away? I don’t have to do that anymore because I’m in second grade. I bet you’re wondering why I’m here,” McKenzie said, in full-on McKenzie speed-talking mode.

“I am wondering that,” he answered.

“I came with Grandma Maeve. I had a sleepover at Starrycard House last night and I begged and begged her to let me come. And I told Aunt Caroline I’d get her the deets . It rhymes with beets but means details, and that’s the stuff I hear adults saying and see adults doing when they don’t think I’m paying attention, like you guys, holding hands. Hi, Maggie!” Kenz continued, not missing a beat. “I like your jail sweatshirt. It looks big and comfy.”

“It is.”

“Do you get to keep it? Is that what you get when you get arrested? Like a party favor?” McKenzie inhaled a deep breath, which was never a good sign. “And thanks for getting arrested on a Saturday. If you got arrested on a Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday, I’d be at school. Since it’s Saturday, I can be here. Unless it’s a school break or a teacher-only workday, and then I have those days off. Maggie, did you know my uncle Finn and almost aunt Hailey, who is also my teacher, are getting married on Christmas Eve? I get to be in the wedding. I get a big puffy dress and fancy shoes. Uncle Finn is helping me practice being quiet because you can’t talk a lot during weddings. So, when I visit him and Uncle O and Grandpa Hank at the paper shop, we play the quiet game. Guess how long I can be quiet, Maggie.”

“Five minutes?” Maggie speculated, suppressing a grin.

“Eleven seconds,” McKenzie replied, then looked him over. “Your pants are too small, Uncle Chris. “You remind me of this one time my school took a field trip to see ballet dancers. I liked the tutus, but the boy ballerinas don’t get them. So, I stood up and yelled, ‘Hey, ballerina, you should share the tutus with the boys.’ I had to wait on the bus and missed a bunch of the dancing, but that was okay because the bus driver had a bunch of crackers in her purse, and she shared them with me. Do you like crackers, Maggie?”

“Wow,” Maggie whispered.

Wow, was right.

“Hey, Kenz, where is everyone?” he asked, overwhelmed by McKenzie’s torrent of wild tangents.

“Every Starrycard or every Starrycard and Dunleavy or everyone in town? Because I know the answer to every one of those questions, but first, I need to check Maggie’s memory. Maggie, do you know what that is?” McKenzie asked, plowing through her signature stream-of-consciousness banter and pointing upward.

“A light.”

McKenzie clapped. “That’s right! I think your memory is getting better.”

“Maybe,” Maggie answered and pressed her lips into a hard line, clearly working overtime not to laugh.

He sat back and drank in his chatterbox of a niece. “Kenz, you are something else,” he said warmly, sharing a heartfelt look with Maggie. Thanks to McKenzie’s unique charm, a rosy hue had returned to Maggie’s cheeks. The lines of worry on her face had softened.

“That’s what my dad says. Remember, Maggie, I told you about my dad. He puts thermometers in dogs’ butts.”

“Yes, I do recall you sharing that with me,” she said through a chuckle as a click and a creak echoed from the back of the room.

Kieran and his mom entered, followed by his grandparents. Goldie waved, and his grandfather nodded to him. Armed with snacks and a water bottle that definitely wasn't filled with water, the senior citizens settled in, munching on turnovers while likely enjoying mimosas—or perhaps they skipped the light drinks altogether and went straight for the hard stuff, sipping on Stumble Juice.

Kieran approached and rested his hand on McKenzie’s shoulder. “Kenz, please take a seat with Goldie and your great-grandpa Rex. Your grandma Maeve and I would like to have a word with your uncle and Maggie.”

“Okay, Uncle Kier. Bye, Maggie. Bye, Uncle Chris. Ask the officers if you can get bigger pants if they want to keep you here. Or there could be a jail ballerina club. You could join that.”

“Thanks, Kenz, lots to think about,” Christian said, and damn, they better not end up back in the holding cell.

Once McKenzie had skipped to Goldie and Rex, Kieran suppressed a grin. “Christian, did it slip your mind that invisibility isn’t one of your many talents?”

At least Kier was getting some amusement from the situation.

Christian shook his head as his brother offered Maggie his hand. “I’m Kieran Starrycard. I visited you when you were in a coma. My wife, Isabelle, helped braid your hair, and now my brother’s gotten you arrested. Welcome to Starrycard Creek.”

“Thank you?” Maggie replied, appearing stunned, like someone who’d gone through a car wash with the windows down, which was a sensation akin to spending time with his family.

“Hello, little star,” Maeve Starrycard cooed, joining them. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and offered her hand to Maggie. “Hello, dear, we haven’t officially met. I’m Maeve O’Leary-Starrycard, Christian’s mother and the mayor of Starrycard Creek. I helped braid your hair and wiped a little drool off your chin when you were in a coma. It’s so nice to see you conscious. I’m so sorry to hear about the amnesia, and I must apologize for my son’s encouragement of committing criminal acts. I thought you learned your lesson, young man,” she chided like he was a gangly thirteen-year-old.

Jesus, his family was coming in hot on the crazy train.

Maeve turned to Kieran. “Did Chris think he was invisible again?”

It was as if he’d been transported back to his childhood, where his mother would turn to her eldest child, seeking a detailed account of the younger siblings’ mischievous antics.

“Mom, I know I’m not invisible,” Christian said, waving his hands.

“That’s a relief,” she replied, then turned her attention to Maggie. “Did my son share the story of his swimming pool and pie-eating adventures with his little sister?”

“He did.”

Kieran crossed his arms, lips pursed. “If Chris and Maggie testified that they believed they were invisible, we could easily make an insanity argument.”

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kier, we’re not pleading insanity. What happened last night was an unfortunate accident.”

His mother clucked her tongue. “Maggie, dear, I’ll tell you about an unfortunate accident —and that’s what happened in the kids’ bathroom after Christian and Caroline wolfed down two pies each. The place looked like a pumpkin patch massacre, with orange goop clinging to every surface. Before that day, I never knew children could have such violent and explosive diarrhea.”

Holy fucking too much information! If Ironside didn’t kill him, the embarrassment—courtesy of his family—might just do the job.

“Explosive diarrhea,” Maggie repeated, her brows knit together with that pensive look she’d had earlier.

Dammit! Now, he had the woman of his dreams marinating on the image of him violently losing his innards.

He looked between his mom and brother. “No more talk of past bathroom events. Listen, just in case you need to hear it, for the second time, I am aware I can’t become invisible, and neither of us is insane.”

“Nor do you appear to be experiencing explosive diarrhea. That’s a good sign, especially with those snug pants,” Kieran deadpanned.

This had to be hell. Cause of death: extreme embarrassment.

“Coxsackievirus can cause explosive diarrhea,” Maggie uttered, then frowned.

Christian watched her closely. “What’s Coxsa-blah-blah-virus?”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell slightly open. “I have no idea. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Putting invisibility, insanity, and explosive diarrhea aside, I’d like to extend a word of advice. When Judge Ironside arrives, don’t agitate the man. Don’t poke the bear,” Kieran said calmly, displaying the composed demeanor of an unshakeable lawyer.

“Yes, don’t poke the bear. He’s already in a mood,” his mother echoed. “Goldie tells me they were out of maple pumpkin turnovers when he stopped in at Goldie’s on the Creek to pick up breakfast. He had to go with an apple turnover. It’s my understanding he snipped at the gal running the register. He said he needed to keep his palate focused on pumpkin or something strange like that.”

“Why did Ironside have breakfast in Starrycard Creek? I thought he lived across the county in the middle of nowhere.”

“He recently moved to a bungalow in town,” Kieran answered.

“Do you know why he moved here?” Christian pressed.

“It’s my understanding that he wanted to be closer to the senior center,” Maeve replied as the doors at the front of the room opened with a long, gnawing whine. The perfect sound to introduce the ill-tempered judge.

Ironside skulked to the bench, and Jesus, the guy hadn’t changed. With cropped salt-and-pepper hair, lips a thin slash, and wire-rimmed glasses poised precariously on the tip of his nose, the gruff old judge wore a mask of severity. He grumbled something about apple turnovers, then slammed a paper bag and a few files onto the wooden surface. A court reporter settled in at a desk close to the judge, her fingers poised above the keyboard. The tension in the room grew palpable as everyone awaited Ironside’s next move.

“He appears quite agitated,” Maggie whispered, worry returning to her expression.

Christian leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “That’s his default. The judge hasn’t been in a good mood since?—”

“The goddamned dawn of time,” Ironside bellowed, pegging him with his sharpened gaze. “I might be old, but my ears work just fine, Mr. Starrycard.”

Well, shit. So much for not poking the bear.

“Before we begin, I have a letter dated from seventeen years ago, nearly to the day,” the judge announced.

Christian’s already tight muscles hardened into a tangle of knots. “Oh, no.”

Ironside held up a piece of Starrycard Creek Paper. “It’s an apology letter for sneaking into the senior center to swim and consume pie. It includes a promise never to do it again. Does that ring a bell, Mr. Starrycard?”

Christian shifted in his seat. “Yes, Judge.”

“Ah, and there’s an addendum,” he said, picking up another piece of Starrycard Creek paper. “Your sister Caroline wrote, using a purple crayon, ‘I’m sorry. Christian tricked me. I socked him real good, Mr. Judge. He cried like a baby.’”

Christian felt Maggie glance his way. His cheeks had to be the color of ripe tomatoes. “I didn’t cry,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me, Mr. Starrycard. Did you say something?” the judge quipped wryly.

“Nothing worth repeating, sir.”

The judge rested the letters on the table. “I believe we agreed you’d learned your lesson when you were a youngster.”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“It appears you did not.”

Fuck.

“Your Honor, I’d be more than happy to pay for the repairs. I’d also like to donate a substantial sum. In addition, regarding Maggie?—”

“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Starrycard,” Ironside said, butting in. “Of course, I’m ordering you to pay the full cost of damages, but you will not be buying your way out of this situation. Considering what I read in the papers regarding your recent conduct in Rocky Mountain City, I do not believe that a fine is the best way to procure justice.” The man leaned forward and pursed his thin lips. “That CCSD sweatshirt looks a bit snug on you. I’m certain we have an orange jumpsuit that will fit you and your accomplice until I can devise a fitting consequence.”

The blood in his veins turned to ice. This could not be happening. Forget about his welfare. He could not allow Maggie to spend another second in that cell.

“Your Honor, I’m truly sorry, but Maggie?—”

“Was the mastermind behind sneaking in. It was my fault,” she said, cutting him off. She bolted to her feet. “I’m the reason we visited the senior center after hours.”

What was she doing? He was trying to keep her safe.

“Maggie, no,” he whispered.

The judge removed another piece of paper from his bag. “You are Maggie, last name to be determined.”

“Correct, sir.”

“I’ve never had a defendant without knowledge of their last name,” he said, eyeing the woman through his spectacles.

“It’s a unique situation that’s led me to know someone in your family—Dr. Joan Ironside,” she answered sweetly.

“That’s my cousin.”

“Yes, and she’s an excellent doctor. I was in a coma and woke up with amnesia. You can ask her. She’s been treating me. I’m happy to share my medical information with the court. You see, I don’t remember anything about my life, and Christian was trying to help me spark memories of who I might be. So, if anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

He couldn’t let her do this. Panic surged through him. “Judge, no!” he called out, his voice filled with urgency.

“Hold your tongue, Starrycard,” the man snapped, then pinned Maggie with his hawkish gaze and sized her up. “And are you a criminal, miss?”

She released a nervous laugh and strolled around the table to perch on the corner. “Oh my gosh, no, sir, I don’t believe I am,” she replied, her tone almost playful as she attempted to ease the tension. “Causing mayhem in this beautiful town did not bring back my memory, nor did it feel familiar. However, I did learn one thing last night.”

The judge’s expression remained stern, though a flicker of curiosity crossed his features. “Don’t keep us in suspense,” he said dryly.

“The bakers at the senior center make one heck of a bourbon pumpkin pie. I sampled some before…”

“You set the place on fire,” the judge finished.

“Correct, sir. And it truly was an accident,” Maggie assured him, her voice earnest as she met his gaze head-on.

The judge’s eyes softened slightly, as though considering her words. “What did you think of the pie?” he asked, a note of genuine interest creeping into his otherwise stern demeanor.

“It was delicious.”

The judge nodded. “I made that bourbon pumpkin pie. It was my recipe. I’d just tweaked the ingredients and tried a new crust.”

Christian’s eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly glanced over his shoulder at Kieran, mouthing, “Ironside bakes?” Kieran responded with a shrug.

“Was it really your creation, sir?” Maggie asked, a wisp of awe in her voice as she leaned forward.

“It was indeed. And now it’s gone. We store our precious recipes next to the stove. We’re not keen on putting everything into a computer. Your foolishness erased a year’s worth of our efforts,” Ironside replied, a hint of sadness creeping into his tone. “Pie is important in this town, especially during Donnelly Days. We’re going up against the Dennison Senior Center. They’re our biggest competition.”

“I see,” she said quietly, a note of regret in her voice.

“They’re sneaky bastards,” the judge continued, then paused and glanced at the court reporter. “Carla?”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Strike the bastard part.”

“Of course, Your Honor.”

“Oh, but they are sneaky bastards,” the judge grumbled. “Christian Starrycard!” he blasted.

Christian straightened his posture. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“You know how there’s a rivalry between Creek County High School and Dennison High?”

“Yes, sir, we played them in baseball when I was in high school.”

“You led the team to win state against them back then.”

“That’s true, sir,” Christian answered, praying that win would earn them some brownie points.

“The Starrycard Creek seniors loathe the Dennison seniors with the intensity of a thousand suns,” Ironside snarled.

Christian swallowed hard. “That’s a lot of hate, sir.”

“They won the pumpkin pie-making contest last year,” the old man grumbled.

“And the three years before that,” Carla added, typing away.

“Dagnabbit, that’s right!” the judge exclaimed. “My new bourbon pumpkin pie recipe was a surefire winner—and it’s gone—burned to smithereens. And we’ve lost our facility to practice making new recipes. It’s not the same if we work alone at home. The magic happens when the culinary club is together. I bought a bungalow in Starrycard Creek to be closer to the center,” the old man roared, his cheeks growing ruddier by the second.

Ironside was on the brink of blowing his top.

“Your honor, I believe I have a solution that will serve everyone and keep Christian and me out of jail,” Maggie chimed, as sweet as pie.

Ironside’s face scrunched into a suspicious, prune-like scowl. “And what is this solution, young lady?”

“The culinary club can meet at the Donnelly Ranch—Christian’s home. It’s got double ovens and plenty of room. The kitchen is like something out of a baker’s dream. I’m employed there as his housekeeper. And I can help you with your pie situation.”

“How? You told the court you’ve got amnesia and recall nothing of your past. Not even your last name. What could you know about pie? My Bess, God rest her soul, and I started making pies before you could even buy a color TV.” At the mention of his late wife, a flicker of sorrow softened the old man’s hardened expression. The room grew still, the weight of his tragic loss lingering in the silence.

Maggie nodded, her eyes shining as she radiated empathy. “Your Honor, I might not have as much experience as you and your Bess, but I think I know a lot about pie. And I’d like to prove it to you. Does anyone have a piece of paper and a pen?” she asked, scanning the room.

What was she up to?

Christian waved her over, his gaze bouncing between her and Ironside. “Why do you need paper?”

She gifted him with that grin that owned his heart. “Your mom said that the judge mentioned his palate this morning. He used that word, palate .”

“So, he said palate. What does that tell you?”

Her grin widened. “It tells me that I’ve found the right pitch to swing at.”

“The right pitch?” he repeated, not following.

“I’ve got a blank Starrycard Creek Paper Company notebook and a pen,” Goldie called, pulling the items from her bag.

Maggie beamed at his grandmother. “Wonderful! Thank you!”

“Miss, I will not have my courtroom turned into a circus,” Ironside barked, losing his softened demeanor.

“I understand, and that’s not my intention, sir. Please, humor me for a moment. For the sake of pie and beating the…Christian, help me out,” she asked, glancing his way.

“The Dennison seniors,” Christian supplied.

Maggie nodded. “Yes, beating the Dennison seniors.”

“Those sneaky bastards,” Ironside muttered, momentarily preoccupied with his visceral disgust for the group.

“Here you go, Maggie,” McKenzie said, holding out the bound journal.

“Judge, may I?” Maggie asked calmly.

The judge exhaled an audible breath. “Christ, I’m too old for this. Fine, I’ll allow it.”

Maggie accepted the journal and then opened it to the first page. “Bourbon Pumpkin Pie,” she murmured and started writing.

Ironside drummed his fingers restlessly. “Miss, the recipe is lost. What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s not lost, sir. I can see it.”

He balked. “You can see it?”

Maggie glanced at McKenzie’s apron before locking eyes with the judge. “Well, I can taste it.”

Ironside observed her with the wary gaze one reserves for someone on the brink of madness. “Miss, I’m?—”

“The crust was good, earthy even,” she said, cutting off the judge. She scribbled furiously, then slipped the pen behind her ear like a waitress in a diner. “One and a half cups of flour, a half teaspoon salt, a half cup of unsalted butter cubes, and five tablespoons of water—no, six. And…nuts.” She chewed her lip, then gasped. “You used pi?on nuts. They’re native to Colorado, aren’t they?”

“That’s right. That was the change I’d made, but I don’t recall the measurements,” Ironside answered, wide-eyed, trading his irritated expression for one of complete befuddlement.

Maggie eyed her notes and paced in front of the judge’s table. “You added a quarter cup of finely ground pi?on nuts. Could that be the right amount, sir?”

“I’m not completely sure. A member of the culinary club brought some back from southwest Colorado. But yes, it could have been a quarter cup.” He stilled, thinking, then slapped the table, a grin gracing his lips. “Yes, actually, I believe it was.”

“It was a good choice. There was a light buttery taste I enjoyed,” she replied, retrieving the pen and jotting in the journal as she continued to pace in front of the judge. She paused, then closed her eyes. “The pumpkin puree was homemade. It didn’t taste like it came from a can.”

“No, ma’am. We make our own puree.”

“You did a lovely job.”

The crusty judge sat a little taller, his wrinkled cheeks blushing. “Thank you.”

Maggie tapped the tip of the pen against her chin. “I believe your pie contained three-fourths cup of light brown sugar, a little under half a cup of granulated sugar, one teaspoon of cinnamon, a quarter teaspoon of ground nutmeg, and a quarter teaspoon of cloves. All fresh.”

“That could very well be it,” the judge said, excitement dancing in his eyes.

Christian peered over his shoulder at his family. Everyone was mesmerized by Maggie TBD, certified pie whisperer.

“Let’s keep going,” she said, glancing at her notes. “The pie contained a teaspoon of vanilla extract, three eggs—large—not extra-large, and three-fourths teaspoon of salt. No.” Maggie scribbled in the journal. “Just a half teaspoon of salt. I could tell you cut back. And you added a touch of fresh ginger. Another good choice. And then the bourbon. A quarter cup. No, a half cup of bourbon. Yes, that’s it. Does what I rattled off sound like it could be your recipe, Judge?”

“My God, it certainly could be.” Ironside turned to Carla. “Did you get that—the recipe?”

“Yes, Judge.”

“How much pie did you eat before the culinary room caught on fire?” Ironside asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“A few bites. Don’t get me wrong. It’s good pie but not extraordinary. Unfortunately, I don’t think you’d win a contest with it.”

The breath caught in Christian’s throat. Holy hell! What was she thinking? She had Ironside eating out of the palm of her hand. Why was she trashing his pie?

“Not good enough to win? We’ve been working on that recipe for a good six months,” Ironside shot back, his words brimming with irritation.

Christian sat on the edge of his seat, hinged forward, the damned tiny gray sweatpants nearly cutting off circulation to his freaking balls. But he couldn’t focus on the tight pants. His knee bounced beneath the table. She glanced at him, and he held her gaze. Their connection only lasted half a second, perhaps less, before she returned her attention to Ironside, but in that brief slip of time, what he’d glimpsed triggered an intense wave of relief. His knee stopped bouncing, and he relaxed. It was as if she’d reached deep into his soul, kindling an oddly familiar warmth. An overwhelming sense of certainty told him that he would be okay and that she was the reason. She was his angel, his anchor. He relaxed into his chair and let the woman work her magic.

“I can help you craft a winning recipe,” she said, like a pie boss.

The judge reverted to his severe demeanor. “How?”

“My mind is teeming with pumpkin pie recipes, and if you’ve lost over the last several years, you need new ideas. You need to take a new path. You need me to show you which way to go.”

The old man watched her like a seasoned poker player, eyeing the new kid at the high rollers’ table. “And you guarantee you can craft a winning recipe?”

Maggie glanced at McKenzie, then returned to her seat. “Correct,” she answered, voice steady, chin held high. No nervous babbling, no anxious chatter. Just pure pie swagger—and damn, it was sexy as hell.

Stone-faced, the judge drummed his fingers on the table. “We do our mobility movement exercises before we begin baking. It’s always mobility and then baking.”

“That’s not a problem,” Maggie answered sweetly. “Christian’s home contains a state-of-the-art gym, and he can lead the exercises. He performed mobility movements on me while I was in a coma. And look at me now.” She stood and did a little twirl. “Sir, I was still in a coma less than two days ago. And after undergoing his exercises, I was mobile enough to break into a senior center and set it on fire.”

Ironside watched her for a beat, then another, before the whisper of a grin curved the corners of his mouth.

My God! Maggie charmed the crankiest man in Creek County.

“And in case you’re still doubting my skills…” Maggie sauntered toward the judge, her hips swaying with confidence, then sniffed the man. “You had an apple pastry for breakfast. I can smell the apples. Braeburn apples, I believe.”

Christian’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Now she was an apple whisperer?

Ironside glanced past Maggie into the seating area, his eyebrows knitting together. “Goldie, are they Braeburn apples?”

“They are indeed. Our Braeburn apples come from a Colorado orchard seventy miles due east.”

Christian met his grandmother’s gaze, and the woman winked. What the hell was that about?

Maggie returned to the table, her eyes alight with a triumphant sparkle as she sat next to him.

And Christ, he wanted to scoop her into his arms and kiss her until he passed out from exhaustion. He glanced back at his family again. Kieran and his mother were a good fifteen to twenty feet away and couldn’t hear them if they kept their voices low. “What was that?” he whispered.

“I tapped into something when I saw McKenzie wearing my apron. My brain exploded with pie knowledge.”

“That’s incredible,” he replied, soaking in her radiance and her fucking brilliance. He recognized the gleam in her eyes—the same one he had before a game, a quiet confidence that left no space for doubt.

Ironside cleared his throat, silencing their conversation. “The contest is only a week away. We’d need to start on Monday—two days from now. That ranch better be ready and stocked,” he ordered.

“It will be, sir. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll have everything you need and at my expense,” Christian answered.

The old man rolled his head from side to side and grimaced. “And my old bones better get one hell of a stretch. Do you know how to get that done, kid? I can’t bake when I’m cramped up.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure you’re loose and limber.”

“Here’s the deal,” Ironside barked, his stern facade cracking slightly as excitement glinted in his dark eyes. “If we win the pie-making contest, I’ll drop the charges. But if we lose, you both get seven days in the county jail plus three months of community service cleaning the public restrooms across the county.”

What?

Christian’s mind raced. “How about jail time for me only, Your Honor? Not Maggie,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.

“I have a counteroffer, Your Honor,” Maggie interjected, her tone unwavering.

“That’s not how it works,” the judge replied.

“Just consider it, sir,” Maggie said gently. “If we lose, four days in county jail. One month of community service cleaning toilets. But it won’t come to that. We’re going to rock this pie contest. People will be talking about it for years to come. Think of the bragging rights when you win. Think of the look on the Dennison seniors’ faces when you hold up the blue ribbon. And if you lose, you still get to lock us up for a few days and make us clean toilets.”

Ironside studied Maggie. “I need a moment.” He turned to the court reporter, giving Christian time to confer with Maggie.

“I won’t let you spend another second in jail. We know this was my fault,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“We’re not headed for jail. This is my pitch, Christian. I’m swinging. I can do this. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. This is my path.”

“Your path is pie?” he asked, gazing into her hazel eyes.

“My path seems to have led me to pie and…to you,” she said, meekly looking at him through her lashes as she offered him the sweet smile from his dreams.

And damn, his heart was ready to explode. Every moment with her felt destined, like the universe had finally aligned the stars to bring his dreams to life. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you,” he whispered, unable to hold back.

“Then let’s hope I’m not taken,” she teased, but the love shining in her eyes was undeniable.

Still, he wasn’t laughing as his protective and slightly possessive side took over. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “You are taken. By me.”

“Miss Maggie, Mr. Starrycard?” the judge barked, his voice slicing through their tender moment and bringing them back to their precarious reality.

“Yes, Your Honor,” they answered in unison, their voices strong and resolute.

Ironside’s gaze turned icy, his eyes narrowing as they darted between them. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Maggie,” he said, the words slicing through the air. “I’m not known for making compromises with defendants.”

The light flickered, casting ominous shadows on the paneled walls. The room’s musty scent mixed with the tension that hung thick as the courtroom seemed to hold its breath.

Oh, no! Was he about to reject Maggie’s proposition and throw the book at them?

“But in this rare case and under these rare circumstances…” Ironside continued, his voice dropping to a menacing rumble.

Christian’s heart pounded so hard it echoed in his ears. He tightened his hold on Maggie’s hand. Whatever happened, they were in this together.

The judge leaned forward and peered down his nose at them. “You’ve got a deal. And you better deliver.”