When Elle and Justin returned to Oak Bramble, the inn was buzzing with activity. Jess had called in extra employees to help with the photo shoot, and the grounds were crowded with people, tables, lights, models, and camera equipment. Jess was in the middle of the chaos, directing and fixing details, all with her warm smile and bright laugh.

“Mom,” Justin said, coming up behind her.

Jess turned, giving Justin a blinding smile. “You’re back! Do you see this?”

“I sure do,” he said.

“The place looks amazing,” Elle told Jess. “Truly.”

Jess blushed, looking pleased. “I was so nervous before the magazine crew arrived,” she confided. “But now I’m too busy to be worried. It does look good though, doesn’t it?”

The models were being directed to a long table decked out with the place settings Elle had suggested. A buzz of pleasure at being a part of the scene ran through Elle’s veins.

“You should see what they’ve done so far,” Jess was saying. “They only just finished photographing the interior of the inn and the grounds. And I just love that Sasha.”

“Sasha?” Justin asked.

“The writer!” Jess said, as though he should have known.

Elle bit back a smile when Justin made a face. It sounded as though Sasha had graduated from being called, that woman.

“What a talented young lady. Apparently, she’s heard of Oliver—smart girl—and she spent a good fifteen minutes telling me how much she loves his work!”

“Oliver?” Elle asked.

“My youngest son,” Jess explained. “He writes for a magazine in Seattle. Anyhow, Sasha is directing the shoot, and I just love her vision for it. Oh, Jus, this is going to put us on the map! I just know it. You’ll see. After this Mister Vanhelt will hand over the place. Heck, he’ll likely pay me to take it off his hands!”

“Hm,” Justin said. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Elle noted.

“Well, off you go. I have so much to do. You’re preparing the croissants, right?”

Justin nodded. “I’m on it.”

“Oh, maybe Elle should help you,” Jess said quickly, as though she’d just thought of it.

“I’m sure Justin has had enough of me today,” Elle chimed in.

“Mom, I don’t need help,” Justin said. “She’s exhausted. We just ran around after those little—“

Elle gave him a look. Jess did too.

“Well,” he finished gruffly. “I don’t need help.”

“Hogwash,” Jess said. “It’s a triple batch.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I still don’t need help.”

Someone—a sharply dressed brunette Elle would guess was Sasha—called Jess’s name.

“I have to run,” Jess said briskly. “No more arguing. Elle, you’ll help. Justin, you’ll take it. Done?”

Elle knew when she’d been had. Besides, making croissants sounded … fun. Would it really be so bad? “Yes, of course,” she told Jess.

“Yeah, yeah,” Justin said.

“Excellent! See you later.” Jess squeezed Justin’s arm, then waved and turned to the shoot.

* * *

Elle removed her shawl once they were in the kitchen. She placed it over a chair.

“Any ideas why your mom is set on putting us together?” she asked.

Justin shook his head. He opened a tall cupboard and pulled out an apron. As he handed it to her, he said, “She’s meddling. It’s what moms do.”

“I suppose so,” Elle said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “She’ll get over it.” With a mischievous grin, he added, “I know I’m not your type.”

Elle looked away as she put the apron on, pulling it over her head and wrapping the strings around her waist. In truth, Justin’s grin did strange things to her. It made her wonder about what it would be like to kiss him. Which was a terrible idea for so many reasons, one because he was Justin and two because she’d just asked him to be her friend.

Friend. Not kissing buddy.

Which was a good thing?

Right.

"So Jess usually does this?" she asked, redirecting the conversation to safer topics.

Justin nodded. "She taught all of us kids when we were little. Croissants take a few days to make. You mix the dough, let it sit overnight, then you fold the dough and the butter together a few times. The butter needs to stay firm, though, so you chill it after each fold. Then you chill that overnight. You don’t get to bake them until the third day. The dough’s ready to go, so you’ll be helping me with the folding.”

“It takes a few days?” Elle asked, still hung up on that little piece of information. "I had no idea so much went into baking croissants. I’ve only made the ones that come out of a can.”

He gave her a disgusted look, which made her laugh. “Those are not croissants,” he said.

“Justin Tate, I do believe you’re a bit of a food snob.”

He gave her a heart-melting grin. “My mom wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

Elle smiled back, then followed him to the industrial-sized refrigerator. He pulled out what looked like a miniature mountain of butter, packaged by the pound.

“First we need to roll out the butter.” He set down the butter on the table. “It needs to be the right size and shape, or the croissants will look like a train wreck.”

“All that is going into the croissants?” Elle asked, eyeing the stack as it grew. “Now I know why I can’t stop eating them.”

“Pay attention,” he said, but she thought she saw amusement pull up one corner of his mouth. “Once we get the butter rolled out we’ll add the dough and fold them together. Roll and fold three times, and after each round of rolling it out and folding it, the whole thing needs to chill for thirty minutes. Since we have three batches to take care of we’re going to be here a while.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “You know those buttery layers you were crying over at breakfast? Well, this is how it’s done.”

“God, I love those layers,” she groaned. “And the butter.”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled. It was gone in a flash like he’d caught himself.

“We have to move fast,” he said, placing the tray on the table. “If the butter starts melting, you’re dead.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Dead?”

He lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. “It’s what we—my siblings—would say. We made it a game. If you let the butter get too warm, you have to start over. Which means going back to square one. So we said you were dead and you lost the game.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve never killed the croissants?” she asked.

He smirked. “I’m the only Tate kid who hasn’t.”

“Momma’s boy,” she teased.

“Better get to work,” he said, nodding to the butter. “Don’t want this to be the first time.”

Elle moved to stand at his elbow. Their arms brushed, and she told herself she didn’t notice the way heat radiated off his body. The man was like a walking furnace.

“So show me how it’s done, momma’s boy,” she said, shaking off her thoughts.

He handed her a pound of butter. “Take the wrapper off. Chop it up.”

While Elle followed instructions, he grabbed a measuring tape, rolling pin, and a sheet of wax paper.

“A measuring tape?” she asked. “Really?”

He gave her a look. “I’m an expert at this,” he said. “Trust.” He took the chopped butter and pounded it into one big glob, then scooped it up and plopped it onto a sheet of wax paper. Next, he started to roll it out, using quick, economical movements. Once the butter layer was large enough, he used the measuring tape to gauge the size. “We need it to be a square,” he explained. “Otherwise it’ll mess up the next steps.”

Elle watched him roll out the butter a bit more. It looked easy enough, so she offered, “Can I try?”

“Sure,” he stepped back. “But be quick. Don’t want it to melt.”

“I know. Wouldn’t want to add croissant killer to my résumé.”

He stood, arms crossed, watching her like she was handling a bomb and not a baked good.

She made a tentative pass with the pin.

“Put more strength into it,” he said. “You have to work the butter or the consistency will be off.”

She tried again.

“Check the tape. The sides look uneven to me.”

Elle said something colorful beneath her breath. She was tempted to show him she knew how to use a damn rolling pin: As a blunt instrument for hitting bossy men.

Who in their right mind uses a measuring tape to make a baked good?!

She rolled with great enthusiasm, imagining she was squishing his face into a neatly measured square.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” he said.

Elle straightened, brandishing the pin. “Are you going to complain, or are you going to quit griping and show me what I’m doing wrong?”

Justin moved to her in two long strides. Elle stepped back, stopping when she bumped into the table. He was close enough she could feel his warmth, smell his scent of spice and soap.

“I’ll show you how,” he said. His voice, low and rumbly, sent energy fizzing through her body.

Dear God, what this man does to me.

Elle swallowed. “Well then. Good,” she said in a high, thin voice she barely recognized as her own. She made a tidy, ahem noise and waited for him to give her space.

He didn’t move.

She turned, acutely aware of his nearness, and the brush of her body against his.

As Justin wrapped his long arms around Elle, she had a distracting thought: The butter wasn’t the only thing in the room in danger of melting.

* * *

Justin stood behind Elle. She was small, and her curves fit him like a puzzle piece he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. She smelled of roses blooming in the sun, and her skin was hot. Flushed. All at once, the desire to turn her around, to run his hands over her body, to consume her, filled him.

He picked up the rolling pin.

“I’m going to show you how to roll it out,” he said, enjoying her shiver when he spoke into the curl of her ear. “Watch me.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice soft.

He pushed the pin down and out, rolling the butter into a tidy square. Each movement brought him closer to her. Her breaths were uneven. She was beyond distracting. He’d lost track of what he’d been trying to prove.

The butter layer was done. Flat and even. Square.

He didn’t move.

Suddenly, Elle was turning in his arms. She was pinned between his body and the table. She looked up at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

Justin leaned in, covering the space between them in a breath. He inched closer, watching her lips part. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he tasted her. Slowly. A nip. A bite.

Justin pulled her closer. When it wasn’t enough, he lifted her onto the table. She wrapped her legs around him and he groaned.

She was sweetness. Rich and delicate. A heady flavor he wanted to lose himself in. He couldn’t get enough.

Elle curled her arms around him. She clutched at his hair. Ran her fingers down his neck.

Justin was lost. Heat ran through him like an inferno. He leaned forward, pushing her back and down, moving with her, moving closer to where he wanted to be, and then—

“Hey Mom, can you—"

The kitchen door swished shut behind Amy. “Ew, Jus. Not on the counter.”

Elle stiffened at the sound of Amy’s voice. She pushed him off and away like he was contaminated. It took Justin a moment longer to shake off the fog.

“God, it’s ass-shaped,” Amy groaned.

Elle backed away from Justin and the table. Her face was flushed a deep red, but he didn’t think it was from the kiss.

“Amy,” Justin ground out. “Shut. Up.”

“I have to—" Elle stumbled into the counter. “I have to go. Sorry. I can’t—"

“Wait,” Justin said to Elle, holding out a hand to her. But she slipped past.

She shook her head once, not meeting his eyes. Then she rushed out the door.

Justin turned to Amy. “Great timing,” he said.

“Mom’s gonna be pissed,” Amy retorted, pointing to the counter.

The butter—the carefully rolled and measured square—must have gotten between Elle and the table. Specifically between Elle’s ass and the table. Two bowl-shaped depressions stared back at him, making the corners of his mouth twitch. He’d never hear the end of it. No doubt Amy would tell his brothers. For the rest of his life, this would be the story of how Justin killed the butter.

Amy crossed her arms. “This isn’t funny,” she said. “Do you even know how gross that is? What if the health inspectors stopped by?”

Justin wanted to care, but all he could think was: Worth. It.

* * *

Elle fled the kitchen. Her thoughts swirled, and her pulse still fluttered in her chest. The kiss—that kiss—had messed with her head. She was certain her brain had short-circuited. What had she been thinking?

Justin was a flirtation. He was attractive and different, but that was where it stopped.

Only … Elle had a problem. Before the kiss, she could pretend they could be friends. But now Elle knew the truth. Justin was dangerous. Not because of the way he lived or dressed, but because now she knew exactly what she was missing. She knew he was a good man. A kind man. And she was starting to realize it meant more than all the rest.

Unfortunately, she had no idea what to do about it.

Elle was used to rules and order. Good manners might have been something her mother drilled into her, but she’d grown to depend on them to understand the way the world worked. Men asked women on dates. Wooed them. Met their families. Proposed with a ring.

This was how Elle’s world worked—it was how she wanted it to work.

But Justin didn’t fit into her perfectly planned future.

Did he want to date her? Would he take her out to a nice dinner? Or expect sex and nothing else? How did that even work?

Elle’s mind whirled. She had no idea how to navigate the situation. She was tempted, so tempted, to rush back to him and ask him to explain it to her.

There was no point in pretending, though.

Elle didn’t do flings. She wanted flowers and dinner at a restaurant with linen tablecloths. She didn’t know how to be casual. All she knew, all she wanted, was a serious relationship that led to love, marriage, and everything that came with it.

Justin—and his searing kisses that made her feel like the world was full of possibilities—was dangerous. Elle couldn’t afford to lose herself to him. He might be able to kiss and move on, but she wasn’t made that way. For Elle, kisses like that were a brush away from falling in love.