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“Good morning. How did you sleep?” he asks as I make my way to the kitchen counter.

“Like the dead,” I retort, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “It’s so nice to have a queen-sized bed instead of the little twin bed I had in Dallas.”

“I’m glad you’re comfortable here,” he says with a wink, handing me a spoon to stir my coffee. “And I love having the company.”

“It’s great being here,” I say as Winston walks over and sniffs my ankles.

After we finish setting up for the barbecue, guests start arriving. I’m on the back deck talking to one of Uncle Jasper’s friends, hoping the one person I’ve been waiting for arrives soon. I’m starting to give up on him when I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I turn to find Piers walking out the patio door, and I swear the world slows down for a moment. He’s wearing blue jeans and a red and black plaid shirt, the kind that should be a cliché but looks like pure perfection on him. The shirt clings just right, accentuating a form that’s definitely more on the solid side than the chiseled, gym-rat type I’d half-expected.

My heart flips when I catch sight of him. He’s extremely tall, and while I imagined him with a six-pack, he’s a little broader but not in a bad way. It’s like he’s built for comfort and strength. There's something about his solid frame that fills me with unexpected warmth. Perfect for cuddling, I think as my brain spirals down a rabbit hole of daydreams.

“Hi, Cookie.” Piers grins, and those dimples of his deepen with a smile. Each one hits like a soft punch to the gut, and I swear my heart does this ridiculous little half-flip.

“Cookie?” I need to know, trying to appear cool while internally freaking out over how charming he looks.

He chuckles, and I can already feel the corners of my mouth twitching up at his laughter. “Because you smell as sweet as fresh-baked cookies.” He steps closer to me, and I catch a whiff of his earthy scent. Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble here.

I feel like I’ve known him forever, which confuses the holy heck out of me. “Oh.” It’s the only response my befuddled mind can come up with. “Uh… do I get to make up something to call you?” Like maybe, all mine.

“You can call me whatever you want, Cookie.”