He shrugged, undeterred. “Something tells me you’re good for it. Plus, you’re welcome to use my kitchen if the double oven will help, and if you need to take a shift off at The Bar, I’ll compensate you for lost wages.”
“What about the space?” Cate asked, crossing her arms over the front of her pale yellow top.
“What about it?”
This was a full-on negotiation now, so hell if she was going to pull any punches. “Cross Creek has one of the biggest tents at the farmers’ market. I’m sure King County charges you a fortune for it, and I doubt I can afford a portion of the rent.”
“Consider the space part of the trial run. We’re already renting it anyway so it’s not an added expense, and your baked goods are an added draw, which is a win for the farm. We can shuffle things and rotate stock to make room for both Cross Creek’s inventory and yours. If you feel that strongly about it, you can work the market with me and my father to offset the day’s rental costs.”
Oh, well played. Of course, he just had to appeal to her Kevlar-reinforced sensible side. “So, hypothetically, I bake a bunch of stuff and work the farmers’ market with you. Then what?”
“Then you sell out of said stuff and realize how much money there is to be made by partnering up with Cross Creek on a more permanent basis once the storefront opens.” Owen pointed to the notes she still held between her fingers in a nonverbal may I? and Cate unwrapped her arms from her chest to reluctantly hand them over.
“This is the buy-in for rental space in the storefront,” he said, flipping to the third page in the pile and tapping a section with one finger. “Along with projected sales and profit margins. Obviously, none of it is a guarantee. But…”
Cate scanned the figures on the page, her jaw unhinging as they fell into order in her head. “Holy shit. If this works, you could make a killer profit.”
“When this works, we are going to make a killer profit.”
Lowering his notes to the desk, Owen took a pair of steps toward her, until only a few feet remained between them, and Cate’s breath tightened in her lungs.
“Look, I’m really good at what I do, but I can’t make this idea work without vendors,” he said, lowering his chin to lock their gazes together. “Great ones. And you’re at the top of that list for a reason—my father and Hunter and I agreed you’re a perfect fit. All I’m asking is that you give this an honest shot. If it doesn’t work, we can drop it. But if it does, you’ll be able to pay your debts off a hell of a lot faster than working at Clementine’s and The Bar, plus, you’ll be doing something you love.”
Oh, my God, he had to stop hitting her in her soft spot. “Since when are you so pragmatic?”
“Since I learned from the best.”
“Oh, now you’re just flirting with me,” she grumbled, and he reduced the space between them to only a few scant inches.
“No, I’m not. When we’re at work, we work, remember?”
Cate’s chin snapped up. “I didn’t mean I think you’re flirting with me to get me to say yes.” Stupid, stupid sarcasm!
Owen laughed, and the sound sent a bolt of heat through her that felt far more like hope than it should. “I know. What I meant was, I’m not bullshitting you. You’re really, really good at what you do, Cate.” He tilted his head to look at her. “Look, you said most people have to be dragged out of their comfort zones, kicking and screaming, right? All I’m doing is grabbing you by the boot heels and tugging a little. So, what do you say? Will you at least give it a try?”
Time passed for the span of a breath, then two, then a third before she finally let go of a long exhale. “Low blow, using my own logic against me like that.”
“Yeah, I know.” God, he even made looking genuinely sheepish sexy. “Did it work?”
Don’t do this. You cannot do this. Don’t…
“Yes, Casanova. It worked. But be careful what you wish for.” Cate waited just a beat before fixing him with a smile as sweet and thick as buttercream frosting.
“If you think I turned your office into a tornado a couple of weeks ago, that’s nothing compared to what I’m about to do to your kitchen.
Excitement pumped through Owen’s veins despite the subhuman hour. Even though he’d been able to sleep in (somewhat—he was, after all, a farmer) on Saturdays for the last four and a half months while the farmers’ market in Camden Valley was on hiatus, opening weekend always filled him with the sort of electric buzz usually reserved for kids on Christmas morning. This year held a little extra kick because of the deal he’d struck with Cate.
Owen’s pulse flared, and he placed a hand on the cool granite countertop in front of him to ground himself. Cate hadn’t been kidding about unleashing hell in his kitchen. Over the past day and a half, he’d helped her scrub flour, sugar, and, in one unfortunate instance, molasses, from places in his house he hadn’t even known he had. To be fair, she had also taken her end of their agreement as serious as grand jury testimony. She’d baked dozens of loaves of quick breads, scones, biscuits, and cookies, packaging everything up in cellophane with red and white ribbons that matched the colors in Cross Creek’s logo. She’d even gone so far as to print specially designed labels on red and white stickers for each item, along with a complete list of ingredients in case anyone had food allergies. By the time they’d loaded everything up in crates and put it all in his truck at ten thirty last night, she’d grudgingly admitted there was a tiny chance this might not be a total failure.
Please, God, don’t let it be a total failure.
Owen poured half a pot of black coffee into the Thermos on the counter and dismissed the possibility. He’d meant what he said the other day in the office—she was an unbelievable baker, even if she was far too stubborn to admit it.
In fact, Cate was a lot of things he’d never realized. Over the past two nights, Owen had discovered her weakness for Hawaiian pizza (“Come on! Ham and pineapple on a pizza. It’s like a full-time luau for your mouth!”), her freakish ability to name a song after only hearing the first five seconds (“Seriously. How can you not tell that’s Thomas Rhett?”), and her secret love for Wonder Woman (“Between the lasso, the killer boots, and that invisible jet, who wouldn’t want to be that chick?”). Aside from some veiled flirting, they’d stuck to business—she took the whole work-when-we’re-at-work thing as seriously as he did, much to his dick’s chagrin. But Cate was the first woman he’d enjoyed spending time with in conservatively a dog’s age. He might’ve suffered through a couple of very cold showers after she’d gone home both nights, but he’d also given her the reins.
Which meant he’d let her set the pace, no matter how badly he wanted to strip her naked and put his mouth on every place that would make her sigh and shake and scream.
A crisp knock on his front door ripped Owen out of his dirty thoughts not a second too soon. Adjusting his jeans to make sure his appearance was one hundred percent socially acceptable, he forced himself to think of cow manure and tractor sludge, which—thank fuck—did the trick by the time he reached his destination.
“Good morning,” Cate said, looking way cuter than anyone in a hoodie, jeans, and cross-trainers ever should. She’d corralled her curls into two loose braids that framed her pretty face, and Christ, he was never going to lose this hard-on now. “It’s six. Are you ready to go?”
“Absolutely.” He cleared his throat, then did it again just for kicks and grins. “Just let me grab my coffee and my keys and we can head out.”
He put his words into action, and, a few minutes later, they were side by side in his F-250. They sat together in quiet for a few minutes as he drove, which was neither unusual nor uncomfortable. Except for the fact that it allowed Owen to focus on the smell of Cate’s shampoo, which she must have used very recently, because the herbal scent, deep and woodsy, yet with a hint of sweetness like rosemary, filled his truck, then his nose, and, okay, he needed to find something to talk about before he pulled over and laid ruin to the whole work-while-we’r
e-at-work thing.
“You really didn’t have to get up this early,” Owen said, because it was the first thing he could think of that was both appropriate and true. “Meeting us when the market opens at eight would’ve been just fine.”
Cate shook her head, which did nothing to lessen the unnervingly sexy scent in the cab of his truck. “Nope. I said I’d work the market with you and your father, and that means all of it.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, trying to offset his unintentional gruffness by explaining, “the setup is mostly manual labor. Putting the tents together and unloading the crates and managing inventory. Stuff like that.” He and Hunter and their father had loaded nearly everything, save the few really perishable items like the heirloom tomatoes and asparagus and the more fragile greens, into their box truck yesterday evening before he’d left to go help Cate in his kitchen.
She dipped her chin in a nod. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“You might want to reserve judgment until after we start setting up,” Owen said as playfully as his personality would allow—which, admittedly, wasn’t much. But, of course, Cate didn’t budge.
“Owen, I tackled your books on little more than a wing and a please-Jesus. When have you known me to shy away from hard work?”
She buried her smile in her travel mug, and, okay, she kind of had him there. “Fair enough.”
Cate looked out the passenger side window even though the sun had barely started pinking the horizon and there wasn’t much of anything to see. “Anyway, it’ll keep my mind off what I’m going to do with all these baked goods if nobody buys them.”
“Why do you do that?” Owen asked, loosening the question before he didn’t. At least she was too smart to go the “do what?” route, letting out a slow exhale instead.
“I know it probably doesn’t make much sense to you, but this”—she gestured to the crates and bins stacked along the bench seat of his truck, all of which held some form of home-baked goodness—“is hard for me.”
His heart tripped behind his breastbone. “Do you want to help me understand why?”
“Not really,” she said, and damn, Owen should’ve known she’d go for no holds barred honesty. “But that has a lot more to do with me than you.”
“Okay.”
The soft sound of her surprise echoed through the shadows between them. “Okay?”
He had no choice but to laugh. “Yeah, okay. What, did you think I was going to put the screws to you until you caved in and told me?”
“No.” She laughed, too, and it broke the last of the tension in her voice. “Not exactly. It’s just that I needle you about being straight-up with me all the time. I guess I just thought you might pull the turnabout card.”
Owen knew he could’ve done exactly that, that he could do it still. There was no denying he wanted to get past her tough exterior, to get to know the parts of her that lay beneath. But instead, he said, “Just because we have an honesty policy doesn’t mean we’re always going to want to use it. If you change your mind, you’ll let me know.”
“Thanks,” Cate said. She reached out to brush her fingers over the knuckles of his right hand, which sat on the console between them. The touch was slight, but Christ, at the same time, it felt like everything.
He tilted his hand to return the gesture, and damn, he felt the touch of her impossibly soft fingers everywhere.
“You’re welcome.”
16
The excitement of opening day lasted for exactly twenty seconds before the prospect of ball-busting labor kicked Owen in the ass, good and hard. He’d pulled into the pavilion and parked next to his old man, who had driven the box truck into Camden Valley from the farm. They’d gotten smart at the end of last season and hired extra hands to help unload and set up, but things were still hectic with all that needed to be done in such a limited amount of time.
Ah, he still loved every fucking second of it. “Hey, Pop,” Owen said, adjusting his Cross Creek baseball hat against the early morning chill as he approached their usual setup spot. “I see you’re not wasting any time this morning.” A pang of guilt expanded in his belly as he realized his father had already unloaded their bright red canvas tent and all the hardware that accompanied the thing.
“Don’t see much sense in that,” his father said. His gaze traveled over Owen’s shoulder, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “And I see you brought help.”
The back of Owen’s neck prickled with unusual heat, making his mouth default to his standard-issue gruffness. “She insisted.”
“Owen,” his father quietly warned, but Cate surprised them both with a laugh.
“Oh, it’s okay, Mr. Cross. I’m used to Owen’s charming personality. Anyway, he’s not wrong. I did insist.”
“I see.” His father’s tone suggested that he saw all too well, and Owen jammed his hands into the pockets of his canvas jacket, wishing for the conversation to endure a quick death.
“Well, in that case, we’re right glad to have you, Cate.” His father tipped the brim of his caramel-colored Stetson at her, showing off the source of Eli’s charm and Hunter’s even keel. If Cate still felt any unease at the prospect of the day ahead she didn’t show it, giving up a smile and bending down to scratch the family mutt, Lucy, between the ears.
“It’s the least I can do. I really appreciate you and Owen giving me a chance to come out and sell some of my baked goods at your tent today.”
“Ah, something tells me it’ll be a walk in the park for you, darlin’. That pound cake you made the other day was delicious. As good as Rosemary’s, if I do say so.”
Family and farm.
The casual mention of his mother, and the unexpected whisper of his memory, sent a whipcord of pain between Owen’s ribs, the old wound aching as if it was freshly made.
They were about to officially kick off the season, potentially the best one they’d ever had. He should be focused. Working. Not standing around feeling things he couldn’t control.
“We’ve got a lot to get done before the gates open at eight,” he said, turning toward the box truck in an abrupt pivot. “I’m going to get started on the tent before we lose too much time.”
“Oh.” Cate blinked, and damn it, he was such an ass. “Right. I don’t want to get in the way, so I’ll just unload the crates from your truck and keep them over here until you’ve got the tent ready to go. Then I can set up while you unload the produce, if that works?”
“Sounds good.”
With a clipped nod and a deep breath, Owen took advantage of the litany of tasks in front of him, keeping both his brain and his body busy as he ticked items off his mental list, one by one. He felt his father’s eyes on him a little more sharply than usual, but thankfully, his old man didn’t give the sideways glances voice. They spent the next hour getting everything ready to go from tent to tables, and, finally, the unease that had knotted both his muscles and his mind dissipated enough to allow a twinge of excitement back in.
“Hey,” Cate said as he approached the area where she’d set up a rectangular folding table covered in a cheery gingham tablecloth and arranged all of her baked goods in a pretty yet straightforward display. “I think I’m all set up here. I’ve got a complete list of my inventory so I can keep track of sales as they’re made. This is everything I could fit on the table, with all the extras in the bins underneath.” She gestured to a sturdy plastic plate in front of her, filled with bite-sized versions of chocolate chip, sugar, and—ah, his weakness—oatmeal raisin cookies. “I made some smaller treats for people to sample. It seemed to work pretty well when Clementine did it at the diner, so…”
Owen nodded. God, she’d thought of everything. “That’s a great idea. We do it sometimes, too, when things that are easy to eat out of hand are in season.” Cracking open one watermelon to sell fifteen? So worth it.
“Oh. Good.”
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans, scraping the toe of one cross-trainer over the aspha
lt and biting her bottom lip just slightly as a weighty silence settled between them, and Owen’s chin lifted a degree in surprise.
Holy shit. Headstrong Cate, with all her mettle and moxie and fire that lit him up like fireworks on the Fourth of July, was nervous.
He opened his mouth—to say what, he had no fucking clue—but his stomach sounded off in a low, rumbling growl that made body betrayal a very real thing.
A soft pop of laughter crossed Cate’s lips. “Did you eat breakfast?”
Thoroughly busted, Owen admitted, “No. Truth be told, I get pretty excited for opening day. I must have forgotten.”
“Hmmm.” Reaching down low for one of the crates beneath the table, she unearthed a plastic storage container full of scones. “Savory or sweet?”
“Let’s try savory,” he said, his mouth involuntarily watering at the sight of the hearty golden triangle of dough she plucked out of the container and passed in his direction. His taste buds went for a full-on riot a second later as he took a bite.
“Damn.” Another bite followed the first, his brain trying to process the perfectly balanced flavors and textures amid all the primal noises that wanted to shamelessly vault out of his mouth. “Did you put crack in these?”
“Close. Bacon,” Cate said with a wry grin. “It went great with the chives from the greenhouse, so I couldn’t resist. I made a batch of cheddar and rosemary, too.”
Owen’s mind spun, when his taste buds finally let go of it. “We should get these scones front and center by the herbs, in case folks want to grab some to eat for breakfast.”
Cate’s brows lifted. “Do you really think that’ll happen?”
He polished off the rest of his scone in two bites flat. Holy hell, they were a flawless trifecta of dense, buttery, robust flavor. “I really think people would be crazy not to.”
He grabbed two packages of scones while Cate did the same, and they walked the handful of paces beneath the tent to strategically place them near the wide, side-lying baskets overflowing with chives, rosemary, basil, and other assorted herbs he’d cut from the supply in the greenhouse yesterday afternoon. Across the triple-wide canopy tent, his father was deep in conversation with Lucas Clifton, who they’d hired as an extra hand for the season, but as far as setup went, they actually looked pretty good to go with about ten minutes to spare.
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