Cate stared down at the screen on her laptop, reviewing the numbers and columns and ratios one last time, even though she’d memorized them after the fourth pass. Tomorrow was her first payday as a Cross Creek employee, and as much as the full-time commitment part of things still made her consider throwing up, the deposit that was set to arrive in her bank account at midnight definitely didn’t suck.

Scrolling down to the window she’d hidden at the bottom of the screen, she hovered over the bright red submit payment button, her common sense forcing her to click the damned thing before her heart could intervene. Of course, Cate knew her gas bill—tardy as it was—outranked getting her oven fixed. But she also couldn’t deny that between last Friday’s ill-advised kitchen takeover at Cross Creek and the less clandestine, yet not as much fun, griddle duty Clementine had put her on for half of the following Sunday’s shift, she’d found enough of a groove to whip the books at the farm into tip-top shape.

Much to her insanely handsome, insanely tight-lipped employer’s surprise.

Cate exhaled, forcing herself to ignore the warmth that had been making a very inconvenient habit of forming between her thighs every time she thought of Owen Cross. For God’s sake, he was blunt enough to border on being churlish. She had no reason to find his gruff demeanor so freaking attractive.

Except, damn it, she did find it attractive. The truth was, while most people probably found Owen’s personality overly curt, Cate kind of found his honesty refreshing. Maybe not yesterday, when he’d told her he hadn’t believed she could do the job he’d hired her for. That one had kind of pinched. But she hadn’t entirely believed she’d balance those books in the beginning, either, and she had told him to treat her like a regular person.

He’d been the only person to actually do that in over three years.

A knock sounded off on her front door, rattling her pulse. She didn’t live too far from the main road, but everything was pretty much off the beaten path out here in Millhaven. She certainly wasn’t expecting anybody at five-forty on a Thursday night.

Creeping to the door, she asked, “Who is it?”

“Hey, Cate,” came a slightly familiar voice. “It’s Mike Porter. I heard you need your oven looked at.”

Cate unlatched the front door, even though nothing Mike had said—other than his name, anyway—had made a lick of sense. “Hey, Moonpie.” She paused to bite her lip at letting the guy’s elementary school nickname slip, but he waved off her obvious chagrin with a smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I heard you need your oven looked at,” he repeated, holding up the tool box Cate just noticed he had in his grasp. Mike worked for a contracting company that specialized in appliance repair, mostly on the bigger, newer houses in Camden Valley and Lockridge, but he did his fair share of fix-it jobs in Millhaven, too. Only, how the hell he’d gotten the news flash about her oven being broken, she had no clue.

“You did,” Cate replied slowly.

“Yep. Owen Cross mentioned it.”

At her continued stare, Mike added, “Yesterday evening, when I saw him making a delivery at The Corner Market. He told me your oven wasn’t working and asked if I’d come fix it for you.”

Cate’s cheeks prickled, but at this point, she had to choose disclosure over dignity. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that. I can’t pay you.”

“You don’t have to.” Mike shook his head. “Owen took care of it.”

Shock merged with something a whole lot less identifiable, both of them settling low in her belly. “He…what?”

“The job’s paid for. Labor and parts,” Mike said, holding up an invoice that was—sure enough—emblazoned with the words PAID IN FULL across the bottom.

So much for Owen treating her like a regular person. “I’m not letting Owen Cross pay you to fix my oven.”

Funny, Mike didn’t look surprised by her answer. “He said you might say that. So he wanted me to tell you”—Mike shifted his tool box to his left hand, removing his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans with his right—“And I quote, ‘There’s a difference between sympathy and kindness. Consider this a bonus for the great job you did on the books. Now, let Mike fix your damned oven. Please’.”

A minute slid off the clock, then another, before Cate could process what had just happened. Her sledgehammer-serious boss, who hadn’t strung together more than sixteen syllables in her presence since she’d shown him the new bookkeeping software yesterday, had gone out of his way to help her get her oven fixed, and he hadn’t done it out of pity. He’d done it out of gratitude. In his own brusque way, Owen was treating her like a regular person.

And oh, God, it felt so good, she could cry.

Mike looked at her, and she belatedly noticed the sheer panic blooming over his face. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d know what Owen meant by that, since you’re out there, workin’ for the Crosses and all now. But I sure didn’t mean to offend—”

“No. No, no, no,” Cate said, shaking her head adamantly to make sure she got the message across. “It’s fine, Mike. I know exactly what Owen meant.”

“So, did you want me to get started, then?” The poor guy looked at her in the same manner one might reserve for rattlesnakes and raving lunatics.

But, for once, the tiptoeing didn’t bother Cate one whit. “That would be great. Why don’t you come on in?”

* * *

Owen had no sooner pulled away from the main house on Saturday afternoon when his cell phone made a bid for attention from the back pocket of his jeans.

Hey, you fucking workaholic! Everyone’s headed to The Bar tonight to celebrate the engagement. Stop making that face. You’re going.

Blanking his frown, Owen stuffed his phone back in his pocket without answering Hunter’s text. In his defense, he’d probably clocked a seventy-hour work-week, with a solid two-thirds of it being manual labor and the other third overseeing the biggest project they’d started in a decade. Anyone who wasn’t bulletproof or subhuman would’ve pulled a face at the prospect of heading out on the town after that.

Jesus. What was wrong with him? This was his brother’s engagement they were celebrating. He should be diving headfirst into the festivities along with everyone else.

Fuck, he felt so alone.

Owen’s chin hiked upward, his pulse kicking at the unexpected thought. Not that he could deny it, exactly—after all, he was alone. At thirty-three, he wasn’t totally on the shelf, but he wasn’t drowning in prospects, either. At some point, he’d have to focus on the family part of the family and farm legacy.

“Come here, sweet boy. Hop right on up here with me.” His mother leaned forward from the pillows stacked behind her and patted the blue and white quilt tucked around her frail body. Her eyes were startlingly clear, even though the aggressive chemo and radiation had taken whatever vitality the breast cancer had left behind. Her dark blond hair had long since fallen out, replaced by floral scarves brought by Clementine and Harley Martin’s wife, Louise, but even then, Owen had never thought her any less than beautiful.

“Hi, Momma.” Owen climbed up to the center of the four-poster bed. He wouldn’t admit that it was still a little hard for him to get up there without a step-stool. He wasn’t little like Hunter, and he definitely wasn’t a baby, like Eli. Plus, he knew his momma couldn’t lift him anymore, even though she looked like she wanted to, so he wouldn’t complain.

“I want to have a talk, just me and you,” she said. She looked so sad that he let her smooth his hair with one hand, even though that might normally make him feel like he wasn’t the oldest.

“Okay,” he replied. He was six now. He could have a grown-up talk with her if that’s what she wanted. And Owen could tell that she did, because her eyes got very serious, like they had when Hunter had fallen off the rocking chair last year and needed four stitches on the back of his head. “Is this about my chores? I did ’em just the way Pop asked, but”—he bit his lip before ultimately deciding to tell the truth—“I couldn’t lift all the watermelons to put them in the crates. And I dropped one outside the barn door. It made a big mess.”

To his surprise, his mother laughed. “Well, I reckon the bees will be right thankful to you for that.” She slid her fingers through his. “I know you’re working hard on your chores, Owen. I wanted to talk to you because your daddy’s going to need a lot of help around here soon, and not just with what needs done around the farm.”

His momma stopped for a second, like she was already tired. Just when he thought maybe he should say something, though, she kept going. “He’s probably going to be sad, and you might be sad, too. So I’m going to need you to look out for him and your brothers a little extra for me when that happens. Do you think you can do that?”

Owen nodded, even though he was a little confused. “I’ll be strong, Momma. Don’t you worry.”

And he would. He always drank his milk and ate his greens. Even the peas, which baby Eli hated. But Owen could hide them in the mashed potatoes, just like their momma did. He’d seen her do it. Even though he thought it was pretty gross, he could do it for Eli, too, if that’s what she needed.

“Thank you, sweet boy.” His mother wrapped her arms around him, her pretty white nightgown soft on his cheek as he snuggled against her shoulder. “There’s one other thing I want you to remember. Your brothers aren’t quite old enough to understand it yet, so this one will just belong to you and me, okay? But it’s very important, so listen carefully.”

“Okay,” Owen said, returning her squeeze as her fingers tightened over his hand.

“As you get bigger, there are going to be a lot of things that mean something to you. But two of those things are always going to matter most. Family and farm, Owen. Never forget how important they both are. Never forget…”

Owen pulled up in front of his cottage with his heart in his windpipe. The memory came back from time to time, and, with it, the reminder of what was important. Channeling all of his energy into the farm part of things had been easy. He loved working the land, the planting, the cultivating, the vitality—all of it. But he’d let the family part fall by the wayside. True, the friction that had existed between him and Eli had mostly eased, but things with Marley were still a hot mess, and while his brothers had both found happiness with women who were perfect for them, he was still alone.

“Screw it.”

Owen got out of his truck and headed for his cottage, his shoulders set and his mind made up. He wasn’t going to miraculously stumble over true love at The Bar, that was for damn sure. But for tonight, he could do the next best thing.

And that was drink.

After a hot shower and quick change of clothes, Owen shot off a text to Lane and grabbed the keys to his truck. Being Millhaven’s sheriff, Lane wasn’t much of a drinker even when he was off-duty, and, although it didn’t happen often, the guy had carted Owen’s drunk ass home on more than a few occasions over the last ten years. Better to make the get-home plan now, rather than after he couldn’t drive. He liked The Bar as much as the next person, but sleeping in one of the booths—or, worse yet, on the beer-stained floorboards—definitely wasn’t on his bucket list.

Owen cracked the window of his truck, catching a full handful of stubble as he scrubbed a palm over his face and pulled out onto the main road. In his haste to get out the door and get to sipping, he’d made the executive decision to skip shaving, just as he’d made the same judgment call last week on the haircut he needed but didn’t have time for. Guess it was a good thing he wasn’t lookin’ to fix his loneliness problem tonight, because other than the clean T-shirt and jeans he’d managed to rustle out of his dresser drawers, he wasn’t going to win any awards for impeccable grooming.

The trip to The Bar was a fast one, and Owen parked under a street lamp, surveying the gravel lot through the growing twilight on his trip toward the door. Hunter’s truck stood a few spots away, sandwiched between Billy Masterson’s pickup and Amber Cassidy’s cherry-red convertible. His jaw tightened involuntarily as he caught sight of Greyson Whittaker’s dented and dinged Silverado on the far side of the parking lot. God, he fucking hated that guy, and not just because he was the only son of the man who ran the farm that gave Cross Creek the most competition for business.

Healthy rivalry, he could handle. Arrogant, entitled douche bags with chips on their shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon? Not so much.

Owen shook his head, forcing the thought to go with it. He was here to blow off steam a different way, which meant he was already late for his date with a nice, cold pitcher of beer and a shot or three of Jack Daniels. Pivoting on his boot heels, he turned toward The Bar, where he could already hear the steady thump of music pulsing from behind the brightly lit windows and wide double doors. But then a slightly rusty, very familiar Toyota caught his attention, and damn it, he must be thicker than a brick not to have realized Cate might be working tonight.

He’d had his balls to the wall ever since they’d broken ground on the storefront three days ago, which meant he’d barely seen anyone in his family since then, let alone had time to go up to the main house to touch base with Cate. Owen did, however, know her oven was now in perfect working order, but it wasn’t the invoice Mike Porter had emailed him yesterday for the new heating coil he’d installed that had tipped him off. No, that little heads up had come courtesy of the box of cookies that had been left on the desk in the office with his name on it.

Oatmeal raisin. Not a walnut in sight.

Owen exhaled and finished crossing the parking lot, the soles of his boots crunching steadily over the gravel. He was here to loosen up, maybe have one drink too many. To forget everything that had been jammed on his plate, even if it was only for one night.

And that’s just what he intended to do.

Palming the handle on the sturdy wooden door leading in to The Bar, he made his way over the threshold. The country music that had been a muted thump in the parking lot became a full-bodied blast of bass and twang, backed up by the ambient buzz of at least a dozen nearby conversations. The place was more full than not, with a handful of couples already on the wood-planked dance floor and nearly every seat at the bar occupied. Rather than zeroing in on the section of bar tables where he and his family and friends usually threw a few back, though, Owen found his stare traveling to the far side of the room—specifically, to the spot where Cate stood behind the bar.

Her head was tilted to the side, her long, dark hair piled on top of her head in a knot that would probably look messy on anyone else. But not on her. Nope. On Cate, it looked unvarnished and naturally pretty, putting the long line of her neck on display and showing off just enough of her collarbones to make his pulse sit up and take note. A few defiant wisps had broken free from where she’d pinned the rest at the crown of her head, framing her face in a way that, for a stupid split-second, made Owen’s fingers jealous, and a sinking feeling took root in his gut.

This was going to be a long-ass night.

“Hey, you showed!”

Owen slapped together a smile before turning toward his brother’s voice. “With an invitation like yours, how could I say no?”

“Okay, okay. Maybe I could’ve been a little more cordial,” Hunter said, clapping his brother on the shoulder in greeting. “But then you wouldn’t have come, and I’d have had to drag you off the farm kickin’ and hollerin’, and everyone would talk for weeks about how your younger, better-looking brother outmuscled you. Figured this way, at least I’d save you a little face.”

Ah, hell. The guy looked so happy, it was impossible not to take one for the team. “Well, that’s damn nice of you, man.”

“What can I say?” Hunter grinned and opened his arms wide. “I’m a giver.”

“You are somethin’,” Owen agreed, and Hunter let out a laugh.

“Well, I’m glad you came out, because actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you, and I thought it’d be best done face-to-face.”

Concern sparked in Owen’s chest. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” his brother said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans and giving up a sheepish smile. “Except I’m getting married in four weeks, and I don’t have a best man, so I was kinda hoping maybe you’d help me out and do the honors.”

Jaw, meet kneecaps. “You want me to be your best man?”

“You look surprised.”

“I am. I mean”—Owen cranked his eyes shut, and God, would he ever say the right thing at the right time?—“Don’t get me wrong. I’m flattered, but I assumed you’d ask Eli. You two have always been closer.”

Hunter nodded, stepping a little closer to keep their conversation personal despite the din and bustle of the crowded bar around them. “Eli and I are close. But I don’t know anybody who holds family more important than you, O. I’d be honored to have you stand beside me at my wedding.”

Damn. Owen swallowed past the rare shot of emotion tightening his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“How about that you’ll do it?” Hunter asked with a laugh that loosened the mood perfectly. “Because you’re leaving me hanging a little bit here, and…”

“Jesus, Hunt.” Owen rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t help but let his laugh creep in and have its way with him. “Of course, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, man. Now, what do you say we grab a couple of beers and get to celebrating?”

“I say that sounds like one hell of a plan.”