Cate stared at the financial projections she was entering into Cross Creek’s system even though she didn’t see a thing. Actually, scratch that. She did see something. But since she was certain Owen’s sexy, steel-gray stare wasn’t going to get these notes on the next phase of the storefront project put into the system, she should probably blink a few times and move the hell on.

The only problem was, she’d tried that trick sixty times in the last six hours to no avail, and the longer she sat there all hot and bothered, the more obvious the truth became.

She wanted Owen so badly she could taste it, feel it in every heartbeat like a living, breathing, carnally wild thing.

And as dangerous as Cate knew that was for both of them, it was getting harder and harder to deny.

Maybe…

Something on the paper in front of her snagged her attention, yanking her from the impulsive thought. She read the passage, then read it again before going for a three-peat. But even though the words that marched across the page in Owen’s tidy, precise handwriting made sense, as far as the whole subject-verb-object thing went, they might as well have been written in Cantonese for how much actual sense they made.

Unless—

Before she could think twice, Cate had scooped up the two-way radio sitting in the charging station in the corner of the office. Owen, Hunter, and Mr. Cross used the walkie-talkie-like devices to communicate on the farm since cell service wasn’t always reliable, and they always left one on in the office during working hours. Owen had shown her how to operate the controls on her first day, just in case. She’d figured she’d only ever use the thing in case of an emergency, and while no one was breaking in or bleeding out up here at the main house, the paperwork in front of her was enough to make her press the “talk” button without so much as a heartbeat’s worth of a pause.

“Owen, this is Cate, over,” she said, having overheard enough conversations from the unit that stayed in the office to know the correct protocol. “Do you copy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the serious and seriously unreadable reply. “Everything okay at the main house, over?”

Well, shit. Hunter and Mr. Cross were some of the nicest folks in Millhaven, and both of them were probably listening to this exchange. If she answered in the negative, there was no way in hell all three Cross men wouldn’t drop whatever they were doing like a red-hot poker to come barreling up to the house.

“Everything’s fine,” Cate borderline lied. “I’ve got some, um, information in front of me on the storefront project that doesn’t quite add up and I was hoping we could talk about it, over.”

“Copy that. I’ll be at the house in five. Out.”

Despite her very best efforts, her hands shook as she replaced the two-way in the base. She had to be calm about this. Rational. Smart. She paced over the area rug to offset the adrenaline riding through her veins, elongating her breaths to a slow, controlled in and out and slowing her pulse to a nice, steady rhythm.

A steadiness that vanished the instant Owen opened the back door to the house and made his way into the office.

“Have you lost your mind?” Cate asked briskly, her heart making the involuntary climb toward her throat.

The noise that came out of him was part shock, part barked-out laughter. “Not that I’m aware, although something tells me you’ve got a different opinion on the matter.”

Nope. Not even that sexy little half-smile was going to save his equally sexy ass now. “What is this?”

He looked at the sheaf of papers she’d just snapped up off her desk. “That is the list of local business owners we’d like to partner with once we get to the next phase of the storefront project.”

“And why is my name on this list?”

“Actually, it’s at the top of the list,” Owen said, pointing to the page in her hand, and Christ on a cupcake, he was insane.

“Yes, I can see that,” Cate said, sending each syllable through her teeth. “What I’d like to know is why.”

Owen took a few steps farther into the office, but he didn’t break eye contact with her. “Because we’d like to offer your baked goods to our customers once the storefront is open for business.”

“No.” The word vaulted out of her mouth despite the whisper of a yes that had stirred in her chest.

A muscle in Owen’s jaw tightened. “Why not?”

“Because,” she said, slowly, to buy time. “It’s crazy.”

“It was your suggestion to add vendors with unique products to entice new customers,” he pointed out. His reply was low and perfectly controlled, yet definitely still an argument, and damn it, she should have known better than to think he’d let her off the hook with a simple protest.

Too bad for him, she could stand her ground like a champ. “Okay, but I didn’t mean me. I’m not a vendor.”

“But you could be.”

“No, I really can’t.”

Where Owen’s logic had grown stronger with each assertion, Cate’s had faltered, and her heart kicked so fast, surely he was able to see it from the spot where he stood in front of her.

“Yes, you really can. Look”—his hands went to his hips, each of his words chipping away at her resolve—“I’m not asking for something outrageous, like a kidney, here. All I’m suggesting is that we give this a try.”

An image of the trivet hidden away among the dish towels in her kitchen sailed into her, stealing her air. “It’s not a good idea,” she managed.

Something shifted in his stare, turning it one degree softer and surprising the hell out of her. “Actually, it’s a great idea,” Owen said quietly. “And I can prove it before the next phase of the project even starts.”

Cate stepped back in shock. “How?”

“With a test run at the farmers’ market this weekend.”

“Owen—”

“Jesus, Cate. Would you at least hear me out before you say no?”

Although the words were technically a question, they came out with enough of a demand to pin her into place. Something deep in her belly made her acquiesce in spite of her defenses, and a flash of surprise added more gray than blue to Owen’s eyes as he registered her lack of protest.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “I’ll advance you the money to make and package as many baked goods as you’re able between now and Saturday morning. It’s an advance, not charity,” he reiterated, turning her brewing argument to stone. “You can pay it back with your profits. You’ll also have Cross Creek’s produce at your disposal for baking. Right now, there’s a decent crop of strawberries in the greenhouse and a ton of fresh herbs if you want to make savory bread. I’ve also got more eggs in our henhouse than I know what to do with.”

Ah, hell. Using Cross Creek’s produce would not only ensure top-notch quality in the baked goods, but it was a stroke of marketing genius on Owen’s part. Still… “That’s a lot of baking in the next two days.”

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’re-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.”