Crossing the Line (The Cross Creek Series Book 2)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  CHAPTER NINETEEN The only thing Eli had ever done on sheer, undiluted instinct was write. Everything else came with varying degrees of dodge and deflect, of cautious moves and cocky cover-ups. But in that moment, with Scarlett looking so wide open and beautiful that she knocked the breath right out of him, Eli didn’t speak or think or hold back. He brought his mouth down on hers in one swift move. For a time-stopping second, she stilled beneath his touch, a noise of shock riding out on her exhale. Then her arms shot around his shoulders, her lips opening readily as she deepened the kiss. She felt so vibrant, so right, and so fucking good in his arms that all Eli could do was pull her in tighter. More. More. More. The blunt edges of Scarlett’s fingers dug into his shoulder blades in response. The sound drifting up from her chest was part moan, part sigh, part something primal that shot straight to his cock, and he kissed her even harder just to make her do it again. “Ohhh.” Her tongue d

  CHAPTER TWENTY “Okay, cowboy. You win.” Eli looked up from his spot in front of the fireplace in the bedroom, unable to crank down on his surprise. “Can I get that in writing? Notarized would be cool, too. Or hey, maybe a nice plaque—” “Eli.” Funny how it only took the single word of warning for him to fold like last week’s laundry. But come on. Not only had Scarlett delivered the word in question with a sexy smile tipping her lips, but she was stretched across the bed in the cabin’s master suite in nothing more than a gauzy white tank top and a pair of short-short-style panties that made arguing with her an act of pure fucking idiocy. “Alright, no plaque. But can I at least ask to what I owe the honor?” Eli crossed the room—although admittedly, the act only took three steps—stopping to bend down and brush a kiss over Scarlett’s mouth before parking himself on the floorboards beside the bed. “Slowing down to really look at the landscape and trails out here gave me perspective I wouldn’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Three days later, Eli was still vacillating between feeling like he’d won a Nobel Prize and wondering whether he’d lost every last shred of his already dubious sanity. But as soon as Scarlett had reached out to her friend Rafael the other night from the cabin, the guy had asked to see a portfolio of Eli’s work, then followed up with both a phone interview and some back and forth via e-mail. Rafael had seemed impressed with Scarlett’s recommendation, not to mention really impressed with the writing, and had promised to be in touch as soon as possible. Which meant that life as Eli knew it had the potential to go ass over teakettle any frigging second now. The creak and bang of the screen door on the back of Cross Creek’s main house brought him crash-landing back to reality. Despite all the nerves doing the jump and jangle in his gut, the sight of Scarlett with her camera around her neck and a wooden bucket in each hand knocked a laugh right out of him. “I take it you’r

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Eli stood at the entrance to Willow Park and pondered the merits of getting drunk off his rocker. But even though it was technically after five o’clock, he still had a whole lot of evening in front of him, including an annual harvest celebration after which he had to tell his family he was leaving the country and a $5,000 bet he had a decent chance of losing in front of the entire town. On second thought, getting drunk sounded like an outstanding fucking plan. “Dude.” Hunter looked at him through the waning daylight filtering down through the trees, his arms crossed over the front of his crisply ironed button-down shirt. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like someone just took a serious piss in your Post Toasties.” Owen nodded his agreement from the spot where he stood on Eli’s other side, and Eli laughed, but only because right now, it was either that or cry. Or, apparently, get sauced. “Seriously, Hunt? There cannot possibly be a right way to take that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Scarlett laid back against the passenger seat of Eli’s truck and wondered how on earth a night sky could get so ridiculously clear. Even through the window, the velvety-black canvas stretched infinitely overhead, littered with stars ranging from faint smudges to brilliant bursts of light. Her wanderlust kicked with the reminder that there were hundreds of places to see, thousands of places to explore beneath the sprawl of the night sky, and that she’d shelved all of them for an entire month now. She sighed. Cross Creek was beautiful in ways she’d never expected. The things she’d uncovered there, even more so. But she didn’t belong in one place—she never had. It was past time for Scarlett to follow her passion to the next thing. And Eli was going with her. “You okay over there?” His voice rumbled through the interior of the truck in a living embodiment of speak of the devil. Not that she should be surprised Eli had guessed how deep in thought she was. Or that the lo

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Eli stood on the front porch of Cross Creek’s main house with his keys in his hand and his heart in his windpipe. The sun, which should have been smack in the center of the sky at this point in the day, hid behind a bank of thick gray clouds that finally matched the cooler October weather. He sank a little deeper into his blue-and-green flannel shirt, fiddling with the bottom button as he stared at the whitewashed porch boards extending out from beneath the welcome mat. Both Hunter’s and Owen’s trucks were lined up in the drive beside the house, which meant everyone was already here. The irony of being last in yet again sure as hell wasn’t lost on him. “Eli.” Scarlett turned from the spot where she’d stood next to him for the last five minutes. Her tone didn’t push, although he heard the unspoken “it’s time” in her voice, and he blew out a rickety breath. “I know,” he said quietly, because Christ, he really did. “Telling them is the right thing to do, and now is the

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE No less than a thousand thoughts and feelings went on an immediate rampage in Eli’s brain, each one pushed faster by the rush of blood against his ears, turning his heartbeat so fast that he was momentarily dizzy. “Uh.” Not eloquent, but it was the only word he could shove past his lips. He needed to tell the woman—Marley—she was wrong. He couldn’t possibly have a sister, much less one he didn’t know existed. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.” “Nope. Well, not about this,” she clarified, and although her expression might qualify as a smile, it was really more of a baring of teeth. “My mother’s name is Lorraine Rallston.” “Miss Lorraine?” The name slid out from a rusty, unused corner of Eli’s mind. He hadn’t heard it in ages, decades really, and despite the woman having been best friends with his mother, Eli only knew of her from secondhand anecdotes and ancient, small-town gossip. “She used to live here in Millhaven, but she moved away.” Marley’s laugh was

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Eli sat at the kitchen table in Cross Creek’s main house, completely and utterly poleaxed. Scarlett and Emerson had left a little while ago, and despite several hundred variations of “What the hell is going on?” from both of Eli’s brothers, their old man had simply sat at one of the four compass points of the farmhouse table, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone otherwise untouched. Eli had a sister. His father had been with another woman. Gotten her pregnant. Kept his daughter hidden from Eli and his brothers for twenty-three years. How were they supposed to process this? And more importantly, how the fuck were they supposed to recover as a family? Finally, their old man spoke. “I have a lot to tell you boys, and most of it won’t be easy to hear. I reckon you’ll be angry. Hurt, even.” He paused for a slow breath. “All I ask is that you hear me out till I’ve said my piece.” “Pop, seriously.” Owen took the lead, which under the circumstances wasn’t s

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN At four fifty-six the next morning, Eli turned off his alarm clock. Of course, he hadn’t slept, so the feat was actually rather easy. The getting-out-of-bed-to-face-his-locomotive-wreck-of-a-life part? Yeah, not so fucking much. Eli stared into the shadows, a heavy ache centered right in the middle of his chest. His family had been pulled in a thousand directions last night, his old man worst of all. But that family had stood by him, through screwups and brash, mouthy decisions and everything else Eli had ever lobbed at them. He owed it to them to stay here at Cross Creek. Not to leave and become somethin
g else. And definitely not to impulsively get on a plane to Brazil and spend a month writing his head off with Scarlett. Scarlett, who’d believed in him, too. The only difference was, she’d been wrong. Cursing, Eli tossed the covers from his legs and plodded toward the bathroom. He was going to have to get back to normal sooner or later. Might as well rip off the B

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Scarlett shouldered her camera bag, taking one last look around the fun-sized apartment she’d borrowed from Emerson. Somewhere right around two a.m., the concept of sleep became one of those things that was great in theory but impossible in practice, so she’d thrown in the towel and tidied the place from top to bottom as she’d packed. Everything had fit in the Volkswagen just as it had on the day she’d arrived, and funny how it seemed like it had been forever and five minutes ago all at the same time. You might want to make that never, sweetheart. Scarlett ran a hand over her breastbone, trying to cover the ache there. But she knew it wouldn’t work—shit, she’d tried it nearly nonstop for the last twelve hours. The only thing that would work was punching her passport and getting back behind her camera, where she belonged. Crossing the threshold, she locked the door and slid the key under the mat. It was a move she’d never dream of in New York, but then again, she’d

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Like all books, Crossing the Line is a collaborative effort, and I wouldn’t have been able to write more than five words of it without the encouragement and dedication of many, many people. I owe endless thanks to my wonder-agent, Nalini Akolekar, who is as patient as she is fierce. Chris Werner and Melody Guy, truly, there are no finer editors than you. I’m so blessed to work with you both. To the entire team at Montlake Publishing, thank you for making me look so good and for being cheerleaders for this series. Also, an extra-special thank-you to Jessica Poore for showing me that carnitas and pancakes are a thing. (Trust me—they’re a thing and they’re fabulous!) This book would not have had a heroine (specifically, this heroine) were it not for the fantastic Robin Gansle saying to me once upon a time, “You know what you should write one day? A photographer heroine!” I owe Scarlett all to you, and I promise never to Photoshop a nose onto your seat. As an author, I’m fo

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2013 Robin Gansle Crossing the Line is the second book in The Cross Creek Series by Kimberly Kincaid, a USA Today bestselling author and a 2016 and 2015 RITA Award finalist who lives (and writes!) by the mantra “Food is love.” When she’s not sitting cross-legged in an ancient desk chair that she calls the “Pleather Bomber,” she can be found practicing crazy amounts of yoga, whipping up everything from enchiladas to éclairs in her kitchen, or curled up with her nose in a book. Kimberly, who writes contemporary romance that splits the difference between sexy and sweet, resides in Virginia with her wildly patient husband and their three daughters. Visit her at www.kimberlykincaid.com or on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram.

  PREVIOUS TITLES BY KIMBERLY KINCAID

  The Cross Creek Series

  Crossing Hearts

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 Kimberly Kincaid

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046503

  ISBN-10: 1542046505

  Cover design by Jason Blackburn

  Cover photography by Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign.com

  This book is dedicated to my three daughters, who never say no when I ask if they want to go to the farmers’ market and (almost!) always eat their veggies.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eli Cross was about to be in a shit-ton of trouble. But since he wasn’t exactly pioneering new territory by landing himself in hot water, he might as well take it like he usually did—with a shrug and a smile and great big steaming mug of here we go again.

  “Have you seriously not loaded any of these crates for tomorrow’s farmers’ market yet?” His brother Owen pinned him with a steely stare as he gestured to the six dozen wood-slatted crates stacked in neat columns against the barn wall. Kind of hard to believe Owen was only five years older than him, what with the whole thirty-two-going-on-grumpy-old-man thing the guy was rocking. For Chrissake, Owen bossed Eli over every last one of their 750 acres even more than their father did, and Tobias Cross had run the farm since his own father had left it to him more than three decades ago.

  Not that Eli actually listened to his brother much.

  He rolled a slow glance over the obviously empty crates, inhaling a lungful of humid, late-summer air before working up his trademark drawl. “It appears that way.”

  Despite his carefree cover, guilt panged low in Eli’s gut, just above the top button on his beat-to-hell-and-back Levi’s. It was true that he hadn’t loaded the crates with produce from the fields and greenhouses like he was supposed to, just like it was true he’d known Owen was expecting him to get the job done. What he had been doing, though, was harvesting as much sweet corn as he could get to before their old man got done repairing the irrigation system in the north fields. Not that their father couldn’t do the work—hell, he was as salty as they came, and Eli would bet good money the man could harvest sweet corn easier than he could spell his own name. But he’d also suffered a not-small bout of heat exhaustion only two months ago. No sense pickin’ a fight with fate. Especially not in the dog days of a Virginia summer, and double especially not when Eli could do the work instead. After all, Owen already thought Eli was a screwup, and Eli had to admit, most of the time, his brother wasn’t wrong. But taking some extra heat to save a little bit of their old man’s pride? Hell, that was worth every last one of Owen’s legendary eye rolls.

  “I’ve got a little time to burn,” their middle brother, Hunter, said from his spot in front of the barn door, throwing on the easy-does-it peacekeeper face Eli knew all too well. “I don’t mind helping you load the crates for the farmers’ market, E.”

  Owen’s snort killed the offer before it had finished echoing off the wide, wooden walls. “It’s the height of the worst season we’ve seen in a decade, and a Friday afternoon to boot. There’s no such thing as ‘time to burn.’ We’re all up to our eyeteeth trying to get ahead before the weekend kicks off. Except for Eli, of course, who might as well be on vacation.”

  For a hot second, Eli was tempted to pop off and tell Owen that he hadn’t exactly been sitting on his ass pontificating about the meaning of life all afternoon. But telling his brother why he was running behind would just be a moot point, bec
ause even if Eli forked over the truth now, Owen would still only hear what he wanted—an excuse. Provided he even listened at all.

  Yeah. Time to just get good and comfy on the hot seat. It was, after all, the only place at Cross Creek Farm where Eli really belonged.

  “It’s cool, Hunt.” Eli lifted his shoulders up and around in a move so well practiced it was probably stamped into his muscle memory for life. “I’ve got this. I’ll just throw the crates in my truck and fill ’em now, nothing doing.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Owen’s voice halted Eli midstep on the packed dirt beneath his Red Wings. “I’m sorry?”

  “Been hearing that a lot from you lately. Not that it does much good when your work doesn’t get done,” Owen said, and the words sent Eli’s molars together hard enough that his jaw considered crying uncle. But before he could unhinge the thing to deliver the verbal ass-kicking Owen had been gunning for since he’d clapped eyes on the crates in the first place, Hunter stepped in, both hands lifted as if he could literally stuff the tension back with his palms.

  “Come on, you two. We’re still trying to bounce back from the crazy weather and both me and Dad being out of commission for part of the summer.” Hunter rolled the shoulder he’d spent most of June rehabbing after going ass over teakettle out of their hayloft. “If we want to get this farm back in the black, you need to be working together. Not trying to knock each other’s fucking blocks off.”