Crossing Hope (Cross Creek Series Book 4)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  But how on earth could she tell him that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to be Tobias’s daughter, a true part of his family like her brothers, but rather that she couldn’t?

  “More complicated,” she finished lamely. Greyson didn’t call her out on it, though, and Marley found herself exhaling in relief. They made their way to the top of the field in quiet that wasn’t awkward or ill-fitting. By the time Marley turned to take in her surroundings with more care, the ease she’d felt when they’d arrived had made itself at home again in her chest.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Greyson asked, letting go of her hand to gesture to the row of peach-studded trees in front of them. “Because it is the best experience in Millhaven.”

  Marley couldn’t help it. She arched a brow. “Are you sure about that? Because last night—”

  “The best experience you can have in public,” he amended. Stepping in, he wrapped one palm around her hip to pull her flush against him, hooking the index finger on his other hand beneath her chin to bring their mouths nearly just as close, and oh God, Marley didn’t give a flying fig about rivalries or what her brothers said.

  She wanted Greyson Whittaker. Badly.

  He slanted a stare over her mouth, slow and hot. “Now, are we gonna pick some peaches, or do you want to get me riled up enough that I throw you over my shoulder and take you back to my place?”

  “We can’t do both?” Marley breathed, and Greyson laughed, kissing her all too quickly before letting her go.

  “Of course we can do both. But peaches first.”

  Grudgingly (but not too, because wow, the orchard was seriously beautiful), Marley followed him down the grassy path between the first two rows of trees. Greyson gave her a basic primer on peach growing—how old the trees were, how his family had added to the orchard over time and how Whittaker Hollow had actually been the first farm in Millhaven to do Pick Your Own produce, although Cross Creek had followed suit later that same year with apples and pumpkins during the harvest.

  He spoke with ease, his shoulders loose and his expression wide-open and reverent as he pointed out details and let his eyes sweep over the land. His rough edges still showed—strong, stubbled jawline, muscles flexing and releasing with the suggestion of power, and then there was that tattoo, the heavy black lines tribal and fierce. But Greyson looked so happy, so right, here on his farm, that the vitality of it warmed her.

  This was where he belonged. And standing here beside him, even if only for this moment, Marley felt like she belonged, too.

  Greyson worried that maybe he was dreaming. He didn’t normally—okay, fine. Ever—go for the whole rah-rah, feel-good route. Sure, he’d been happy, and more often than not when he was here on his family’s land. But this higher-level of goodness that felt not sappy, but light and giddy and sewn into his bones?

  Yeah. Not his usual jam. And he knew he should be worried about it, but the problem was, he felt too good to give a shit about worrying.

  “Okay,” Greyson said, turning to look at Marley. Although the sun had arced toward the west side of the orchard, it was far from setting, the rays slanting down to tease out the coffee-in-cream-colored highlights in the hair peeking out from beneath Marley’s bandana, and sweet Jesus in the manger, she was beautiful.

  He cleared his throat. “Peach picking,” he said, before the darker, baser side of him refocused on his earlier promise to throw her over his shoulder to drag her off to do wicked, wicked things. “It’s not brain surgery, but there are a few things you should know.”

  “Okay.” She stepped in beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his as the leaves on the lower branches of the peach tree in front of them brushed against them both. “School me, oh wise one.”

  “Hilarious. You should be a comedienne. Really.” Of course, his reply lost a lot in delivery, since he paired it with a laugh. But then Marley was laughing, too, and Greyson found himself not caring that she’d successfully poked fun at him. “So, you’re obviously going to look first, for a peach that’s ripe and free of blemishes.”

  Marley nodded, tipping her head at the low-growing branches. “The ripe ones are more orange, right?”

  “For this variety, yes.” They grew both yellow and white peaches in bulk, and donut peaches and a few other heirloom varieties in limited quantity. Those were the ones he was still playing with, finessing soil compositions and methods for optimal yield and fertilizer ratios. “Next, you want to get your hand up under the fruit, nice and even.”

  “Like this?” Marley asked, cupping her palm under a peach at eye level.

  “Mmm hmm. If you get too much resistance, it’s not ready for pickin’. You shouldn’t have to put your back into it.”

  “Okay. So just pull?” Her fingers curved tighter with the clear intent to put her words into action, but Greyson stilled her progress with a brush of his hand.

  “Nope. Twist. It keeps the branches from being damaged, so they can produce fruit again in the next growing cycle.” Reaching out, he turned his wrist in a move so well-practiced, he was sure he could do it in his sleep, even easier than breathing. The peach let go of the branch with a soft pop, dropping into his palm just as easy as you please, and ah, perfect.

  “It’s got some nice weight to it,” he said, placing the peach between Marley’s fingers. “Which is one way you can tell if it’s ready to be picked. But the very best way you can tell if a peach is ripe is to smell it.”

  She didn’t even pause before lifting the thing to her face and inhaling deeply. “Oh.” The way her reply was more pleasured sigh than actual word made Greyson’s body heat in ways that had nothing to do with the summer evening. “It smells delicious.” She realized—likely because he was making it really goddamned obvious—just a beat later that he was staring at her. “What?”

  Greyson didn’t stop staring, but he did say, “Most people with no experience picking peaches probably would’ve thought that was weird advice at first.”

  “I think we’ve already established that I’m not really like most people.” She pointed to the front of her muscle shirt and mouthed from Chicago. “Anyway, I trust you. You’re the expert, so if you say smelling the peaches is the best way to tell that they’re ripe…”

  Marley trailed off with a shrug. She handed the peach back to him, and he fought the odd feeling growing in his gut long enough to find one of the baskets they always had nearby so folks coming to pick their own fruit had something to collect their bounty in.

  “What about you?” Greyson asked, depositing the peach in the bottom of the basket, which held about a peck of fruit—a good amount to send her home with.

  “What do you mean, what about me?”

  He shouldered his way around a large branch, watching her examine the options in front of her for what to pick next. “I mean, I’m the expert at this”—he gestured to the row of trees now to their right—“so what are you the expert of? What do you want to do with your life?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, the admission seeming to shock her. “I have a degree in business management from a small college outside of Chicago.”

  “Wow, really?” Greyson asked, hearing the gracelessness of his surprise only after it had crash-coursed out. “Sorry, that wasn’t very kind.” Especially since she was turning out to be one of the smartest people he’d ever met.

  But Marley just waved off the indiscretion and continued to pick peaches. “No, you’re not wrong to be shocked. I don’t even think my brothers know, and honestly, I never did anything with it. I worked retail in Chicago for a little while, but you have to earn seniority the hard way in management. By the time I started getting traction, my mom had been diagnosed with cancer, and she needed full-time care. I always thought I’d run a store—I’m good at organization and planning and stuff—but then life got in the way.”

  A saying, long buried, whispered up from someplace deep in Greyson’s mind. “Life is what happens when you’re dreaming of what you’re g
oing to do with it.” His uncle Steve had said that all the time, hadn’t he?

  “But not you,” Marley said. “You’re doing what you love, aren’t you?”

  “Yes and no. Yes, I love my job, and yes, I belong on my farm.” Those had been Greyson’s truths from the time he’d gone to Millhaven High School’s junior prom. “But the circumstances of running it aren’t ideal. My old man owns the place, so ultimately, there are decisions I can’t make, no matter how much he depends on me for operations.”

  It wasn’t a can of worms Greyson really wanted to bust open, though—fuck, the thought alone threatened to kill the great mood he and Marley had cultivated just by being here, picking peaches. “You seemed pretty at home, working at the farmers’ market yesterday.”

  She nodded, letting him take the subject for a do-si-do. “Yeah. It’s definitely better than the boutique. Owen wants me to work at the storefront full-time. Manage the place, do inventory and schedules and displays. That sort of thing.”

  Whoa. That sounded like a full-time gig. A permanent, stay-here-in-Millhaven, not-leaving-anytime-soon, full-time gig. “And what do you want?” he managed to ask.

  “A couple of days ago, I would’ve said not that.”

  “But now…” Greyson stepped closer to her, his pulse accelerating as her pupils flared and her lips parted.

  “I can’t stay in Millhaven,” Marley murmured.

  He took the peach from her hand, placing it carefully in the basket, then the basket on the grass beside their boots. “You’re here for now,” he said, his cock encouraging him to slide his arms around her, bracing his palms over the back of her rib cage to pull their bodies flush.

  “I am here for now,” she agreed, tipping her chin up until their mouths were tantalizingly close. “But—”

  “No.” Greyson shook his head, cutting her off. “No buts. Life’s too short for that. If this is the moment you’ve got now, then that’s the one you’ve gotta live. The other ones will come soon enough.”

  For a heartbeat, he thought she’d argue. The bright blue flash of her eyes certainly suggested she was headed that way.

  But then she pressed up to kiss him. “Okay.”

  Greyson kissed her back. Unable to keep himself in check, he slanted his tongue over the seam of her mouth, tasting and taking as soon as she granted him deeper access, kissing her as if he was starving and she was pure sustenance…

  “Well, well. Ain’t this cute,” came a voice from behind them, and no, no. No, no, no…

  Greyson lifted his chin just in time to see his father’s sneer.

  22

  Greyson closed his eyes for a long beat before stepping back from Marley. His old man never walked these fields—for fuck’s sake, he hated the farm.

  But he didn’t hate making Greyson’s life a fresh hell, and damn it, nothing good was going to come from this.

  Still, he had no choice but to at least try and give it a go. “Marley, this is my father. Jeremiah Whittaker,” Greyson said. “Pop, this is—”

  “Oh, I know who she is.” His father lifted a graying brow and turned toward Marley, his frown deepening with each passing second. “Your daddy coulda spit you out for how much you look like him.”

  Marley stiffened. Shit, this was going to go south, fast. “I’m Marley Rallston,” she said evenly. “Lorraine Rallston’s daughter.”

  His father’s laugh was all contempt, and it echoed over the orchard. “You’re a Cross, sweetheart. Through and through. It’s in your eyes.”

  The words were designed to taunt. Christ, Greyson knew the routine so well, he could’ve scripted it. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice steady even though the rest of him? Not so fucking much.

  “Oh, that’s not nearly enough,” his father snapped, but Marley shook her head.

  “Actually, it is. I would say it was nice to meet you, Mr. Whittaker, but we both know that’s less than honest. Greyson, I’m sorry to cut things short, but I think I should be getting back to Cross Creek.”

  He jerked his chin once in a tight nod. He didn’t want her to go, but his father had pushed first, and pushed hard. Pushing back now would be an uphill battle Greyson wasn’t aiming to fight in front of Marley, and he was already in for a pound of flesh over this. His father’s expression made that wildly goddamned clear.

  Weird that Greyson was okay with that. Scooping up the half-full basket of peaches, he turned to lead her back to his truck, but the meanly satisfied grin on his father’s face stopped him cold.

  “Hey, why don’t you take these with you?” Greyson said, loosening the death grip he’d just put on the basket handle to hand the thing over to Marley. “I’ll meet you at the truck in just a second.”

  “Greyson,” she said, so softly that his father likely hadn’t heard it. “This isn’t worth it.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

  Thankfully, she took the basket and went. He waited until she was out of earshot to turn toward his old man, his hands on his hips.

  “That was uncalled for. Even for you.”

  His father sent a nasty noise of disagreement through his teeth. “Just like you to do something stupid, like think with your pecker. Of all the girls you could be takin’ behind the toolshed, you had to choose that one?”

  Anger burned, low and hot in Greyson’s belly. “Be careful what you say next, old man.”

  He should’ve known it was a warning his father wouldn’t heed. “I ain’t the one who needs to step lightly,” he snapped. “You think that girl really has a care for you?”

  “So what if I do?” Greyson snapped right back.

  “You’re a fool. That family thinks they’re so much better than everyone else. All they really care about is themselves.”

  It was a line he’d heard a million times. Had it memorized for at least a decade. But, God, he’d never questioned it, just let it fit right in with the whole us-versus-the-world mentality that his father had planted in his brain, letting it grow vicious and wild.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Greyson said.

  But his father, it seemed, had had enough. “I know that this is my farm.”

  Greyson opened his mouth, fully prepared to pop off with a healthy what the fuck? But there was something in his father’s voice that defied definition—not soft, but subtle, almost insidious—and it prickled like a warning over his skin. “Whittaker Hollow has always been your farm,” Greyson said carefully.

  His father snorted, his shoulders strung tight with tension. “Plenty of folks in this area who’d help me run it.”

  The implication hit Greyson on a delay, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs. “You’re…are you threatening to fire me?”

  “I’m reminding you where you are,” his father corrected. “And who you are. That girl’s a Cross. You’ll end up learnin’ your lesson with her the hard way.”

  Greyson inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again, and said, “I don’t need you to tell me where I am. I know every inch of this land, along with how to tend it. As for who I am, you’re the one who might need the lesson, because you don’t know me at all.”

  With that, he pivoted on his boot heels and walked away.

  Marley pulled the nine by thirteen baking dish out of the oven at the main house at Cross Creek, and okay, she’d admit it. The cobbler looked pretty decent, and it smelled even better. To be fair, she’d had plenty of time to tinker with the recipe, what with her thoughts spinning too hard to allow for anything resembling easy sleep. But between the conversation she’d had with Greyson and the near-argument she’d had with his father, Marley’s brain had been dangerously close to maximum capacity all night long.

  If this is the moment you’ve got now, then that’s the one you’ve gotta live…

  Placing the baking dish on the cooling rack beside the oven, Marley fiddled with the edge of the blue and white potholder between her fingers. Greyson had apologized fifty times on the way back to her car
, and cursed ten times more than that. She wasn’t angry with him, and to be honest, she wasn’t even angry about what his father had said. There was no denying that the older man had been a jackass, or that his mean streak looked to be a country mile wide, as one of her brothers might say, but Marley hadn’t expected less. There didn’t seem to be much point in getting mad about him showing his true colors when they were exactly what she’d thought they’d be. Anyway, none of that changed how she felt about Greyson.

  How flawlessly at home he’d looked on his family’s farm. How her chest had fluttered, hard and sweet as he’d kissed her beneath the peach tree.

  How she’d thought of him and only him when she’d slid her hand inside her panties last night and—

  “Good gravy in the pan, what are you making? I can smell it all the way in the office.”

  Marley clutched the potholder, her heart rocketing against her sternum, and she spun to face Cate. “Oh! I, um”—was not thinking of Greyson Whittaker naked, was not thinking of Greyson Whittaker naked, was not—“was just messing around with a peach cobbler thing. It’s probably not very good.”

  Not one to be deterred, Cate waggled her dark brows. “I could use a mid-morning snack. Why don’t we find out?”

  Marley knew better than to argue—Cate’s ferocity easily topped out at grizzly bear status when she put her mind to it—so she simply shrugged, watching Cate dish up a lumberjack-sized serving of cobbler and blow on a bite before popping it into her mouth.

  She straightened, mid-chew, and oh, shit, this couldn’t be good. “Did you come up with this recipe on your own?”

  “Yeah?” Marley ventured. Cate had taught her how to get the butter-to-brown-sugar ratio right, and how to add in some flour and spices. But Marley liked nutmeg more than most people, and she’d fiddled with a few other things, like ginger, to go with the peaches.

  But rather than spit everything out and toss her plate into the sink, Cate let go of an audible exhale.