CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Scarlett sat back against the well-cushioned love seat in her apartment, her eyes on her laptop screen and her mouth curving up into the world’s most gigantic smile. But as goofy as it was, the expression was warranted.
Five days had passed since the farmers’ market, and each had been better and busier than the one before. The second video clip she and Eli had filmed—along with the accompanying articles on FoodE and the extra content the Crosses had put on the farm’s website—had garnered even more reach than the first. Both FoodE and Cross Creek had seen so much increased business after the segment had gone live that Mallory had needed to reinforce her skeleton crew with a temporary assistant and Hunter had needed to literally run to the cornfields to pick whatever he could by hand in order to restock yesterday’s roadside stand. Scarlett had taken hundreds of new photos to go with this week’s articles, along with pitching in at the farm stand to help Eli with customers and crowd control.
Involuntarily, her cheeks warmed. Although Eli had been his usual cocky self whenever the camera was out or his brothers were around, he’d also kept the promise he’d made to her on that picnic bench. While none of their one-on-one conversations had been quite as personal as that first one—God, Scarlett’s heart still thudded and ached when she remembered the look on his face as he’d talked about his mother—she and Eli had worked together with growing ease, brainstorming ideas for articles and laughing and trading both stories and banter so seamlessly that Scarlett couldn’t deny the truth.
Between his smart observations, his clear devotion to the farm, and that borderline-mischievous smile that kept threatening to reduce her panties to a white-hot afterthought, she liked Eli Cross a lot.
Scarlett’s hands froze over the keyboard perched across her lap. Okay, so Eli was sexy as hell, and quick-witted enough on top of that to flip every last one of her oh hell yes switches. The attraction wasn’t one-sided—last week’s toe-curling kiss was proof positive of that. But she’d come here to take pictures. To save Mallory’s magazine. Hell, as pretty as Millhaven was, she gave herself T-minus any day now before she started to get twitchy for her next adventure, anyway.
She belonged behind the camera. Which meant her time with Eli had an expiration date in the very near future.
Which really meant she shouldn’t be sitting here fantasizing about what his cocky mouth could do when it wasn’t caught up in a smile.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Scarlett murmured, closing the folder of today’s Cross Creek photos with a heavy sigh. She and Eli had gotten rained out of their chores on the farm this afternoon, so she’d already edited and sent this morning’s shots to Mallory. Still, Scarlett loved her job like most people loved eating and sleeping. She could always find something to crop or edit or sharpen.
Inhaling deeply, Scarlett scrolled through the photo folders on her laptop—no . . . no . . . no . . . a-ha! Although she’d sold the best shots from last month’s film festival to an entertainment magazine, she could still edit a few of the rest. Publicists and agents could always be counted on to want great photographs of their clients. Even if said clients suddenly looked awfully slick and over-polished as they flashed across her laptop screen in their designer tuxedos and $10,000 watches. Whatever happened to a good, old-fashioned jeans-and-T-shirt combo, with broken-in denim hugging a pair of work-muscled thighs and faded cotton clinging to all the right places . . .
A knock sounded off at the front door, sending Scarlett’s pulse through the rafters and a blush tearing over her face. Both sensations, however, were quickly chased off by a hard shot of suspicion. She could literally count the number of people she knew in Millhaven on one hand, and while a glance at the clock told her it was barely past dinnertime, she still wasn’t expecting anyone.
Unease bubbled harder in her chest as the knock came again—you could take the girl out of New York, blah, blah, blah—but the feeling faded instantly at the sound of the voice that followed.
“Scarlett? Are you there? It’s me, Emerson.”
“Oh!” Blinking back her surprise, Scarlett pushed her way up from the love seat, pausing to rest her laptop on the tiny coffee table before padding across the floor to flip the deadbolt and swing the door open.
“Oh, good! You’re home,” Emerson said, offering up a genuine smile. “You remember my friend Daisy, right?”
She gestured to the petite blonde standing next to her on the rain-splattered threshold, and Scarlett’s confusion doubled even as she nodded.
“Yes, of course.” They’d met at the farmers’ market, where Daisy had been selling her homemade beauty products. “Is, um, everything okay at Cross Creek?”
“Are you kidding?” Emerson’s laugh wiped out any possibility of a negative answer, and she gestured to the narrow overhead ledge keeping her (sort of) sheltered. “It’s been raining for the last four hours. Everything at Cross Creek is coming up roses.”
At the mention of the weather, Scarlett’s flush made a repeat performance. “God, sorry. Come on in.” She ushered the two women into her apartment and shut the door, realizing only after the fact that the living room looked like a hurricane had whipped a path of destruction directly over the carpet. “Sorry it’s kind of, um, untidy. I was catching up on some work.”
But Emerson just shook her head, her auburn curls swishing over her shoulders. “Actually, this looks about the same as when I lived here.”
“She’s not just saying that to be polite, either,” Daisy added with a pixie smile. “Trust me.”
Scarlett laughed, because it was exactly what she’d been thinking, and Emerson lifted her hands to signal guilty as charged.
“Yeah, I can’t lie. I have nothing on Martha Stewart. Anyway, sorry we just showed up on your doorstep. We tried to call you but . . .”
Daisy made a sound suspiciously close to a snort. “We’d have had better luck with smoke signals than cell service around here.”
“Pretty much,” Emerson said. “But we were just hanging out for the evening, and since Daisy lives a few doors down, we figured we’d drop in and see what you’re up to.”
“Oh. That’s awfully nice of you.” Scarlett smiled, although the gesture didn’t last. She wasn’t used to being in the same place for too terribly long, much less having guests wherever said place happened to be. Surely there was some sort of protocol for this kind of thing, right? People talked all the time about girls’ night in like it was gospel. Well, people other than her, anyway. Even Mallory, who was married to her job like Scarlett, mentioned going to her coworkers’ apartments from time to time for Netflix marathons and wine.
Drinks, drinks! Yeah, that was a good jumping-off point. Or—shit—it would be if Scarlett had anything in her fridge other than soy milk and raspberry jam. But before she could open her mouth to ask whether anyone at least wanted a glass of water, Daisy let out a small chirp of surprise.
“Oh my God.” Her bright-green stare was fixed roundly on the image splashed over Scarlett’s laptop a few feet away. “Is that Grant Kirkpatrick?”
Emerson sent a discreet elbow to Daisy’s ribs, sending the woman’s chin up about three inches. “I mean! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy, but . . .” Daisy trailed off for a second before mouthing Grant Kirkpatrick! at Emerson.
Relief whooshed through Scarlett’s chest. She might suck as a hostess, but work? She could talk about that all day. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m the one who left my laptop open. And to answer your question, yes. That’s Grant.”
Now even Emerson looked a little starstruck. “You seriously have photos of Grant Kirkpatrick just hanging around on your laptop?”
“Mmm-hmm. Do you want to see them?”
“Holy crap, is that even a question?” Daisy blurted, but then she backpedaled. “I mean, only if that’s okay.”
Every once in a while, Scarlett had to hold to an exclusive nondisclosure agreement that made showing images to anyone a bit sticky, but . . . “Sure. These were taken at a public film festival about three weeks ago, and the exclusive images have already been released.”
“Wow,” Emerson murmured after Scarlett had scooped up her laptop and the three of them had settled in side by side to click through the first dozen-or-so photos. “So do you, ah, know him?”
Scarlett laughed. “I’m good, but not that good. I’ve shot probably a half dozen movie premiers and other events where Grant has been in attendance, though. He’s a nice guy.”
“A nice guy,” Daisy echoed with a self-deprecating laugh. “God, between you knowing A-listers like Grant Kirkpatrick”—she paused to swing her glance from Scarlett to Emerson—“and you having dated pro football’s MVP, I am definitely the odd woman out.”
A bolt of shock rippled up Scarlett’s spine. “You used to date Lance Devlin?” Talk about the last thing she’d have expected from the down-to-earth woman sitting next to her.
“Yeah, that’s a long story,” Emerson said with a wink. “It’s best told over alcohol.”
Daisy sat back against the cushions of the love seat and let out an audible breath. “Ooooh, I could go for a drink.”
Scarlett darted a glance at her kitchen cupboards, and ugh, she really was terrible at this hostess thing. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything here other than water or soy milk. But we could go to the liquor store,” she offered.
Emerson’s headshake said a beer run was better in theory than practice. “Not unless you want to haul your cookies to Camden Valley.”
“Or”—Daisy arched a brow, the glint in her eyes completely at odds with her delicate features—“we could just go to The Bar. They have plenty of liquor.”
“That’s a great idea,” Emerson said, brightening. “I can call Hunter on the landline at the cottage. I bet he and Eli and Owen would be up for meeting us for a beer or two. We can make it a family affair. What do you say, Scarlett?”
Scarlett’s heart stuttered. An impromptu drink or two in her little living room was one thing. An event—even a casual one—that had the F-word attached? That was a whole different ballgame.
“Oh, no. I don’t want to intrude on a family thing. Really. You guys go and have a great time, though. I’ll catch that story from you another time, Emerson.”
“You will not.”
Scarlett pulled back, full to the brim with surprise. “Pardon?”
Emerson didn’t budge. “You will not,” she repeated, all kindness. “Cross Creek has had an incredible week, and your photos are a huge reason for that success. That makes you part of the group. Plus, something tells me Eli won’t be unhappy to see you, and despite all that bad-boy swagger, he’s really a good guy.”
The air in Scarlett’s lungs stopped short. “Eli and I are . . .” She broke off in search of the right word, but hell if she could find one that was both accurate and acceptable for use in mixed company. “We aren’t a thing.”
“Okay,” Emerson said, the lack of argument sending a ribbon of surprise through Scarlett’s belly. “You’re still not intruding, and we still aren’t taking no for an answer.”
Scarlett nearly said it anyway. But all at once, she realized the truth.
She didn’t want to say no, and she didn’t want to stay in and work. Just for tonight, she wanted to be part of the group.
And even if it was also just for tonight, she really wanted to see Eli.
“In that case,” Scarlett said, her heart fluttering faster even though her mind was 100 percent made up, “just give me five minutes to change. But the first round is on me. No arguments.”
All it took was one look across the dimly lit interior of The Bar for Eli to know he was in deep fucking trouble. The place was more crowded than usual for a Thursday night, likely thanks to the rain that had made harvesting every field in Millhaven either difficult or downright impossible. Greyson Whittaker stood over by the jukebox with Billy Masterson and Moonpie Porter, leaning against the far end of the scuffed-and-scraped mahogany bar, with attitude to spare. The country music blaring from the overhead speakers was as loud as the tiny white lights dangling from the rafters were soft, and the beer flowed readily from tap to table.
But it was the sight of Scarlett, sitting on the other side of the bar in a tight black miniskirt and a smile that could make a dead man sing, that was going to be Eli’s undoing.
“Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, you goddamn slacker,” came a familiar, joking voice from beside him, and Eli grabbed the chance for distraction with both hands.
“I took the time to shower. You know, with soap and water.” He lifted a brow at Hunter, whose smile was admirably close to Eli’s in the cocky department tonight. “You might want to give it a shot sometime.”
“I clean up just fine,” his brother said, shaking Eli’s hand and leaning in for a shoulder bump in greeting. “And oh by the way, I’m also the one of us who’s getting laid, so . . .”
Eli simultaneously laughed and thrashed the urge to send his gaze back to the spot across the bar where Scarlett sat between Daisy and Emerson. “Details. I’m still the best looking of the three of us. Speaking of which”—he spun a stare over the groups of people clustered at café tables and along the length of the L-shaped bar—“where’s Saint Owen?”
Eli registered Hunter’s oh-hell expression two seconds before he heard Owen’s throat clear from behind him, and seriously, how did his oldest brother manage to slide into his blind spot every single time?
“I’m right here,” he said, the look on his face marking him as none too amused at the nickname. “Took you long enough to make your way out.”
“Yeah,” Eli said. But since he couldn’t exactly follow up with “Sorry, but I was up to my adverbs, writing a new article for Cross Creek’s website,” he pasted on a smirk instead. “This place looks busy.”
Hunter nodded. “Rain’ll do that. Plus, Thursday is ladies’ night.”
Unable to keep his stare in check any longer, Eli let his eyes drift back over toward the spot where Scarlett sat at a café table with Emerson and Daisy Halstead, her legs crossed in a provocative knot and the four-inch heel of her strappy sandal hooked over the bottom rung of her bar stool. Anyone else would stick out like a swear on Sunday wearing a skirt and heels in The Bar, but when Scarlett threw her head back and laughed at something Emerson had said, then lifted her two-for-one draft beer to her bow-shaped mouth for a nice, long draw, she looked for all the world like she’d never belonged anywhere else.
Scarlett chose exactly that moment to shift her glance in his direction, their eyes locking hard enough to send a current of want on a hot path down Eli’s spine. The sensation met an untimely end, though, when Owen let out a low curse.
“Please tell me that look doesn’t mean what I think it means.”
Although Eli’s heart had just dumped directly into his gut, he scraped together a bored expression. “I’m not about to pretend to know what’s going on in your brain pan, brother.”
“Well, then, let me spell it out for you. What I’m thinking is that it looks like you’re getting a little too friendly with the woman who’s got the fate of our PR in her hands right now,” Owen said with just enough frost in his tone to turn Eli’s fingers to fists.
He made a noise in his throat that was less than polite, but come on. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. First you told me not to piss Scarlett off. Now you’re telling me not to be nice to her? Jesus, Owen! Make up your damn mind.”
“I’m not telling you not to be nice to her. I’m telling you not to sleep with her,” Owen growled back.
“I’m not!” Not that he didn’t want to be sleeping with Scarlett. Or hadn’t thought about it no less than four dozen times since he’d dragged himself out of bed this morning. Because he most definitely had, but . . . “Anyway, whether or not Scarlett and I are sleeping together is beside the point, because there are only two people who get a say over who I have sex with. One of them is me, and I can damn sure promise the other one’s not you.”
Hunter inserted himself between them on the floorboards before Owen could answer or Eli could back up his words with something decidedly more convincing. “Okay, you two. That’s enough chest thumping for tonight.”
“But—”
Eli’s protest collided with Owen’s, but Hunter shot them both down with a quick “ah!” Looking at Owen first, he continued. “Scarlett’s a very nice woman, and no one wants to piss her off. Including Eli, I’m sure.” Swinging his steely gaze at Eli, he added, “And everyone here knows how important Cross Creek’s PR is. No one’s going to do anything rash to jeopardize it.”
His tone added a nonverbal right? to the mix, and Eli knotted his arms over his chest in an equally wordless reply.
“So now that we’re all on the same page,” Hunter continued. “Can we please just cut the crap and go have a beer? Because we’ve had a great week at the farm, and I’d hate to end it by fixin’ to take you out to the parking lot to knock some damned sense into both of your asses.”
To Eli’s absolute surprise, Owen nodded. “You’re right.”
“Come again?” Hunter asked, voicing a prettied-up version of the “what the hell?” that Eli had been just about to let loose.
Owen tugged a hand through his hair, letting his palm rest on the back of his neck as he blew out a breath. “I said you’re right, okay? We have had a better week than any of us could’ve hoped for, and . . . well, I guess I just don’t want anything to happen to make us lose the ground we’ve gained. That’s all.”
“Do you really think I’d sleep with Scarlett and then blow her off?” Eli took care to keep the sharp edges from his voice—not because he was unoffended at his brother’s implication, but this was the first semi-decent conversation they’d been able to forge in ages. Being pissy right off the bat wouldn’t help. Even if it was warranted.
Owen hesitated, but then sent a look around the bar; specifically, at the four—shit, make that five—women Eli had very casually dated within the last year. “Monogamy isn’t exactly your bag, Eli.”
“Fair,” he allowed after a second. “But neither is being a dick.”
Hunter nodded. “You’ve gotta admit, he has a point, O.”
“I’m not saying I think you’re a dick. I’m . . .” Owen broke off, a rare flicker of emotion moving through his serious gray eyes. “I’m looking at the bigger picture. This momentum we’re gaining doesn’t just have the potential to get us out of the hot water of the bet you made with Greyson. If we play this exposure right, the increased business could be our ticket to serious growth.”
A pang of understanding hit Eli right in the gut. “You think we can make the fixed-structure farm stand happen if we keep going like this.”
“No.”
The word hiked both Eli’s and Hunter’s chins upward in surprise. But then Owen said, “I’ve run the numbers. If we can sustain the sort of business we’ve seen this week, I think we can make anything happen.”
“Whoa.” Hunter’s jaw unhinged in a glint of day-old stubble. “Are you serious?”
Under any other circumstances, Eli would’ve laughed at the irony of the question. But right now, he was far too busy fielding all the holy shit winging around in his gray matter.
Owen loved Cross Creek the way Eli loved writing. It was his livelihood. It was his life.
And if they played their cards right, it might just take off like a rocket.
“I get it,” Eli said slowly, his heart pounding harder as he looked first at Scarlett, then at his brother through the dim overhead light spilling down from the rafters. “I don’t want to fuck this up, either.”
Owen followed the path of Eli’s glance, tipping his head ever so slightly in Scarlett’s direction. “Then do me a favor and don’t,” he flipped back, and wait . . .
“Was that a joke?”
The corners of Owen’s mouth went from a twitch to a definite half smile. “I do have a sense of humor on occasion. I’m not as slick as you, I know,” he added, but Eli shook his head and laughed.
“Actually, that was pretty good.”
“Thanks.” Owen’s smile stuck around for another beat before his expression slid back into more serious territory. “Look, I’m not saying I won’t ride your ass when it comes to the farm, especially now that we’ve got so much on the line. But as for the rest . . . just be sure to use that big ol’ head of yours for something other than a hat rack, okay? Especially when it comes to a certain blonde across the bar.”
Eli opened his mouth, fully intending to go for the default. A maneuver his brother had clearly been expecting, because he beat Eli to the one-two by adding, “You can save the no-big-deal routine. You were right about your personal life being none of my business, and anyway”—Owen shot a split-second glance at Hunter—“after seeing the look you and Scarlett shared a couple of minutes ago, neither one of us is buying it anyway.”
Hunter gave up a sorry dude, but yeah nod, and shit. Eli had nothing. “Okay,” he said, because A) Owen wasn’t wrong about the eye guzzling, and B) it was about as close to hugging it out as he and his brothers were going to get in the middle of The Bar.
“Cool.” The slight softening of Owen’s steel-gray stare was the only acknowledgment of what had passed between them, but Eli saw it all the same. “I’m going to run and grab a round. You in?”
Laughing, Eli jumped right back into bravado-as-usual. “If you’re buying, I’m drinking.”
“’Course you are.” Owen let go of one more smile before heading over to the bar. Eli turned to take a step toward the table where Scarlett was now chatting with Michelle Martin and a few other locals, but Hunter’s brow lift stopped his movement midstep.
“Dad didn’t raise any dummies, but you’re swingin’ at a hell of a curve there, brother. You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Eli looked at Scarlett just in time to catch her bright, beautiful smile right in the chest.
“Nope,” he said.
But he walked over to her anyway.