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 asphalt 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.

Cate looked at the baskets of herbs and crates of greens Hunter had spent a good part of yesterday afternoon cutting, weighing, and bagging. “So, tell me about some of this specialty produce.”

“You want a tutorial on kale and collards?” Owen asked, and she lifted a slender brow in reply.

“I’m working the farmers’ market with you, aren’t I? Someone might have questions, so, yeah, Casanova. I want a tutorial on kale and collards and whatever else you’ve got here.”

Damn, her moxie was bottomless. Also, incredibly hot.

Owen cleared his throat and turned toward the tables they’d set up along the perimeter of the canopy tent, with a few smaller ones in the center of the space to maximize their allotted square footage while still allowing for a good flow of foot traffic. “Most of our produce is pretty straightforward. Strawberries, asparagus, rhubarb, sweet onions, mixed greens.”

His heart tapped faster, a familiar, intoxicating buzz spreading out in his chest at the sight of the jewel-toned berries in their cardboard baskets and the thousand shades of green from the leeks to the baby spinach. “We’re a little limited with what’s available right now since it’s still early in the season, but we’re also lucky that the yield from our greenhouse has been high.”

“Somehow, I doubt that’s just luck,” Cate said, but Owen lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“A lot of variables go into it, and any one of them could make or break a crop. Soil composition, amount and type of fertilizers—”

Cate interrupted him with a laugh that, while brassy, carried no heat. “Come on, Owen. It’s not all circumstance. Anyone with functional vision and half a brain can see how seriously you take the farm.”

“I do,” he said, the admission sliding out with ease. “Farming doesn’t just feel like a job to me, though, you know? Not that it’s not ball-busting work. But even on the hardest days, even when things go sideways and the weather turns and we lose crops or cattle, I still love it.”

The excitement he’d been dancing with all morning spread out and strengthened, allowing the words to pour right out. “There’s something…I don’t know, vital about working the land with your hands. Watching each plant grow from this tiny little seed into something sustainable, something that comes directly from the earth the way nature intended it to. Like it shouldn’t be possible, and yet, under the right circumstances, it happens without any effort at all. Just humble and real and right.”

Owen looked up from the produce in front of them, Cate’s wide, whiskey-colored stare tugging him out of his thoughts and making him realize how insane he probably sounded.

A hard shot of embarrassment sent heat over his face. Jesus. “Which, I’m sure, is probably the craziest thing you’ve heard in a while. But—”

“No. It’s not.”

The pared-down honesty on Cate’s face sent a different feeling through Owen, one he couldn’t quite pin with a name, but God, it felt frighteningly good. I get it, the look said. I see you. I understand.

She didn’t actually speak the words, and hell if that didn’t make the feeling in his gut—whatever the hell it was—that much stronger.

“So, how about these?” Cate asked, pointing to the small baskets of heirloom tomatoes, and, just like that, his comfort zone snapped right back into place.

“These are Cherokee purples. We’ve also got some Brandywines, and these here”—he paused just long enough to cradle one of the pretty, bright yellow tomatoes he’d plucked from the vine yesterday morning—“are Kellogg’s Breakfast. They’re all heirloom tomatoes.”

“They look pretty wild.” She ran her fingers over the fat, rippled curves of the tomato in his palm. “Are they all so different?”

Owen nodded. “Yep. I mean, I can almost always tell what variety a tomato is just by looking; and by taste, I’m even more accurate. But each one of these babies is as unique as a signature. You never know how they’ll turn out.”

“Sounds like baking.” A wry smile played at the edges of her mouth, making her so much more beautiful than even a full-wattage, pose-for-the-camera variety would. “I could put together the same recipe a thousand times and the yield is always a little different. I don’t think anyone can tell but me, but…I can.”

“You know your stuff,” he said, his pulse speeding up as Cate’s smile bloomed into a laugh.

“And clearly, you know yours.”

A flash of movement grabbed his attention from over her shoulder, making him grin down at her as he said, “Well, that’s a good thing, because it looks like the gates just opened up. So what do you say we go knock opening day out of the park?”

* * *

Cate should’ve been nervous. No. That wasn’t quite right. She should’ve been curled up in a ball on the asphalt, rocking back and forth and channeling all of her will into not throwing up.

But she wasn’t. Not that her calm had much to do with her at all. From the minute Owen had opened up about farming, to the sexy stunner of a grin he’d given her when the gates opened, to now, two hours and a steady stream of customers later, Cate had been able to breathe for one reason, and one reason only.

And he was standing ten feet away, looking as intense and as gorgeous as ever.

“Cate? Is that you?” came a kind, familiar voice from across the table, and she dialed up a smile to—please, God, let it work—cover up the dark and naughty thoughts that had been having a field day with her brain.

“Hi, Mrs. Ellersby. Would you like to try a cookie this morning?” Cate offered the plate of samples to the elderly woman, who politely took a bite-sized sugar cookie.

“I’d heard you were working down at Cross Creek, helping them out with their books and such. Such nice boys, those Crosses.”

Cate followed the woman’s gaze over to Owen, who was re-stocking leeks and spring onions with all the seriousness of brain surgery. “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, although nice didn’t even make the top ten of words she’d use to describe Owen. Not that she’d expect any of those to make Mrs. Ellersby’s list, either.

“Balancing the books for such a big farm can’t be easy,” Mrs. Ellersby said, peering over the rims of her glasses. “I always knew you had a good head on those shoulders.”

Shock pinged through Cate’s chest at the words, and the same sentiment showed on Mrs. Ellersby’s face a second later as she tasted her cookie.

“Well, my land! Cate McAllister, did you make these?”

Cate nodded hesitantly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Ellersby fluttered a hand over the front of her blouse, taking another bite. “I didn’t know you could bake like this. These cookies are soft as a pillow!”

“Thank you,” Cate said, the back of her neck heating even though she was under the full protection of the canopy tent. “I had a lot of help from the Crosses. All the herbs, fruit, and eggs that I baked with came right from their farm.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Mrs. Ellersby clucked, picking up a package of sugar cookies. “I’ve just got to take some of these home with me. They’ll be perfect with my afternoon tea.”

“Enjoy them,” Cate said, marking the sale on her inventory sheet as Mrs. Ellersby smiled and continued on to the rest of the tables beneath the tent. Cate had kept a careful tally of the money she’d spent on ingredients and materials, along with the inventory she’d used from Cross Creek’s greenhouse and henhouse, and the hours she’d spent in the kitchen. Paying Owen back every dime of that advance was priority number one, and from the look of the list right now, she’d already turned enough profit to do so with ease. If things kept up, those earnings would amount to not only the ability to make a healthy mortgage payment, but also a litany of “I told you so”s from Owen.

Which would also present her with one hell of a quandary, she realized with dread. If she was actually successful selling her baked goods, she wouldn’t have any logical reason not to keep doing so on a regular basis.

Not that the reason she hadn’t taken the plunge before now had ever been sensible to begin with. But it was the only thing she felt more deeply than her ingrained sense of practicality. The only thing that followed her like a shadow, just waiting for the darkness to settle in so it could become stronger, growing teeth and claws that sliced to the bone.

Jesus, Cate! You’re putting your hobby in front of our kid?

Oh, God, what was she doing? This dream wasn’t for her. It couldn’t be. Not now. Not ever.

The ache she’d felt for far too long thudded hollowly through her veins, and, for a slice of a second, she nearly gave in to the deep temptation to run. Owen’s voice stopped her in her tracks, though, filtering in from the spot where he now stood a few paces away. His back was fully to her, and she edged closer on legs that weren’t quite under her command.

“Ah, that fennel is a good choice. It’s coming in even better than last year,” he said to Jenny Porter, whose back was also mostly to her as well. “We’ve got some great-looking rosemary, too.”

“Oooh, rosemary,” Jenny gushed. “My favorite. I’d put it in everything if Mike wouldn’t make fun of me for it.”

“Bet you’d love Cate’s rosemary and cheddar scones, then.” Owen pointed to the package sitting on top of the wooden crate full of assorted herbs in front of them, and Cate’s heart pounded against her rib cage so hard, she was sure the sound of it would give her away.

“Scones, huh?” Jenny’s voice lilted higher in interest. “They look great.”

Owen’s dark hair brushed over the back of his neck as he nodded. “They are great. I had one of the bacon and chive ones for breakfast, myself.”

“Quite the seal of approval. I’m sold,” Jenny said, scooping up the package with one hand and a bunch of fresh rosemary with the other. Cate slipped back to the periphery of the tent just in time as Owen walked Jenny to the opposite side of the space so his father could ring her up, and she watched him covertly, replaying the conversation in her mind. For all of his sharp corners and rough edges, Owen was unapologetically himself. He worked honestly and hard, doing what he loved, and a spike of jealousy stuck between Cate’s ribs.

She’d wanted that once, so badly she’d been able to taste her ambition, spicy and deep like a hit of cinnamon.

It’s not for you.

But that’s stupid, came a whisper from somewhere in the back of her brain, in a voice that wasn’t hers, and her breath caught on the realization that it wasn’t wrong. Owen took his business seriously. He wouldn’t have hired her, and he definitely wouldn’t have said those things about her baking if he didn’t believe in her ability.

And as she watched him from across the tent, with his serious smile and unabashed dedication to the legacy that fit him like a fingerprint, Cate couldn’t help but wonder if she shouldn’t take a risk and start believing in it, too.