Emma didn’t cook. She’d been taught that a woman only cooked out of necessity or to keep a man. And since her mother believed Emma could always manage the latter—and a woman with a man wouldn’t go hungry—there was no reason to waste time on such a mundane activity.

It had been a long time since she trusted her mother’s advice. Even so, learning to cook hadn’t made it onto her to-do list. Unless her team wanted Pillsbury sugar cookies from a tube, she wasn’t going to be much help in the kitchen.

Fortunately, the Wolves had a secret weapon. “Three-time 4-H baking contest winner,” announced Marie, her brown eyes shining with anticipation of their upcoming victory. “I’ve got this, unless someone else wants to take lead? All right then.” She started doling out assignments to sift flour, separate eggs, and whip butter. Emma watched helplessly as her group leapt into action, their movements determined and certain.

“I can wash dishes,” she offered. It wasn’t like her manicure was going to survive the week anyway.

Holly overheard. “Don’t even think about it. Didn’t you say you were a marketing genius? Prove it. If you can sell a lipstick to women who already have ten favorite colors, you can sell some cookies to a bunch of ad execs. You’re in charge of getting them to our booth and keeping them there.”

Danielle passed by with a stack of cookie trays. “If you go with the bikini-car-wash style of promotion, I’m out of here.”

“Bikinis will be optional.” Emma smiled, her mind churning. “Marketing’s all well and good, but it starts with the product. Shiny and new may get us one token, but we want all three. What do you have planned for us, Marie?”

“The best chocolate chip cookies in three counties.”

“Sounds great.” She took a moment to mentally test her next words. This would require some diplomacy. “Do you need the full three hours for that?”

Marie eyed her warily. “Noooo…but it’s easier to manage this many people with one recipe.”

“Is it possible to have three different kinds? If people want to try each kind, they’ll need to spend all their tokens at our booth. Plus, it will make the table more visually appealing.”

“You want three kinds of delicious and visually appealing cookies. Not asking too much, are you?”

Emma had apologetic but hopeful queued up. Marie snorted at her, and Emma dropped the facade. “Come on. Make the 4-H proud.”

Marie chewed her lip, thinking. She glanced at the clock, then at her busy workers. “How about frosted sugar cookies and macarons?”

“Do you want me to declare my love for you right here? Because I will.”

Marie laughed, and Emma quietly exhaled, glad that she hadn’t accidentally pissed off the baker. Plus, now she had a more interesting product to promote.

Emma crept away to begin her own preparations.

Two and a half hours later, she stood in front of the Grub Shack, putting the finishing touches on their display. Both teams were given a long, narrow folding table, but all decorations were up to them.

Emma had spent the afternoon quietly ransacking the kitchen’s storage units. The robin’s-egg-blue tablecloths from Ruby’s wedding were in a pile to be cleaned, so Emma convinced housekeeping to let her borrow one of the washing machines. On a high shelf, she found several dinner plates that looked like leftovers from various sets. She grabbed three matching ones in a bright persimmon red. The way they popped against the blue was gorgeous, especially when she stole vases of blooming peach-colored roses from the dining room to decorate each corner of the table. If she had her camera, there’d already be a photo on Instagram with the hashtag #sogonnawin.

She eyed the guys setting up their table. So far, they’d managed to unfold the legs and spend ten minutes arguing over the best way to make it level on the grass in front of the Grub Shack. Emma eyed her slightly crooked table. Nothing was sliding off, and that was what mattered.

Max watched his team with his arms crossed over his chest and a long-suffering expression. “It needs to survive a cookie sale, not a nuclear attack. Move on.”

She hadn’t meant to laugh, but something about his amused exasperation had her smiling before she remembered she disliked him. It was a quiet sound, and there was no way he should have heard it, but he still glanced her way. His lips curled, like they were sharing a joke—then he noticed the eye-catching display next to her. He glanced at his team’s bare table, noting the obvious discrepancy between the two, then whispered something to a member of his team. A minute later, the guy returned with a stack of beige tablecloths.

Ten minutes before the sale began, the guys brought out platters of cookies. Emma sidled over to check the competition. They only had one cookie, but she had to admit it looked good. Really good.

“S’mores?” She pointed to the round cookies topped with melted chocolate and marshmallow.

The guy arranging the cookies on the plate glanced up at her and swallowed. “Yeah. Brent said his dad used to make them all the time. Knew the recipe off the top of his head. We thought it would be a good idea to—”

“We don’t talk to spies, Joe.”

Sighing, Emma dropped her casually interested expression and turned to Max with what, you again ready to go. “I didn’t realize the type of cookie people will be eating in a few minutes was a trade secret.”

“Is that why you’re here? Curiosity?”

“What else? Sabotage? Drop a jar of ants on the plate when no one’s looking?”

“You came up with that idea way too fast.”

Emma held her arms a few inches from her body and spun in a slow circle. “You see anywhere I could hide a jar?”

She couldn’t seem to stop herself. Granted, she flirted as easily as she breathed, but Max didn’t deserve her attention. It wasn’t even about Ruby anymore. He might have apologized for his behavior, but she still had no idea why he’d been so harsh. As far as Emma was concerned, Max was an ass—and she didn’t reward asses by giving them great views of her own.

This was the last time. No more flirting. No more poking the bull.

Then she saw his expression. The only way she could describe it was hotter than the goddamn sun.

His gaze raked her. She’d given him permission to study her, and he was taking full advantage. He directed all that heat at her. She felt a flush spreading across her chest and shoulders.

“If you didn’t come over to sabotage us, why are you here, Emma?”

He spoke her name precisely, enunciating each syllable. In his mouth, the middle m’s sounded like a purr.

This was a problem. This was a definite problem.

“Just confirming what I already know.” She glanced at their brown, undecorated table, taking that extra second to quiet her misbehaving thoughts. When she was certain the flush wasn’t spreading to her cheeks, she smiled. “You’re going to lose.”

* * *

They were not going to lose. He’d tasted the s’mores cookies, and they were incredible. Brent’s dad would be getting thank-you cards from several members of the Bears.

Granted, the Wolves’ table reminded him of a sunny day in May, and they were setting up two…no wait, three…different kinds of cookies. Were those pink and green macarons, for God’s sake? Still, that didn’t mean…

Who was he kidding? They were so going to lose.

Emma smiled as she chatted with her team members. He’d seen her that relaxed before when she was talking to Ruby. It was like she was a different person. She was at ease, focused entirely on the moment.

Unexpected regret hit him, that she only seemed to speak to other women that way. No flirting or teasing, no goal beyond a bit of conversation.

They heard it at the same time, the murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps crunching up the path. Her smile sharpened, turning predatory for a second, then relaxed into a more welcoming expression. She released the messy bun she’d been wearing all day, letting her hair fall past her shoulders.

When she shook it out, she looked like a goddamn shampoo commercial. The ploy was so obvious he should have been offended on behalf of his gender—until three middle-aged businessmen at the front of the group headed straight toward her as if magnetized.

Max watched her work. If nothing else, seeing her pull the same tricks on these guys might help him get over this strange fascination.

Nothing about Emma’s actions seemed artificial. She tilted her head, she laughed at their jokes, she gestured at the table and the other women, including them all in her success. It was second nature to her, this charm. When she spoke to each man, she looked directly at him, allowing him to feel, for that moment, that he was the center of her world. Her beauty might have drawn them to her, but that wasn’t what kept them close. They stayed because being in her orbit made them feel a little more special.

There was no sign of the constant bickering that happened whenever he spoke to her. Guess he was special after all.

“This isn’t looking good,” muttered Brent, as two more people headed to the Wolves’ table.

“Think positive,” said Joe. “Eventually there will be so many people at their table they’ll block the view of the cookies.” A man and a woman in matching corporate T-shirts strode into view. “S’mores! S’mores cookies, fresh from the oven!”

They hesitated, then eventually ambled toward the Bears. Max suspected it was a pity stop, but he wouldn’t be picky.

The lodge doors opened behind them and several of the women attending the spa session exited. They practically glowed with post-massage bliss.

Spa week didn’t include juice fasting or vinegar cleanses or whatever diet was trending that month, but in Max’s experience a lot of people used the week to enjoy the benefits of healthier habits. It was a lot easier to follow a virtuous path when someone else was preparing the vegan sweet potato tacos.

But self-control wasn’t going to put tokens on their table. The women showed no signs of stopping as they headed toward their cabins.

“Think of something, boss. Guide us,” Brent pleaded.

Emma was still behind her table, charming the tokens out of every man that stopped.

There was one way to even out the playing field a little. If you can’t beat ’em…

Max pulled his shirt over his head, then tucked it into the back of his shorts.

The women slowed.

It only took Brent a second to understand, then his shirt came flying off. The Olympic kayakers stripped like they’d been waiting for a chance to get naked.

The women stopped dead. “Hello,” one said, speaking to a twin’s nipples.

Brent leaned forward and began his sales pitch. Thirty seconds later, the women were eating two s’mores cookies apiece. They would have earned the third, but a Wolf popped up to offer pink macarons.

“You’re cheating,” he called to Holly.

“Show me in the rulebook where it says we can’t poach customers.”

“What rulebook?”

“Exactly.”

Max pitched a cookie at her head. She ducked it, laughing.

It didn’t matter. Their new sales strategy might help, but Channing Tatum could have been stripping on top of their table and the Wolves would only have lost a handful of customers.

He glanced at their busy table, resigned to their impending defeat. For the first time, Emma wasn’t focused on the people in front of her. She was watching him. Really watching him.

When she realized he’d noticed, she gave a playful wave, as if he were the one who’d been caught staring.

Since the only thing that had changed since their last conversation was the placement of his shirt… Max winked at her. The top of her cheekbones turned a dark pink.

He returned to the work at hand, though a dopey grin threatened to break out at any moment. Because, for the first time since he’d found Emma dancing across the grass, it occurred to him that this unwanted attraction wasn’t entirely one-sided.

Now he just had to figure out what to do about it.