He moved around the island, pulling out one of the bar stools tucked beneath it for Cate to sit on before taking the other one around the opposite side to face her. “Don’t you eat the things you bake?”
“Sometimes I take a small bite, just to be sure nothing went horribly wrong, but no. I don’t usually eat what I bake,” she said, settling in with her coffee.
Owen’s curiosity kicked in good and hard, but he couldn’t resist the smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Horribly wrong. That sounds reassuring.”
“Very funny. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. I’ve made these biscuits a thousand times, and this batch seems okay.”
“All right, then. I’m going in.”
Breaking off a piece of the biscuit in front of him, he reached for the butter Cate had taken out of the refrigerator, applying enough to melt into the flaky layers of dough. He popped the bite into his mouth and reached out to ready another, but the flavors bursting over his taste buds stopped him mid-move.
“Holy…” Manners lost, Owen took a second, bigger bite, torn between wanting to eat as much as possible and slowly enjoying every light and fluffy crumb. The biscuit was both savory and sweet, with the slightest tang from the buttermilk playing perfectly with the heady flavor of the melted butter, and God damn, his pie hole had just beat out Disney World as the happiest place on earth.
“I think you need to examine your definition of ‘okay’,” he managed a few seconds later. “Did you seriously just throw these biscuits together out of regular old ingredients while I slept?”
Cate laughed. “I told you they weren’t bad. Although for the record, good biscuits aren’t really that hard to make.”
The sound he let slip was this close to a snort. “Uh, yeah they are,” he said, reaching for another two from the stack on the plate between them.
“How do you know?” Her tone was loaded with curiosity, but lucky for him, the question was a total no-brainer.
“Because I’ve tried.”
Her lips parted into a pretty, peach-colored O that outlined her shock. “You bake?”
“I cook,” Owen corrected. “I run a farm, so food is kind of my thing, especially the specialty produce like heirloom tomatoes and harder-to-find varieties of some vegetables and herbs. I’m a decent cook, but I don’t really have the hang of baking. My biscuits always turn out like stones.”
“Hmm.” Cate took a long draw from her coffee cup, clearly thinking. “You’re probably overworking the dough, although you might also be going heavy-handed on your flour. You’re not just dunking the measuring cup in the container, are you?”
Shit. “Is there another way to do it?” he asked.
She was off her stool in a flash of dark brown curls and total determination. “Oh, my God, come here. I can’t let another minute go by without you knowing the answer to that question.”
A quick grab of the flour from his pantry and the measuring cup sitting in the drying rack beside his sink told Owen she was dead serious about a tutorial, and, yeah, with a look like the one that was on her face right now? He wasn’t about to say no.
“Baking isn’t like cooking, where there’s more room for error and you can make recipes to taste. If you want to get things right, you’ve got to follow the rules pretty strictly,” Cate said.
“I do use those measuring cups, you know,” he replied drily. “I’m not a total heathen.”
Her expression remained serious, although if he wasn’t mistaken, a flush crept high over her cheeks, and, note to self: sarcasm + Cate = oh, hell yes.
Squaring her shoulders, she pointed to the half-empty bag of flour she’d placed on the counter. “I’ll reserve judgment until after I see how you use them.”
She handed over the measuring cup expectantly. Owen took it by the handle, reaching into the bag to scoop up enough flour to fill the cup to brimming, but Cate stopped him before he could get the thing all the way over the counter.
“Argh, stop! That’s what I was afraid of. Look”—she gestured to the measuring cup in a wordless may I? and he passed it over with a nod—“see how there’s a mound of flour on top, over the measuring line?” She shook the excess back into the bag, and, whoa, how had he never noticed how much extra that could add?
“Yeah,” Owen said. But rather than give him crap, even good-naturedly, Cate turned so he could see exactly what she was doing.
“Flour is easily mis-measured. Scooping from the bag not only gives you that extra crown on top, but it can also cram more flour into the cup than belongs there. Since all-purpose flour also packs a decent amount of gluten, using too much can totally throw your biscuits out of whack.”
Huh. He had to admit, that made sense. “Okay. So how do I measure accurately if using the cup alone won’t do it?”
“Where do you keep your teaspoons?” she asked, and talk about the last thing he expected her to say. It must’ve showed on his face, because she added, “Trust me.”
“You’re the boss.” Owen tucked his fingers beneath the oiled bronze handle on his utensil drawer and gave up a tug. He passed over a spoon, which Cate used to fill the measuring cup with light, heaping scoops of flour. Her movements were wholly natural, as perfectly made for her as her fingerprints, and his heart tripped beneath his T-shirt. Instinct and impulse combined to draw him in closer as she flipped the spoon around, sweeping the handle over the edge of the plastic cup to even out the flour inside.
“See?” She handed over the measuring cup, which was noticeably lighter than when he’d filled it. “Spooning the flour in and leveling it off gives you a more accurate measurement.”
“And that’s your secret, huh?” Owen asked with a grin. The edges of her mouth twitched in a borderline smirk, and damn, he should’ve known her sassy side had been dying to make an appearance.
“That’s how you measure flour. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a sexy smile to get me to give up my secrets.”
In that moment, he realized she hadn’t shifted back when he’d leaned in to watch her work. Only a few scant inches of daylight separated their bodies. Hips. Chests. Shoulders.
Mouths.
His pulse flared. “You think I’m sexy?”
“I do,” Cate murmured, her stare glinting like double-barrel bourbon over ice. “And you know what else I think?”
“What?”
“I think we could try that kiss again. If you want.”
Holy shit, she was full of surprises. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She lifted her chin, so close that Owen could feel the heat of her exhale. “Come here, Casanova. I’m not going to bite you. Not even if you ask me nicely.”
He closed the slice of space between them in one forward press. For a second, their mouths rested together as if getting acquainted, warm and whisper-soft. But then a sound came out of her, low in the back of her throat, and Owen’s belly tightened in demand. He slid his tongue across the seam of her lips, tasting his way past them and into her mouth. Cate met him halfway, her tongue darting out to tease his, to flirt with his teeth, then the curve of his bottom lip.
Christ, her mouth was perfect. Warm. Lush. Brazen, just like the rest of her.
He wanted that mouth everywhere.
Reaching up, Owen cupped the back of her neck with both palms, his fingers hooking up into the thick fall of her curls while his thumbs cradled her face to hold her close. He tasted and took, his cock going hard against the press of their bodies as she did the same right back, and, finally, with one last sweep of her tongue, Cate pulled back.
“You are an adorable drunk, but you’re an even better kisser when you’re sober,” she said with a smile that did nothing to ease his arousal. “I’m glad we cleared the air about last night. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Owen felt her on his mouth for the rest of the day.
12
Cate sat back in her desk chair with a smile on her lips and her chest full of trium
ph. It had taken all of her morning and most of her energy, but she’d tamed the mountain of work on her desk into a molehill. Okay, so it was a moderately large, sort of messy molehill, but she had to admit it. After two weeks of working at Cross Creek, she was feeling pretty damned good about herself.
Right. And being thoroughly kissed by your boss, not once, but twice, has nothing to do with that.
Her chin sprang up, a prickle of heat washing over the back of her neck and up into her hairline. She’d known Owen would wake up thoroughly hung over and just as distressed once he realized he’d fallen asleep on her. Staying to reassure him once he woke up had seemed practical, and a hell of a lot less awkward than having the conversation here at Cross Creek. Of course, she hadn’t counted on their conversation turning to her past, or actually telling him she’d gotten pregnant unintentionally at eighteen.
One reckless night under the stars. One roll of the dice as a teenager, and her life had changed forever.
And now she wasn’t the only person on the planet who knew it.
Cate straightened in her chair, reaching out to gather the purchase orders in front of her with a brisk snap. Okay, so she’d gone a little more personal with Owen than she’d intended, but her past was still just that. Her past. Obviously, otherwise she wouldn’t have kissed him.
Damn, she’d felt that kiss in her toes. And way down deep in her belly.
And a couple of other places that had been far too neglected lately.
She pushed back from her desk and pushed the thought from her mind. Owen was sexy as hell, and, no, she didn’t regret having kissed him (fine. Twice). But he hardly struck her as a one-night stand kind of guy, and since she was a no strings attached kind of girl, it was probably for the best if that kiss of theirs remained a one and done.
Making him a pound cake really quick might not hurt, though, just to be sure he knew there were no hard feelings. She’d seen both Hunter and Mr. Cross this morning, and they’d encouraged her to make use of the oven any time she wanted. She could replace the ingredients with ones from her own kitchen tomorrow—even when she left the fruits of her labor behind for them to enjoy, it still didn’t feel right to raid their pantry. Plus, she had her whole lunch break in front of her, and that ho-hum package of instant noodles she’d brought from home would take less than five minutes of it.
Thank God.
Mind made up, Cate turned toward the door, her sights set on the Cross’s kitchen. Her heart tapped out a giddy little rhythm at the idea of losing herself in baking. Pound cake could be finicky sometimes, but she prided herself on adding the ingredients in just the right fashion to make the end result both moist and dense.
After heading to the sink for a date with the soap and water, she slid two sticks of butter from the refrigerator with a smile. She preheated the oven, which was a beautiful, sturdy model twice the size and a third of the age of the one in her tiny little kitchen. Cate started by gathering the necessary utensils—hello, hand mixer—and placing them on the counter before rummaging for the rest of her ingredients. Eggs and milk joined the flour, sugar, and vanilla extract she’d been lucky enough to score from the cupboard that held all the spices, although she preferred almond extract in a pound cake for that extra level of flavor.
“Ah, next time,” she said, her heart climbing rapidly into her throat at the sound of a sardonic laugh over her shoulder.
“Next time, what?”
“Oh!” Cate whipped around, the measuring cup that had been in her grasp falling to the ceramic floor tiles with a clatter. The sight of Marley, this time in a black muscle T-shirt and a pair of leggings dotted with brightly colored sugar skulls, registered a second later. “You scared the shit out of me,” Cate said.
The words flew out like an accusation, burning her cheeks upon their exit, but Marley’s lips just quirked slightly.
“I was just trying to get to the coffeepot.” Her piercing, almost navy blue eyes traveled to the appliance in question, which stood a few feet from where Cate had set up shop. “I wasn’t being sneaky or anything. You seemed kind of lost in your own world.”
“A little bit,” Cate admitted, because why the hell not? It was true. “I get kind of focused once I get a task in front of me.”
Marley tilted her head at the ingredients Cate had lined up neatly on the counter, eyeing the mixing bowl and Bundt pan as she moved to grab and fill a coffee mug. “You made that cake thingy we had in the house last week, right? With the strawberries in it?”
“Guilty as charged.” Cate reached to pick up the measuring cup, bringing it to the sink for a quick wash. She didn’t want to be rude, but the clock was ticking on her lunch break, and she couldn’t risk rushing through this pound cake and having it come out wonky.
Not that Marley seemed to notice, let alone mind. “It was good.” She capped the words with a quick shrug. “I mean, at least that’s what I heard. Owen and Hunter and Tobias kind of hogged it.”
God, the don’t touch was strong with this one. Not many people called their own father by his first name. No one Cate had ever met, anyway. “I’m sure if you’d said you wanted some, they’d have saved you a few slices,” Cate said. She filled the ensuing silence by popping the butter into the microwave for a few seconds to get it soft, testing out both sticks with a press of her thumb before returning to the counter to unwrap them and place them in the bowl.
“Whatever.” One slender shoulder rose and fell. “I don’t really eat here if I can help it.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m about to make something even better than that quick bread.”
Cate wasn’t trying to wheedle the woman into talking; if anyone respected the whole close-to-the-vest thing, it was definitely her. But with a tight-knit family like the Crosses, she’d bet even money Marley’s indifference wasn’t winning her any fans or favors, just like she’d bet all that bravado was little more than a cover.
“Yeah. I’m just here for the coffee, thanks,” Marley said, lifting her mug. Her tone had lost its sharper edge, though, and she didn’t make a move to leave, and, oh, screw it. Cate had never been one for social graces, anyway.
“I heard your mother passed away recently,” she said, fitting the beaters into the hand mixer with a soft snick. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Marley’s shoulders snapped to attention around her neck, her lips flattening into a thin, pale line. “What do you know about loss?”
Cate paused. But the truth wasn’t anything the woman couldn’t find out from her brothers or anyone else in town—hell, the story followed Cate like a thick, dark storm cloud, always looming—so she said, “A lot, actually. My husband and daughter were killed in a car accident three years ago.”
“Oh.” Marley’s eyes went saucer-wide. Cate used the opportunity to cream the butter and sugar together, the whir of the hand mixer smoothing over what was sure to be an otherwise awkward silence.
“That sucks,” Marley said quietly when Cate finished with the mixer a few minutes later. “I mean”—she dipped her chin in a soft nod—“it’s really sad.”
Cate took a long inhale, gripping the edge of the mixing bowl with one hand and the mixer with the other.
“It is sad,” she agreed, because it was also the truth. Fact. Irrefutable. “But sometimes, it’s how you feel. Mad, too. I felt a lot of both, especially in that first year.”
“And people didn’t, you know, give you crap for being mad a lot of the time?”
Now it was Cate’s turn to shrug. “I kept a lot of it to myself. I didn’t really have many people to talk to.”
“Not even your own mom?” Marley asked, and hell. Cate had been honest up until now. Changing course seemed kind of stupid at this point.
“I’ve never been really close with my parents. They retired and moved to Florida when my daughter was two. They came back to Millhaven for a while after the accident.” Those days full of forced conversations and heavy, awkward silence had been some of Cate’s worst. “
But to answer your question, no. I didn’t have anyone to talk to who really understood what I was feeling.”
A sound left Marley’s lips, too joyless to be called a laugh, although that was probably its intent. “Yeah. I get that.”
More quiet stretched through the sun-filled kitchen. Cate waited Marley out, cracking eggs into the bowl and mixing them in one at a time, then measuring the flour and salt into one bowl and just the right amount of milk into another. “Anyway, I know it’s not exactly the same kind of loss, but if you ever feel like you want to talk, I’m a pretty good listener.”
“I don’t,” Marley said, swift and certain. “So, what are you making?”
A subject change Cate would take any day of the week and twice on Sundays, especially since baking was pretty much her version of going to church. “Oh, this? It’s pound cake. Or, I guess, it will be.”
“It smells pretty decent.” Marley’s stare flicked down to the pale yellow batter in the mixing bowl, and Cate had to laugh.
“Anything with this much butter and sugar usually does.”
For one bright instant, she burned to ask Marley if she wanted to help. But she’d already been prickly about Cate’s offer to talk, and anyway, the younger woman wasn’t actively trying to run off like the last time she’d seen her. No sense in giving her a reason to ghost.
“This recipe is one of my favorites, actually,” Cate said instead.
“Because of the butter and sugar?”
“That, too. But the truth is, I like it because it’s kind of a pain.”
From the look on her face, Marley’s laugh surprised them both. “You like it because it’s a pain.”
She peered at Cate from beneath the dark swoop of her bangs, but Cate only nodded. “Mmm hmm.”
“I don’t get it.”
Her pulse accelerated. The calm she always got from baking was spiked on occasion by a shot of proud satisfaction, like the first time she’d gotten the flaky layers and filling of those pain in the ass éclairs just right, or when she’d baked the perfect chocolate lava cake even better than the Pinterest photos. Like all the hard work paid off in the end.
Crossing Promises (Cross Creek Book 3) Page 11