Cate stood on Owen’s magazine-worthy porch with a grocery bag in each hand and her chest full of butterflies. She’d been perfectly calm until now, using twenty-eight of the thirty minutes before they’d agreed to meet on a quick trip to The Corner Market and a pit-stop at her house to pack up what she needed and quickly change her clothes. She’d had a plan, with objectives, none of which had included thinking of Owen in the shower. But now she had two whole minutes to kill. One hundred and twenty seconds to let her mind wander to whether his long, black eyelashes would spike together with drops of water clinging to them, or how his hands might look roaming over the ridged muscles of his chest and abs as he lathered and rinsed.

“God! Down, girl,” she whispered, shuffling the bags to jab the button for the doorbell with one finger. Yes, Owen was sexy as hell, and, yes, they’d traded a pair of very hot kisses. But at the end of the day, a man like that, so serious and family-driven, wasn’t meant for her. Plus, he was her boss. They might work well together, but she still had to see him every day. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t just sleep with him, and she damn sure couldn’t do something insane like date him. She had to dial it back and keep this dinner platonic, no matter how good it had felt to flirt with him a little while ago.

The door swung open, and sweet baby Jesus, why did this man have to make her work so hard for her composure?

“Hey. You made it,” Owen said. He’d traded his work clothes for a pair of fresh but faded jeans and a navy blue button-down shirt that Cate would swear was made specifically to complement the steel-gray of his eyes. He’d rolled up his sleeves just high enough to showcase his corded forearms, completing the casual look with a blue and white checked dish towel slung over the broad line of one shoulder. His dark brown hair curled over his ears and his forehead, damp from the shower and perfectly imperfect, and she had to swallow twice before rummaging up a smile and a suitable reply.

“It’s easier to navigate during daylight hours,” she said. The truth grounded her, turning her smile more genuine. It was only dinner, for cripes’ sake. No reason not to enjoy it. “Plus, I figured if I really got turned around, I could just call.”

Owen stepped back to usher her over the threshold. “Ah, good luck getting cell service if you’re not at the main house. Here, let me take those.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay. I promised I’d make dessert. That includes the hard labor.”

She lifted the bags and did a no-frills twirl to show him how light they really were—just an eight-by-eight baking pan and a few plastic containers full of dry ingredients, plus one holding some canola oil.

But he didn’t step back to start walking her down the hall to the kitchen. In fact, he moved closer.

“Cate,” he said, slowly, as if measuring his words with precision. “I don’t want to take your bags because I think they’re particularly heavy.”

“They’re not,” she assured him. She’d thought the twirl would kind of hammer that home, but then again, she forgot most people weren’t really fluent in her brand of sarcasm.

“I know, and I also know you’re perfectly capable of carrying your own things.”

“Okay.” She extended the word into a question, and Owen blew out a breath in nonverbal defeat.

“I’d like to carry your things for you because it’s nice. So could you please do my manners a solid here, and let me?”

“Oh. Oh.” God, her social graces needed a good dusting off. “Well, in that case, ah, go for it.”

Cate passed the bags over, making sure not to let his fingers brush hers in the exchange, even slightly. He led the way through the foyer and living room, turning to aim his next words over one shoulder as he went.

“I was just getting the chicken ready to go into the oven. If you don’t mind sharing the kitchen space a little, you’re welcome to bake while I get dinner ready.”

Yes, yes, yes. She needed to get her hands on the ingredients and her sanity, ASAP. “That sounds great. I hope you like brownies.”

“Are there people who don’t?” He gestured to the kitchen island, placing the bags on the pretty, light gray granite after she nodded.

“I suppose in theory. But I’m not sure I’d trust one.”

Cate moved to the sink to wash her hands, stealing a long look around Owen’s kitchen as she went. Of course, she’d had plenty of time to catalogue the place yesterday morning while she’d waited for him to wake up, but now, with the evening light streaming in through the bank of windows along the far wall, the room was even more gorgeous.

“Your kitchen is really nice,” she said, walking back to the island to unpack her grocery bags. With its stainless steel appliances, sleek countertops, and spacious antique-white maple cabinets, it was a hell of an understatement. But since Cate was fairly sure that “your kitchen gives me a giant lady boner” would make Owen send her straight home, pink slip in hand, it would have to suffice.

“Thanks.” Owen turned toward the L-shaped counter, choosing the small space at the end for prep so he was still half-facing her as he spoke. “I can’t take a ton of the credit, though. The architect and designer pretty much did all of it. I just made a couple requests.”

Huh. “Like?”

“Well, I like to cook, so I definitely wanted function to go with the form. And I don’t plan to really ever move out of the place, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have things I’d want down the line even if I don’t use them too much now, like a big pantry and a double oven.”

Cate rubbed a hand over the ache that passed beneath her breastbone and reached for the baking dish, hitting it with a liberal dose of cooking spray. “Lucky for us that you did, since we’re about to put that double oven to use. Do you mind if I preheat the lower oven for the brownies?”

“Not at all,” Owen said, breaking into the half-smile Cate was starting to find even more attractive than its full-wattage counterpart. Somehow, it just seemed to fit him better. “In fact, I can’t think of anything I’d rather have in there for its maiden voyage.”

“You’ve never used it?” Cate asked, thoroughly shocked. “Are you crazy?”

Owen’s laugh made her realize—too late—how blunt the question had been. “Not last I checked. Just busy. Anyway, we do all of our family meals up at the main house, and it’s just me here for now, so, nope. I’ve never used both ovens at the same time.”

“I’m so glad we’re fixing that, because really, for an oven this nice, it’s a crying shame.”

She preheated the oven with a few quick taps of the buttons, then returned to her spot at the island. After asking for a mixing bowl and a pair of eggs, both of which she’d known he had after yesterday and neither of which would have traveled easily from her house, Cate reached for the container with the dry ingredients. Owen worked at his end of the counter, putting the chicken into a large baking dish, then the dish into the oven, before trimming the ends off some of the prettiest asparagus Cate had ever seen. The silence that rolled out in the sunlit space between them wasn’t uncomfortable, and the fact that she didn’t feel some awkward urge to fill it took her ease up another level. She stirred and mixed and breathed deeply, adding in the ingredients for the brownies one by one until the batter was satiny smooth and ready to go.

“Damn, even the batter smells good,” Owen said, lifting a brow over his steel-gray stare as she slid the pan onto the shiny oven rack and closed the door. “Is there anything you don’t bake well?”

Ah, the question was loaded like a two-dollar pistol. “I find some things more challenging than others,” she offered, but Owen read right between the lines.

“That’s a no.”

After a second, Cate admitted, “Okay, yeah. I mean, I’ve had some master disasters to go with my masterpieces, but I’ve also loved baking forever. The tougher the recipe, the more I tend to like it. So I suppose I do bake pretty much everything well. Even if that does sound immodest as hell.”

“I don’t think that sounds immodest at all,” Owen said, setting the asparagus—which was now wearing a liberal dose of olive oil and some earthy-smelling fresh herbs Cate couldn’t name but definitely wanted to eat—aside in favor of a saucepan and a box of rice. “You work hard, and you’re great at what you do. No shame in being honest about your accomplishments.”

Cate paused with her fingers over the timer app on her cell phone, her pulse quickening at her throat. The steady thump-thump-thump went for broke when he added, “Miss Clementine is right, you know. You should go into business and sell some of this stuff.”

“I wanted to.”

She heard the words only after they’d made a jailbreak, and she pressed her lips together even though it was too late to snare them back.

Funny, though, Owen didn’t seem too stunned. “How come you never did?”

Well, shit. Her choices now were to either fess up or tuck tail and run, and she couldn’t exactly run without him noticing. It was just the two of them, standing there, shooting the breeze in his kitchen. What would a little selective sharing of the facts hurt?

“It was ages ago,” Cate said, qualifying the claim with, “before Lily was born, so buying in on an actual space to start a bakery was out of the question. The initial investment, plus the overhead costs, made even renting way out of my reach, and I was too young to know anything about business plans or profit margins. No bank in their right mind gives a loan that big to an eighteen-year-old with no credit and no collateral.”

She didn’t add that she knew because she’d tried. Cate had never even made that admission out loud—not to Brian, not to her friends at the time, all of whom she’d grown apart from after she and Brian had gotten married, anyway. Letting it loose now, when it didn’t even matter and nothing could be done to change things? No, thanks.

Owen nodded slowly, shifting back from the saucepan full of broth and rice, which was now burbling happily over one of the burners on the stove. “Yeah, that makes sense. Cross Creek has established credit and sources of income, and securing the loan to make the storefront happen still took a bunch of hoop jumping. Which I guess you know since you’re managing the books,” he added with a self-deprecating smile. “Anyway, I hear you. Business loans can be tough to secure. Still, that was a long time ago. Why don’t you apply for one now?”

The question blew right past selective sharing, sticking into the soft, vulnerable part of her that warned her she shouldn’t have opened her mouth to begin with. Damn it, she needed to build some sort of immunity to Owen’s straightforward appeal.

“Because I’m scared I’ll die of boredom filling out the paperwork,” she volleyed, hoping like hell that her smile didn’t look as ill-fitting as it felt. Admitting that she’d once wanted to bake for a living was one thing. Forking over why she couldn’t possibly do it now was quite another, and not one that would ever change. “Anyway, I already have a job or three. Unless you’re trying to get rid of me already.”

“No.” The response flew out of him, and he paused to put the lid on the saucepan before turning all the way toward her. “I’m really not. The way you’ve organized our books is nothing short of amazing, to be honest. I don’t know how we survived as long as we did without the change.”

Cate shrugged. At least this was easier territory. “You had a system you were used to. Most people have to be dragged out of their comfort zones, kicking and screaming. All I did was grab you guys by the boot heels and tug a little.”

“You did much more than that,” Owen said. His voice was quiet, but oh, it slid through her deeply all the same. “We’re really grateful for your hard work, Cate. I’m grateful.”

Pride warmed her face, feeling both unusual and tantalizingly good. “Thank you,” she whispered, clearing her throat a second later. “So, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Did you want to get to work while the ovens do their thing?”

“Sure.”

Armed with a pair of legal pads and Owen’s laptop, they relocated to the kitchen table, taking over two of the four sturdy ladder-backed chairs there. Early-evening sunlight streamed in through the windows to provide an abundance of light, and between the cozy setting and Owen’s clear enthusiasm for the project, not getting excited—even about work—was pretty much a no-go.

“Okay. I was thinking we could start with a review of the overall plan, then talk about the budget and timeline for the next phase to be sure we’re still on track for both. Sound good?”

Cate nodded. While she’d managed a decent grasp of the farm’s finances over the past couple of weeks, she had to admit the specifics for this project were still a bit outside of her wheelhouse. A plan overview wouldn’t hurt. “You got it.”

“The goal of the project is to build a place where a wide variety of our produce will be available to folks on a daily basis,” Owen said, his gray-blue eyes crinkling around the edges as he clicked to open Cross Creek’s website. A banner appeared at the top, with a slide show of gorgeous, vibrant photos—that had no doubt been taken by Scarlett—showing off everything from the produce to the landscape. God, she’d even captured a great picture of the henhouse. “Not just tomatoes and corn and melons, although those are things we’ll certainly have in abundance, like always. But we want to use this storefront to really showcase the specialty items people can only get here. Heirloom tomatoes, a wide assortment of greens and herbs, varieties of fruits and vegetables that are a little more upscale than their everyday counterparts. Things like watercress, pattypan squash, Chinese eggplants, purple cauliflower. ”

He ticked each item off on his fingers, his face growing more animated as he went, and Cate’s stomach dipped down low beneath her jeans. “So, you’re essentially combining the best of both worlds by offering both the staples everyone is used to and broadening your customers’ horizons with new and unique produce. Kind of like running your own personal farmers’ market every day.”

“Exactly,” Owen said. “We had a lot of success with our late-season marketing bringing people out here for Pick-Your-Own crops like apples and pumpkins in the fall, and to our tent at the farmers’ market in Camden Valley every Saturday, too. But this storefront will let us expand on that even more.”

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 come 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.