Crossing Promises

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Cate nodded, her brain turning her thoughts over one by one. “You have a lot of momentum from the marketing Emerson is doing and the visibility you gained when Scarlett was here, doing that series for her friend’s online magazine. Building on that makes sense.”

  She knew the budget for the actual construction cost was complete—familiarizing herself with what needed to be paid and when had been one of her first orders of business. Still… “What about the cost output once the storefront is complete?”

  “Good question.” Leaning forward in his chair, Owen pulled up the schematics on his laptop, scrolling to a sketch of the floor plan before turning the laptop toward her. “Part of the storefront will be completely enclosed.” He outlined a section of the structure with one finger. “Running water, electricity, heat and air conditioning, the works. But we wanted to create that farm stand vibe while keeping the overhead costs manageable, so more than half the space is actually outdoors.”

  Surprise popped through her, and, she had to admit, the strategy was pretty frigging brilliant. “But it’s covered, so you’ve still got protection from the elements.”

  “For both the people and the product,” Owen pointed out. “We’ll keep hardier produce out here, like corn and watermelons and pumpkins in the fall. The storage bins fit easily on pallets, so we can bring them inside after closing each day. Then the more perishable produce will go in these temperature controlled cases inside the enclosed part of the store.”

  Cate reached for her legal pad, scribbling off a handful of notes. “What sort of staffing are you looking at?”

  “We won’t be ready to open until the middle of the summer, so there’s really no time for a soft opening. With the efforts Eli and Emerson are both sinking in on the marketing side, I’m hoping we’ll be busy from the start.”

  She skimmed the page of the business plan he’d just pulled up, and, wow, he wasn’t kidding. “So, you’ll need two dedicated sales staffers a day, six days a week through the harvest, plus someone to re-stock and run inventory throughout each shift.”

  “To start,” Owen agreed. “The proposed budget allows for five new seasonal hires, plus at least one person to manage the staff and the inventory.”

  “You don’t have a manager yet?” Cate asked, surprised.

  He hesitated. “Well, sort of. Right now, it’s me.”

  Unable to help it, she laughed. “Of course, it is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Despite the directness of the question, Owen’s tone said he was genuinely asking—well, mostly, anyway. God, he was probably gruff in his sleep.

  Cate shook her head, although whether it was to reassure him or to tamp down the odd pang of attraction rippling through her belly, she couldn’t be sure. “Nothing negative, Casanova. In fact, quite the opposite. This project obviously means a lot to you, and your work ethic is pretty much bulletproof. All I meant was that you being in charge of things from stem to stern doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Yeah.” For a second, something wistful flickered through his eyes, and the rare show of emotion startled her. But then it was gone just as fast as it had appeared, and even though she was certain she’d seen it, something warned her not to push. “Anyway,” he said. “Now that we’ve talked about the basic overview, let’s go through the numbers for the rest of the construction phase to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

  “You got it.”

  They worked together easily enough, which—considering their shared lack of tolerance for bullshit—didn’t shock Cate in the least. Despite the dated way he’d kept his books, she had to admit Owen was both meticulous and innovative with regard to the project details, and by the time they’d finished their work a half an hour later, she’d caught a fair amount of his enthusiasm.

  “This storefront really is pretty cutting edge,” she said, tucking the three and a half pages of notes she’d taken into her purse before amending, “Well, for Millhaven, anyway.”

  “Thanks, I think.” Owen’s lips twitched just slightly, betraying the barest hint of a smile, and damn, who knew he had a playful side beneath that rugged, rough exterior?

  “You’re welcome. You know, I was thinking.” Cate paused, too late. God, her mouth had a mind of its own! Owen had all of these smart, strategic plans, and here she was, two millimeters away from giving up what was likely to be a lame idea. “I mean, I don’t have any business experience or anything, so this might be off the wall.”

  Serious Owen was back in a flash, arching a nearly black brow and leaning back to pin her with a stare that said he wasn’t letting her off the hook. “You have enough business experience to manage Cross Creek’s books. I’d say that’s plenty. So, what’s this thought of yours?”

  Cate gathered up a large breath, and, oh, fuck it. “Well, you want to focus on the specialty produce that makes Cross Creek unique, right? Things like the best strawberries in the county and more varieties of heirloom tomatoes and greens than anyone else, right?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  “But the startup costs and overhead for a project like this are high. The sooner you recoup them, the sooner your profit margins rise, the better for business all around,” she continued.

  Owen nodded. “Of course. But we’re already using every inch of land and greenhouse space that we’ve got. I can’t sell more than what I have.”

  “Actually, I think you can.”

  His expression suggested he was seriously reconsidering that whole off-the-wall thing, and Cate scrambled to tack on, “What I mean is, for an added stream of revenue, you could consider renting a little bit of the space in the storefront to other vendors.”

  “Okay, but the point is to be better than the competition. Not give them another way to reach customers,” Owen said.

  The timer on Cate’s phone chimed softly, and from the chocolatey-sweet smell wafting through Owen’s kitchen, it was spot-on. “I’m not talking about renting space to your competition. That would be dumb,” she agreed, pushing up from her spot at the table to grab the brownies from the oven. “But think of people like Daisy Halstead. She does great business at craft fairs with all of those bath and body products she makes.”

  “She does?” He moved past the island to hand over two perfectly matched blue pot holders.

  “She does,” Cate said. At least, that’s what she’d overheard Daisy tell Emerson last month at Clementine’s, but she had no reason not to believe her. Plus, Daisy had given her some samples of her honeysuckle hand lotion, and the stuff smelled divine. “Daisy’s products have a good crossover audience with yours, and you’re both selling local goods. I don’t have to tell you that goes a long way around here.”

  “As it should,” Owen grumbled, his chin lifting sheepishly a second later. “Sorry. I’m not a fast food, chain store kind of guy.”

  Cate gave up a utilitarian shrug. “Not something you should apologize for, then.” She paused to open the oven, and, ahhhh, yes. The brownies were just starting to pull away from the edges of the pan. “Anyway, renting a little bit of space in your storefront to a vendor like Daisy seems smart. She gets added exposure for her products, and you widen your market without cannibalizing your sales. It’s a win-win.”

  “Smart? It’s more like brilliant. And not something I would have thought of on my own.”

  “It’s just one idea,” Cate said by way of argument. “I’m sure you’ll come up with a ton of them to make the storefront successful.”

  For a heartbeat, Owen seemed primed to argue. But then his eyes dropped to the baking dish between her hands, and, God, that sexy little half-smile of his was going to either end her or make her hurl herself at him, right here in his beautiful gourmet kitchen. “Those smell unbelievable.”

  “Thanks,” she said, grabbing a toothpick from her grocery bag to test the center, just in case. “I’ve tried bunches of different recipes over the years—peanut butter brownies, cheesecake brownies, you name it. I always co
me back to this one, though.”

  “You can’t go wrong with a classic.”

  They filled the next ten minutes or so getting the last-minute parts of the meal prepared and on the table. The chicken Owen pulled from the oven smelled hearty and mouth-wateringly good—far better than anything Cate would have ever had the wherewithal to pull together at home. He added some touches to the rice while she set the table, and by the time they settled in to eat, her stomach was growling with uncharacteristic intensity.

  “This looks really great. Thank you,” she said, serving herself and passing dishes back and forth with Owen until their plates were full. They ate for a few minutes in silence, although the quiet was far from uncomfortable. The meal tasted even better than it had smelled, which seemed nearly impossible to her. But the simple ingredients mixed together perfectly, the hearty chicken and the freshness of the asparagus combining with the simplicity of the herbs and rice to create a comfort food feel that was satisfying without being overbearing or heavy, and the more she ate, the lighter she felt.

  “So, I have to ask,” Cate said between bites, giving in to a question that had been dancing through her mind for the last two days. “What made you go out and get all liquored up on Saturday night?” At his semi-panicked expression, she quickly added, “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It was amusing as hell. But not really your speed, is all. You’re usually kind of serious.”

  Owen’s fork hovered over his asparagus for a full five seconds before he said, “I got drunk because Hunter asked me to be his best man.”

  Hello, bombshell. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Cate finally answered, once her shock let her.

  “No.” Owen shook his head and resumed eating, although a bit more slowly than before. “I mean, I’m really happy for him, and he’s really happy with Emerson.”

  “They really are a great couple,” she agreed.

  “I know. I guess it’s just…stupid.” He let go of a soft laugh and shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Oh, come on,” she urged. “We have an honesty policy, remember? Consider this your cone of silence.” She spun her finger to draw an invisible circle between them two of them. “Spill it.”

  “You’re a pit bull, you know that? Fine”—he held up a hand before she could launch another argument—“it’s just that Hunter and Emerson are getting married. Eli’s got Scarlett. Even Lane has managed to find someone to date. So, I suppose I’m a little jealous.”

  Of all the things he could have said, Cate had expected that the least. “You want a serious girlfriend?” Her stomach dropped, roller coaster-style, her appetite suddenly gone.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I don’t want to be with someone just for the sake of it,” he qualified. “But my brothers are both really happy. I’m thirty-three, and I don’t want to be alone forever. So, yeah. I guess in a way, part of me does want to find a serious girlfriend. Which probably sounds crazy, I know,” he added sheepishly after a few seconds.

  “No.” Cate managed—barely—to get the word past her lips. Of course, he wanted a girlfriend, someone to eventually marry and have a bunch of kids with. His family was one of the tightest in Millhaven, maybe even all of King County, for Chrissake, and the farm was his legacy. His family-run legacy.

  And she was an idiot.

  “It doesn’t sound crazy at all,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “In fact, it sounds perfect for you.”

  Cate looked around his sunlit kitchen, with its fancy bells and whistles and more than enough space to accommodate the family he almost certainly wanted sooner rather than later. She thought of her own space, with its shadows and dinginess and the trivet she couldn’t even bring herself to look at, much less use ever again, and, God, how had she let her impulses make her so naive?

  A man like Owen Cross wasn’t for her. Not casually. Not seriously. Not ever. She needed to keep him at arm’s length, for his sake and for hers.

  Starting right now.

  14

  Owen had fucked up monumentally. Not that he knew how or why or precisely when—but at some point between the dinner at his house and the nearly two days that had followed, Cate had gone the all-business route on him. Despite their great start the other night, she hadn’t even stayed for dessert, claiming to be stuffed after having picked through most of her meal. She’d been polite enough, thanking him for dinner and ducking out with a lukewarm smile and a wave. While Owen had tried not to overshoot in the expectations department, he had to admit, he’d been hoping for a repeat of Sunday morning’s slow and sexy goodbye kiss. But not only had Cate all but dashed out of his place as soon as they’d finished eating (fine. He’d eaten. She’d pushed her food around her plate), but she’d mastered the art of holding up her end of all their conversations since then with as few cordial yet boring words as possible, including the quick “have a nice night” and corresponding “you, too” they’d exchanged ten minutes ago.

  Bracing his hands over the kitchen counter in the main house, he dropped his chin to his chest. Cate might have been distant, but he knew her far better than to think she’d keep it to herself if he’d pissed her off outright. As much as Owen hated it, that probably meant one thing, and one thing only.

  For whatever reason, she wasn’t interested.

  “Wow. And here I thought you couldn’t get any more serious.”

  Owen’s head whipped up at the sound of Marley’s voice coming in from the entryway to the kitchen. “I’m not that serious,” he said by default. But the argument rang hollow in his ears, and Marley’s expression was proof she wasn’t buying it, either.

  “Okay.” Her tone slathered the word with a double-coat of sarcasm as she moved toward the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Instead of hightailing her way back upstairs like she usually did, though, she lingered, her stare flickering over the last piece of pound cake sitting wrapped up beside the coffee pot.

  “Is that pound cake?” Marley asked, and Owen nodded.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Her chin hiked in a stubborn lift. “Cate said if I wanted some, I should tell you guys to save me a piece, so I thought…it would be okay to try some.”

  “You’ve talked to Cate?” Owen asked, utterly stunned.

  Marley snorted, although more softly than usual. “Uh, yeah. She’s in the house pretty much every day.”

  “Oh. Right.” He shook his head, although more at himself than anything else. Of course, it figured they’d have crossed paths a few times. “She just didn’t mention having met you.”

  “Huh.” Marley’s lips parted in surprise, but only for a second before her mouth pressed right back into its perma-frown. “So, what’d you do to make her mad?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Owen asked, his heart clapping against his rib cage.

  Marley made a sound that was half snort, half laughter. “God, you’re so polite. I was just asking what you did to Cate. I mean”—she moved around him to pick up the pound cake, unwrapping it for a tiny bite—“Hunter’s too nice to piss anyone off, and you work with her way more than anyone else, so I figured it was you.”

  “I didn’t do anything to piss her off,” Owen said, his brain scrambling to process exactly how observant Marley had been. “Why, did she, ah, say something to you about it?”

  Marley took a bigger bite of pound cake and shook her head. “She didn’t have to,” she said after a few seconds of chew and swallow. “But she only bakes the really hard stuff when she’s got her panties in a twist, and those macarons she brought in yesterday? Let’s just say they’re one of the top ten hardest desserts to make.”

  Owen plucked the first question from the pile of them growing in his head and sent it down the chain of command to his mouth. “How do you know that?”

  “Duh. I Googled it.”

  “No,” he said, quietly so he wouldn’t scream in frustration. “I meant, how do you know she only bakes the really hard stuff when she’s…” Do not talk about Cate’s panties. Serious
ly, dude. Don’t do it. “Upset?”

  Marley paused, only for a heartbeat or two, but it was enough. “Lucky guess.”

  The silence drew out between them, growing heavier by the second. Owen sucked at this sort of thing—truly, Hunter, or even their father, who Marley avoided like every strain of the plague, would know what to say here. But this was the longest conversation he and his sister had ever shared, and, frankly, Owen was pretty fucking desperate for advice.

  So he said, “Cate’s not shy about letting people know when she’s mad, so I don’t think I pissed her off.” He looked at the counter, where the giant plastic container full of brightly colored macarons sat, and, yeah, Marley didn’t seem to be wrong about Cate’s baking jags. “But she does seem a little, ah, distant lately, and I’m not sure why.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “What?”

  Marley sent her gaze skyward and shook her head. “It’s not advanced algebra, Owen. If you think there’s something bothering her, just ask her what it is.”

  Owen turned to lean against the counter beside him, parceling through the thought. “Okay, but what if she doesn’t tell me?”

  “Then she doesn’t want to tell you. But you’re not going to know unless you ask.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but quickly found he couldn’t. He and Cate had agreed to be honest with one another. As tight-lipped as she’d been for the last two days, she hadn’t broken that agreement.

  And as much as it was going to crush his comfort zone, if he wanted to know what was going on with her, he was going to have to find the words to ask.

  Owen realized Marley was still looking at him with that shrewd, sharp-edged stare of hers, and he straightened as tall as his six-foot-one frame would allow.

  “Are you going to eat that for dinner?” he asked, gesturing to the now half-gone piece of pound cake in her hand.