A small-town baker learns to raise her expectations for love with some help from a handsome local teacher in this sunny romantic comedy. Layla Dupree has given up on love. She’s waded through all the fish in the sea, each one more disappointing than the last. Apparently, owning the bakery at Inglewild’s most romantic destination does not help one’s love life—despite Layla’s best efforts. All she wants is a partner who gives her butterflies, not someone who ghosts her at dinner and leaves her with the check. Good thing Caleb Alvarez has the perfect solution. After saving Layla from another date gone bad, he has a simple proposition: one month of no-strings dating. He’ll do his best to renew her faith in men while she rates his romantic game. It’s a win-win situation. All the benefits of dating without the added pressure of feelings and unmet expectations. But there’s one ingredient they haven’t considered. The chemistry between them is red-hot, and the urge to take things to the next level is more tempting than Layla’s mocha fudge brownies. Amazon bestselling author B.K. Borison is fueled almost entirely by coffee and spends her days with imaginary characters doing imaginary things. She lives in Baltimore with her little family, including her giant dog. ¶ 1 • Layla "You're not what I expected." That's a bold statement coming from the man slouched in the seat across from me. He picked me up forty-five minutes late, berated the waitstaff as soon as we got here, took two shots of-and I quote-the cheapest bourbon available, and then promptly ordered a steak without bothering to ask what I would like. "Oh?" I indulge his attempt at conversation. It's possible that he's not as bad as he seems. I'm not sure how, but I've seen stranger things happen. Like the guy who picked me up for dinner in a horse and buggy. "How so?" I cut my dessert into four perfectly portioned bites and try to make my face do something that resembles vague interest. He burps into his closed fist and I abandon the effort. "Prettier," he tells me. His eyes dip down to my neckline and hold. "I had no idea you were hiding all that." He twirls his fork in my general direction. "Your profile picture doesn't do you justice." Gross. I shovel another bite of passion fruit and coconut into my mouth. "Probably all the baking you do, right? Those sweet treats make you thick in all the right places." I don't even know where to start. "Yes, I own a bakery." I own a little bakeshop tucked in the middle of a Christmas tree farm about forty miles west of here. I'm also part owner of the farm. I spend my days mixing and plating and rolling and wrapping inside of an old tractor shed that my business partner Stella and I converted into a bakery as soon as she bought the place. Big floor-to-ceiling windows. Old oak wood floors. Walls lined in cozy booths with throw pillows and blankets. It's my very favorite place in the world. Every day I flick on the lights and set out the tables and feel like I'm living inside a snow globe. Even in the middle of the summer when the humidity is so thick it feels like I'm walking through Jell-O, the sticky heat making my hair curl. I love it. Working at Lovelight Farms is the best part of my day, and being able to go to work with my two best friends is icing on the proverbial cake. Stella manages business operations, and Beckett keeps everything growing and thriving as head of farming. They're the kindest, loveliest people-in relationships with equally kind, lovely, beautiful people. I'm so happy they're happy, even if their so-cute-I-want-to-die relationships make me want to tip over an entire row of mini cakes in a fit of jealousy. They have the sort of romances that dreams are made of. While I'm here with . . . Bryce. I didn't even recognize him when he pulled up in front of my house. Our tiny tucked-away town is hard to find on a good day, and most people bypass Inglewild completely on the way to the shore. When the car pulled up in my driveway, I thought Bryce sent a Lyft driver to pick me up for the evening. But then he rolled down the window, yelled, "Hey, Layla," and I stupidly got in the passenger seat. I should have ended it right there. I know better. He had a hamster bobblehead on his dash, for god's sake. I'm lucky I wasn't murdered. The entire drive to the coast, I stared hard at his face. I could have sworn his profile picture was a tall brunette, and yet . . . He drags his hand through his bottle-dyed blond hair. And yet. He probably thinks he looks charming sitting there like that, all lazy and loose in his seat, his knuckles beneath his chin. Unlucky for him, I'm more sexually attracted to the warm rum butter sauce on my cake at this point. I sigh and glance over his shoulder at the bar, trying to catch the eye of our beleaguered waitress. We'd shared a commiserate look earlier when he stared too long at the hem of her skirt. I'm pretty sure it's why she brought me this slice of boozy