There was a marching band in Owen’s skull. Check that. There were two marching bands in his skull, and they were duking it out for the top honors of Loudest Band Standing. Rolling over, he covered his head with his pillow, while pieces of his memory came back in fits and starts.

Doing that last, ill-advised shot of whiskey with his brother (never again. Damn, his head felt like it was going to cave in). Lane finally balling up the courage to ask Daisy out. Cate’s sassy, sexy smile as she leaned over the bar and told him her middle name, the feel of her body, soft yet strong, as she guided him into the house and up the stairs…

Owen, please. Take me to bed.

His heart thwacked against his rib cage, going from zero to holy-fucking-shit in about four nanoseconds. Bolting upright in his bed, he flung a panicked gaze around his room, forcing himself to take in the rumpled sheets, the side of the mattress opposite him that was—shit!—totally empty, and the sun relentlessly streaming in through the slats in the blinds. His head spun, and, after a second, his stomach went along for the ride. But he couldn’t afford to be foggy, here. He had to figure out where Cate was.

And, more importantly, exactly what had happened between them last night.

“Okay. Okay, okay. Think.” Owen commanded himself to take a slow, deep inhale even though it took herculean effort. The jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing last night were strewn messily on the floorboards beside his bed, along with his socks and boots. His boxer shorts were in place on his hips, which would have been a good sign if he could remember with total certainty whether they’d been there the whole time or he’d done the now-you-see-them, now-you-don’t routine with them at some point after he and Cate had crossed the threshold of his bedroom.

But he couldn’t have. He might not remember the finer details of his night—fucking Jack Daniels!—but come on. The kisses he and Cate had shared had been damn near incendiary. She was freaking gorgeous, and as impulsive as it had been, he’d wanted her like water and air combined. If he’d slept with her, it would be tattooed in his memory. Damn it, why couldn’t he remember anything after they’d gone into his bedroom?

And what was that smell wafting up from his kitchen?

Shoving the blankets off his legs, Owen stumbled out of bed and tiptoed to the door. The warm, enticing scent grew stronger as he peered out into the hallway, earthy coffee mingled in with some baked good he couldn’t quite identify. Although he was tempted to take a straight path down the stairs to investigate, his current state wouldn’t win him any favors, so he skinned into a pair of sweats and a fresh T-shirt, stopping to scrub his teeth and throw back some much-needed ibuprofen before heading quietly to the kitchen.

“Oh, hey. You’re awake,” Cate said, looking up at him from behind the rectangular island. She wore the same clothes she’d had on last night, although her low, neat ponytail and fresh face suggested she’d washed up since waking. A plate of golden, slightly misshapen baked goods sat by her elbow, next to a nearly empty cup of coffee and a copy of The Camden Valley Chronicle that was open to the business section, and, okay, he’d officially gone around the bend.

“Are those homemade biscuits?” Of all the questions flying through Owen’s mind, that one seemed the most innocuous. Albeit definitely weird.

Funny, Cate didn’t so much as blink. “Yep. For a single guy, your pantry is freakishly well-stocked. Although I had to cut them out by hand, so they’re not very pretty. I hope you don’t mind.” She hesitated, biting her lip even though her stare never wavered. “I know I’m making a habit of invading your kitchen space, but I thought you might want something hearty to feed your hangover. And I like to bake. Obviously. So…”

“No, I don’t mind,” Owen said. All the less-innocuous questions that had been filling his brain fought for his attention, and he cleared his throat. “So, ah, you…stayed.”

“I did.” Now, her stare did drop, just a fraction, but it was enough to make his breath go tight. “Which was really presumptuous of me, too, I know. But I figured we should probably talk about last night privately. And sooner rather than later.”

Translation: before I see you at work tomorrow, and Owen’s mouth worked independently of both his brain and his better judgement.

“Oh, hell. I didn’t…we didn’t…did we…”

Cate’s brows traveled up, but she followed his fumbled question easily enough. “Don’t look so mortified, Casanova.”

“I’m not mortified,” he said automatically. “I mean, I am, but I’m also not. I think.” Jesus, could he ruin this any more thoroughly? “What I mean is—”

“Owen. Stop.” The quiet words were at odds with the firm tone she’d used to deliver them, and both made him do what she’d asked. “Nothing happened.”

Relief moved through Owen’s gut, followed by a swift shot of disappointment that was gone before he could even kick himself for it. “Nothing,” he said.

She must have heard the question in his voice, because she amended her claim with a quick hint of a smile. “Well, not nothing-nothing. I mean, I am here. But as far as the rest, you walked me down the hall to your bedroom last night. We kissed a little. And…you fell asleep.”

Owen took it back. Mortified wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as this. “Cate,” he started, but she shook her head.

“And this is why I slept on your couch instead of going home. We have an honesty policy, and it doesn’t just apply when you’ve had a few and you’re flirting with me.”

Cate took a biscuit from the larger plate in front of her and placed it on a dish, sliding it toward him on the island before continuing. “You got a little drunk. You said some things you might not otherwise say, which led to some things you might not have otherwise done. It’s not a big deal, unless—”

Owen pulled back to look at her carefully. “Unless, what?”

She brushed a few crumbs off the granite with a paper towel, saying nothing, and he watched his hand leap out to touch her forearm over the small expanse of the island.

“If we’re going to go with this honestly policy, it can’t be a one-way street. Help me out and talk to me, here,” he said. Cate exhaled slowly, but to Owen’s relief, she didn’t dodge the question.

“It’s not a big deal unless you regret what happened.”

“I don’t.” His answer flew out as quickly as his hand had, and he realized that not only was he still touching her, but he didn’t want to break the connection. “I think we’ve already established that I kind of suck at this, so I’m just going to say it straight. Being a little drunk might have motivated me to say and do what I did, but that doesn’t make me sorry that we kissed, and it damn sure doesn’t make my words untrue.” Although his pulse kicked at his next thought, he knew he still had to give it voice. “But I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about what happened last night, either.”

Cate’s chin lifted. “Why would I feel uncomfortable?”

“Because I kissed you,” Owen said. He might not be sorry they’d kissed; hell, for over a week, he’d wanted to do way more unspeakable things than put his mouth on hers. That still didn’t change the fact that he’d acted less than respectably by turning his impulse into action, then topped the whole thing off by being an idiot and falling asleep on her.

None of which seemed to be bothering Cate in the least.

“Actually, if you want to split hairs, I kissed you first.” Picking up her coffee cup with a matter-of-fact shrug, she took one last sip before turning toward the pot on the counter. “Coffee?”

Surprise sent his brows on a one-way trip toward his bedhead, and his manners made a showing about nine hours too late. Tardy little bastards. “Yes, please. And you might have technically kissed me first, but I still kissed you back”—impulsively. Deeply. So fucking hungrily—“a lot. That wasn’t very honorable of me.”

“We’re two consenting adults. What’s not honorable about that?” Cate asked. She took a mug down from the open shelf above the coffeepot, filling both it and her empty one before returning to the island, and were they seriously having this conversation as easily as they’d chat about the weather?

“The fact that you’re Brian’s widow, for one,” Owen said quietly.

Everything about Cate stilled except for her eyes, which lifted to meet his. “Do you think I haven’t had sex since Brian died?” she asked, and, oookay, it looked like they sure as shit were.

“I don’t…I’m sure that’s none of my business,” Owen managed to cough out. But Cate gave up that glittering no-holds-barred stare that read well? for a breath, then two, before he had no choice but to actually answer her question. “I don’t know. Have you?”

A wistful laugh puffed past her lips. “It’s been more than three years, Owen. Of course, I’ve had sex. I mean, not a lot, and not…very meaningfully.” She broke off a piece of a biscuit, although she didn’t take a bite. “But don’t feel guilty about what you said to me last night because I’m Brian’s widow. For three years, all I’ve heard from people is ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘how sad for you’ and ‘poor Cate’. It actually felt kind of nice—normal, I guess—that you got a little drunk and flirted with me.”

His pulse picked up the pace, and he opened his mouth to argue. Not tiptoeing around her when it came to health insurance benefits was a hell of a lot different than kissing her senseless in his hallway. But she’d said she wanted to be treated like a regular person, and her actions had backed up her claim, one hundred percent.

Which meant he had no reason to hold back.

“The beer had nothing to do with what I said to you,” Owen told her, and now her laugh came out louder and less restrained.

“Yeah, right.”

But oh, no. If she could go for broke in the honesty department, then so could he. “Maybe I had a few more drinks last night than was smart. But the only thing the alcohol did was give me the courage to say what I think every time I see you when I’m sober. You really are very pretty.”

Cate’s cheeks flushed as if to punctuate the statement. “And you really should get courageous more often.”

“I’m just being honest,” he said. Speaking of which, if he was going to go all in… “I wasn’t trying to frustrate you by bringing up Brian. I’m sure being a young widow isn’t easy, especially in a town as small as Millhaven.”

“I know you weren’t trying to frustrate me. It’s just that I feel like I’ve got a giant spotlight on me sometimes,” she said, her voice softening along with her expression. “I mean, for three years, I’ve been Poor, Widowed Cate. Lily’s mom. Brian’s wife. No one looks at me without seeing them. Some days, it’s enough to make me want to scream.” She gave up that no-nonsense stare that said she was measuring her words with care. “To be honest, Brian and I weren’t exactly the perfect couple everyone thinks we were.”

Owen froze, his coffee cup halfway to his lips and his chest chock-full of shock. “You weren’t?” She and Brian had gotten married right out of high school, for God’s sake. They were always the couple voted most likely to…well, couple.

“We weren’t unhappy,” she amended. “But our daughter was born less than a year after graduation.” She paused to clear her throat. “Specifically, nine months after.”

“Oh. Oh.” Holy shit. She’d gotten pregnant by accident? “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Cate nodded. “Obviously, it’s not something we advertised. Brian and I fibbed a bit about our due date and said Lily surprised us by arriving six weeks early, so nobody realized the pregnancy wasn’t planned. Or if they did, they never had the balls to say so. And then we had Lily, and she was a sweet baby. Slept like an angel, right from the start. I even took her to Doc Sanders because I thought something was wrong with her. She was always so happy.”

Her expression grew suddenly tender, the brief, unexpected emotion in her eyes arrowing directly to Owen’s gut. But it lasted for less than a breath, quickly covered by her careful, practical smile, and he ditched caution without thinking twice.

“But?”

“But the past is in the past,” she said after a pause. “What I’d really like now is to move forward. Not as Brian’s widow or Lily’s mom. Not as Poor Cate. Just as me.”

Owen thought, but only for a second before nodding. “Okay.”

“Really?”

The shock dominating her features was so genuine, he laughed, which made her laugh in turn, and, God, she really was beautiful.

“Yes, really,” he said. “What, you thought I was going to argue with you?”

The arch of her brows told him that’s exactly what she’d thought. “I don’t know. Maybe a little. I mean, no offense, but you’re not exactly a go with the flow kind of guy.”

He’d take exception, save the fact that she wasn’t wrong. In truth, it was kind of nice not to have to wade through any bullshit with her. “No, but I am an honesty guy, remember? I’m not big on pretenses. From here on in, you’re just you, and I’m just me. We’re starting fresh.” He stuck out his hand to prove it. “Hi. Owen Cross.”

Smiling, she wrapped her fingers around his firmly. “Cate McAllister.”

Even though he knew he probably should, Owen didn’t let go. “It’s nice to meet you, Cate McAllister. Since you were so kind as to make breakfast this morning, I was wondering if you might like to stick around and enjoy it with me.”

“Well, I’m not normally a breakfast person, but since we’re starting fresh, I suppose I could make an exception.”

He moved around the island, pulling out one of the bar stools tucked beneath it for Cate to sit on before taking the other one around the opposite side to face her. “Don’t you eat the things you bake?”

“Sometimes I take a small bite, just to be sure nothing went horribly wrong, but no. I don’t usually eat what I bake,” she said, settling in with her coffee.

Owen’s curiosity kicked in good and hard, but he couldn’t resist the smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Horribly wrong. That sounds reassuring.”

“Very funny. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. I’ve made these biscuits a thousand times, and this batch seems okay.”

“All right, then. I’m going in.”

Breaking off a piece of the biscuit in front of him, he reached for the butter Cate had taken out of the refrigerator, applying enough to melt into the flaky layers of dough. He popped the bite into his mouth and reached out to ready another, but the flavors bursting over his taste buds stopped him mid-move.

“Holy…” Manners lost, Owen took a second, bigger bite, torn between wanting to eat as much as possible and slowly enjoying every light and fluffy crumb. The biscuit was both savory and sweet, with the slightest tang from the buttermilk playing perfectly with the heady flavor of the melted butter, and God damn, his pie hole had just beat out Disney World as the happiest place on earth.

“I think you need to examine your definition of ‘okay’,” he managed a few seconds later. “Did you seriously just throw these biscuits together out of regular old ingredients while I slept?”

Cate laughed. “I told you they weren’t bad. Although for the record, good biscuits aren’t really that hard to make.”

The sound he let slip was this close to a snort. “Uh, yeah they are,” he said, reaching for another two from the stack on the plate between them.

“How do you know?” Her tone was loaded with curiosity, but lucky for him, the question was a total no-brainer.

“Because I’ve tried.”

Her lips parted into a pretty, peach-colored O that outlined her shock. “You bake?”

“I cook,” Owen corrected. “I run a farm, so food is kind of my thing, especially the specialty produce like heirloom tomatoes and harder-to-find varieties of some vegetables and herbs. I’m a decent cook, but I don’t really have the hang of baking. My biscuits always turn out like stones.”

“Hmm.” Cate took a long draw from her coffee cup, clearly thinking. “You’re probably overworking the dough, although you might also be going heavy-handed on your flour. You’re not just dunking the measuring cup in the container, are you?”

Shit. “Is there another way to do it?” he asked.

She was off her stool in a flash of dark brown curls and total determination. “Oh, my God, come here. I can’t let another minute go by without you knowing the answer to that question.”

A quick grab of the flour from his pantry and the measuring cup sitting in the drying rack beside his sink told Owen she was dead serious about a tutorial, and, yeah, with a look like the one that was on her face right now? He wasn’t about to say no.

“Baking isn’t like cooking, where there’s more room for error and you can make recipes to taste. If you want to get things right, you’ve got to follow the rules pretty strictly,” Cate said.

“I do use those measuring cups, you know,” he replied drily. “I’m not a total heathen.”

Her expression remained serious, although if he wasn’t mistaken, a flush crept high over her cheeks, and, note to self: sarcasm + Cate = oh, hell yes.

Squaring her shoulders, she pointed to the half-empty bag of flour she’d placed on the counter. “I’ll reserve judgment until after I see how you use them.”

She handed over the measuring cup expectantly. Owen took it by the handle, reaching into the bag to scoop up enough flour to fill the cup to brimming, but Cate stopped him before he could get the thing all the way over the counter.

“Argh, stop! That’s what I was afraid of. Look”—she gestured to the measuring cup in a wordless may I? and he passed it over with a nod—“see how there’s a mound of flour on top, over the measuring line?” She shook the excess back into the bag, and, whoa, how had he never noticed how much extra that could add?

“Yeah,” Owen said. But rather than give him crap, even good-naturedly, Cate turned so he could see exactly what she was doing.

“Flour is easily mis-measured. Scooping from the bag not only gives you that extra crown on top, but it can also cram more flour into the cup than belongs there. Since all-purpose flour also packs a decent amount of gluten, using too much can totally throw your biscuits out of whack.”

Huh. He had to admit, that made sense. “Okay. So how do I measure accurately if using the cup alone won’t do it?”

“Where do you keep your teaspoons?” she asked, and talk about the last thing he expected her to say. It must’ve showed on his face, because she added, “Trust me.”

“You’re the boss.” Owen tucked his fingers beneath the oiled bronze handle on his utensil drawer and gave up a tug. He passed over a spoon, which Cate used to fill the measuring cup with light, heaping scoops of flour. Her movements were wholly natural, as perfectly made for her as her fingerprints, and his heart tripped beneath his T-shirt. Instinct and impulse combined to draw him in closer as she flipped the spoon around, sweeping the handle over the edge of the plastic cup to even out the flour inside.

“See?” She handed over the measuring cup, which was noticeably lighter than when he’d filled it. “Spooning the flour in and leveling it off gives you a more accurate measurement.”

“And that’s your secret, huh?” Owen asked with a grin. The edges of her mouth twitched in a borderline smirk, and damn, he should’ve known her sassy side had been dying to make an appearance.

“That’s how you measure flour. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a sexy smile to get me to give up my secrets.”

In that moment, he realized she hadn’t shifted back when he’d leaned in to watch her work. Only a few scant inches of daylight separated their bodies. Hips. Chests. Shoulders.

Mouths.

His pulse flared. “You think I’m sexy?”

“I do,” Cate murmured, her stare glinting like double-barrel bourbon over ice. “And you know what else I think?”

“What?”

“I think we could try that kiss again. If you want.”

Holy shit, she was full of surprises. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She lifted her chin, so close that Owen could feel the heat of her exhale. “Come here, Casanova. I’m not going to bite you. Not even if you ask me nicely.”

He closed the slice of space between them in one forward press. For a second, their mouths rested together as if getting acquainted, warm and whisper-soft. But then a sound came out of her, low in the back of her throat, and Owen’s belly tightened in demand. He slid his tongue across the seam of her lips, tasting his way past them and into her mouth. Cate met him halfway, her tongue darting out to tease his, to flirt with his teeth, then the curve of his bottom lip.

Christ, her mouth was perfect. Warm. Lush. Brazen, just like the rest of her.

He wanted that mouth everywhere.

Reaching up, Owen cupped the back of her neck with both palms, his fingers hooking up into the thick fall of her curls while his thumbs cradled her face to hold her close. He tasted and took, his cock going hard against the press of their bodies as she did the same right back, and, finally, with one last sweep of her tongue, Cate pulled back.

“You are an adorable drunk, but you’re an even better kisser when you’re sober,” she said with a smile that did nothing to ease his arousal. “I’m glad we cleared the air about last night. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Owen felt her on his mouth for the rest of the day.