Parker rolled his eyes. God, he was a fucking mess. He was all about the food. So that was one thing. But now aprons turned him on? And this wasn’t some Oedipus thing he had going on where he associated aprons with nurturing from his mother as a child. Patty Blake hadn’t so much as baked a cookie her entire life. When they’d lived in Chicago, they’d had a cook and when they’d moved to Bliss, his father had, obviously, been the cook in the family. Patty was great with the customers and loved to pitch in and help with dishes and chopping and clean up and such. But she didn’t go near the griddle or the oven. And she made no apologies for it either.

No, he didn’t want a wife who would stay home and bake all day or whip up amazing four-course meals. That apron and the tiny cherries that seemed to mock him were all about the woman inside it.

“Are you finished?” Ava asked Al Jenkins, who was sitting at the lunch counter.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” Al said. He was probably distracted by the cherries too as Ava picked up his plate and carried it to the kitchen. And possibly the perfect breasts filling out the top part of that apron.

Parker, on the other hand, was enjoying the view from behind, where the apron’s bow tied at the small of her back and where the apron opened as if to frame the gorgeous ass in the red skirt that seemed at odds with the frilly apron. He went ahead and continued to appreciate the view the rest of the way down to the shoes that were in no way practical for any job that required an apron.

“You have an apron?” Parker asked as she came back through the door. He’d never seen her wearing one when she snuck—or stomped—into his kitchen for supplies, or the times when he’d stomped into her kitchen to demand to have his butter back.

Of course, that never worked. She’d always used it by the time he went after her, but it still gave him an excuse to see her and spar with her a little.

Parker felt his eyebrows slam together at that though. He did not go over there just to see her. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t enjoy their tiny arguments over butter.

So why did he keep having them? Why didn’t he keep his back kitchen door shut—and locked? Why didn’t he hide his butter?

He was going to think about all of that. Later.

“I got it this morning,” Ava said, turning to show off the apron. As if he hadn’t already checked out every cherry and ruffle.

“Where did you get it?” Parker asked. No place in Bliss sold aprons.

“From the post office.”

“You ordered it?”

“My assistant did.”

“You have an assistant?”

“Of course I have an assistant,” she said, perturbed. “And my assistant has two assistants.”

Right. Her assistant in New York. The one that worked for her at Carmichael Enterprises. “She bought you an apron?”

“She ordered it and overnighted it here for me.”

In the time it had taken her to ask her assistant for assistance, she could have ordered the damn thing herself. But she’d probably never placed an order for anything in her life. Parker reached behind the counter and pulled out one of the white waist aprons he wore. He held it up.

Ava lifted a brow. “That does not go with my outfit.”

He looked at it. “It’s white. White goes with everything.”

She gave him a pitying look. “Let’s just say that mine is a lot cuter.”

Cuter. Also not a word he’d typically apply to Ava. Or assume she would use. Ava was a lot of things—sharp, intelligent, bossy, intimidating, gorgeous—but cute was not on the list.

Except when she wore a frilly apron with cherries on it. It was probably a good thing that she hadn’t worn that apron before, come to think of it. She seemed a lot more…approachable, or something…in it.

“And you needed to look cute?” he asked.

“When the alternative is looking not cute, then yes,” she said, her gaze running over him from head to toe, clearly insinuating the not-cute thing applied to him.

He moved in closer to her and watched her pupils dilate. “You don’t find me cute, Boss?”

She wet her bottom lip and looked up from his tennis shoes, past his apron, over his chest and to his eyes. Slowly. “Nope.”

He gave her a half grin. “Darn.”

“What I do find you is in my way,” she told him, stepping past him, and putting an elbow into his side as she did it, nudging him back.

He watched as she refilled a water glass, picked up another plate from the lunch counter, then started on the tables. She picked up dishes, handed out to-go boxes, and chatted with everyone while at the same time making it clear that they all needed to start wrapping lunch up.

He felt…flummoxed.

And he didn’t like it.

“You okay there, Parker?” Evan asked, sounding more than a little amused.

“Not really,” he muttered.

Evan laughed. “I think it’s genetic.”

“Me not being okay?”

“All of…that.”

Parker glanced over as Evan waved in Ava’s general direction. His gaze found Ava again. “But Cori’s so bright and bubbly and Ava’s…not.”

“But they have a way of taking over a room and making it impossible to ignore them.”

“I should have asked Brynn out,” Parker said, almost under his breath. “I knew it.”

Again Evan laughed. “Because she’s the sweet, quiet one?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t seem to have helped Noah ignore her.”

That much was true. And was the reason Parker couldn’t ask the introverted scientist out now. She and Noah were…friends. Close friends. He knew for a fact it hadn’t gone beyond that. Yet. But there was something about the two of them together that made it seem wrong to even think about taking the middle triplet out to a movie.

But he wanted sweet. And quiet. He wanted someone who would just let him do his thing and she’d do her thing and they’d coexist contentedly, with lots of routine and habits and… He frowned as Ava approached Al at the front counter again. And no surprises. He wanted to know the woman he was with was exactly who he thought she was and would do exactly what he thought she would do. At least when they weren’t having rocking, blow-his-mind sex. That was the one time when some noise and few surprises would be just fine.

He watched Al grin and Ava laugh, and he shook his head. He definitely wanted sweet, unassuming, not-pushy, and not-bossy. But without any conscious thought, his gaze dropped to Ava’s heels and he added looks like a sex goddess and makes me want to do more than cook on my center kitchen island.

Ava turned toward him, and Parker wondered if he’d said any of that out loud accidentally. She came to stand in front of him but didn’t say a word as she continued to watch him. And reach for him. And into the center pocket of his apron.

His body tensed and he felt like his nerve endings were being touched with the tip of a fireplace poker. It was hot and sharp, almost painful.

The slide of the stack of order receipts from his pocket sent a jolt of awareness from his scalp to the soles of his feet. He honest-to-God had never felt that before. It was…

Then she broke eye contact to look down at the slips of paper she held. And Parker could suddenly think again.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She flipped through the papers, then looked over her shoulder at Al. “Reuben and fries?”

“Yep.”

She tucked the other receipts into her pocket and turned on her heel, handing Al his ticket without answering Parker.

“It’s not added up,” Al told her.

She put a hand on her hip. “How long have you been coming here, Al?”

“As long as the diner’s been here.”

“And how often do you order a Reuben and fries?” she asked.

“Probably once a week.”

“And has the price of anything on this menu changed?” She glanced at Parker. “Ever?”

“No,” Al admitted.

“Then get your phone out, put the amount that you usually pay in there, add a twenty-five percent tip, and I’ll meet you at the register.”

Parker shook himself. What the hell had just happened? “You’re covering the register too now?” he asked as she moved past him, a puff of air that smelled surprisingly like apples, floating behind her.

She was taking over his diner.

Of course she was.

“I’m really good at taking money from people,” she told him with a smile.

That was almost flirtatious. No. No, no, no. He most definitely did not want apple-scented bossiness taking over and flirting with him.

He started to reply, but saw Pam Conner and Tina Lawrence watching from one of the booths with a smile. Ah. Right. He was supposed to be the three-months-left boyfriend. Crap. She was driving him nuts. He didn’t know why Ava was flirting with him, but he couldn’t shut it down. Not for about eleven weeks, two days and twelve hours, give or take.

“Anything you’d like me to do?” he asked Ava, quietly, with lots of sarcasm but also a smile. That he hoped didn’t seem too fake.

“As a matter of fact, you could go in the kitchen and start cleaning up so we can get out of here on time today,” she said, also quietly and also with a smile. That looked a little forced.

But she had a point. He did need to get her working on the pies and he couldn’t do that here. Well, he could, of course. He had a kitchen, after all. And seemingly, a lot of the supplies that Ava needed. But he would not bake with her here. Making her chicken salad was bad enough. He wasn’t going to spend even more time with her back there. Feeding her. Showing off new recipes that no one else would appreciate. Watching her lick the spoons…

Parker mentally slapped himself. He was not going to cook or bake with Ava Carmichael in the diner’s kitchen. Period.

He watched as she bumped the kitchen door open with her hip, shooting him a look that clearly said, “come on already” as she disappeared through it.

“I know that it seems like she’s working for you here,” Evan mused. “But doesn’t it kind of feel like she’s in charge?”

“Shut up,” Parker told him flatly, not looking away from the swinging door.

Evan just laughed. “She also seems very eager to be alone with you.”

“She’s—” Yeah, she really did. He knew it was because he’d told her she needed to learn to make pie, and he was her means to that end. But this could definitely work in his favor. He looked at his friend. “She is definitely eager to be alone with me.” That was true. It might not be for what Evan was insinuating—and what everyone was, hopefully, thinking—but she was definitely going to do whatever she could to make sure she had him to herself.

“What’s that about?” Evan asked.

Parker looked around and raised his voice slightly. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few people overhear this. And assume what they wanted to about what he said. “We never got to the fruit picking the other day. Or the day after that,” he said. “Never made it out of the kitchen.”

Evan lifted a brow, but he simply said, “Oh.”

Parker was sure Al had heard him and, with any luck, so had Pam and Tina.

“And what’s that all about?” Evan asked, pointing at the report Parker still held.

He looked down at the bound pages. She’d done a report. With a plastic cover and colored tabs. Damn. That should not be hot. Or funny. But it was both. Or rather, she was both. And that was a problem.

“I made her taste-test pie filling.”

“Seriously?”

Parker wasn’t sure if Evan’s surprise came from the idea of anyone making Ava do something, or if it was the pie filling part. He nodded. “Seriously.”

“And she wrote a report about it?”

“Evidently.”

“Wow,” Evan said, nodding. “Look at you, being in charge. I didn’t realize you had a professor-grad student fantasy.”

Parker gave him a look. “I don’t.”

“But you do have an Ava fantasy. And you made her write a report,” Evan pointed out.

“I didn’t make her write a report,” Parker said.

Then belatedly realized he should have protested the first part as well.

“So maybe she’s the one with the professor-grad student fantasy,” Evan mused. Putting that thought firmly into Parker’s mind. And imagination. Exactly where he did not want it.

“She’s just being a smart-ass,” Parker said. “But I knew when I gave her the assignment she’d…” He trailed off, realizing that none of that discounted anything about any fantasies. And now he was picturing a big, solid, very sturdy wooden desk. And Ava in glasses.

Crap.

“You knew she’d do a report?” Evan asked.

“No. But I knew she’d do the taste-testing. She likes being challenged.” He scratched his jaw and worked on not grimacing. That was all sounding very sexual.

“Does she now,” Evan said, thoughtfully.

“She loves stuff like this,” Parker said, waving the report in his hand.

Plastic report covers and colored tabs were very in character for Ava. Making a mess in the kitchen, less so. He straightened as a realization hit him. Ava didn’t like messes. But she made them when trying to make her pies. She made huge messes actually. Usually because she got frustrated and threw things around her kitchen. But it clearly irritated her and made her uncomfortable. But messes were a part of cooking. He loved organization and having everything clean and in its place too. But when he was actually cooking, he let go of that. He lost himself in the scents and textures and colors. He didn’t worry about splashes and spills. He cleaned up immediately after cooking, but for the time it took to create, he let it all go, and it was…therapeutic. It was true that Ava seemed immune to getting dirty. Not so much as a crumb touched her skirts, and she never had even a dribble of anything on her shoes. That had to mean that she wasn’t really getting into it.

“She’s into charts and graphs and shit?” Evan asked with a wince.

Organization and schedules and planning were not Evan’s thing. Which made him perfect for the spontaneous and creative Cori. And vice versa. Their house would probably be a mess, but they’d be having a hell of a good time in the midst of all the clutter.

“Definitely,” Parker said, feeling a sense of accomplishment at having figured something out about Ava. And a hint of anticipation, if he wasn’t mistaken. He could teach her so much more than how to make pies. He could teach her to get a little dirty. And how great that could feel. And he didn’t even mean that in a sexual way. At least not entirely. If anyone needed to learn to unwind, it was Ava. And he didn’t mean that in a sexual way either. At least, not entirely.

“Hell, you two are perfect together then,” Evan said.

Like a bucket of cold water had just drenched him, Parker felt shock, then cold, then heat pump through his system as another very important realization about Ava hit him. He shook his head but lowered his voice, as he was aware of the people around him. “No. Fuck no, even.”

Ava wasn’t the type of woman to just take advice or to learn something new and tuck it away. She was driven. She was incredibly focused. She got shit done. And if he did convince her to get a little messy and enjoy baking then…he’d be screwed. She would go all in, one thousand percent, get all caught up. He couldn’t have that. His messes were therapeutic and pleasurable. Hers would be...messing up his world. He could deal with his own stuff. He could handle messes he created and contained. But he couldn’t get someone like Ava all fired up and going at it without getting some of her mess on his.

And he didn’t mean that sexually either. Probably.

Evan just laughed as if he hadn’t just sent a chaotic mix of emotions and thoughts coursing through his friend’s system. “I’m just saying, if you show her your inventory system, she’ll be all over you.”

Yeah. His inventory system was awesome. Ava would love it. So he had to keep that, and all of his other stuff, under wraps. She needed to see only the laid-back, grumpy diner owner next door. Who was being put out by having to teach her to bake. Who was taking over the pie shop only because it had been important to Rudy. Who was willing to help her, and the shop, out because it was going to be his someday. Not because it drove him insane the way she was going about everything. And not because he actually liked the idea of being creative over in the pie shop in a way he couldn’t be in the diner.

He hid—and tried to resist as much as possible—the organized, dot-every-I, color-coded side of his personality because it went against everything his father had wanted for himself and his family when he’d moved them to Bliss. The drive, the give-everything-one-hundred-and-ten-percent, the always striving for more, for bigger and better, had killed his father.

Bill had moved them to Bliss three years before the aneurysm hit. It had been his hope that Bliss, and its laid-back, simple lifestyle and relaxed routine, would save his and Parker’s life. It had probably given him three years more than he would have had under the stress of his job in Chicago. But the sixteen-hour days, the lack of exercise, the pressure and strain of being in the financial world of Chicago had caught up with him anyway. The doctors had told them that aneurysms sometimes happened for no apparent reason. But in Bill’s case, there were definitely contributing factors.

Parker was determined to enjoy the life his father had given him here in Bliss. He was going to breathe deeply of the fresh air, take time to appreciate the people in his life, do the things that made him happy. And resist the urge to knock down walls to expand the size of the diner or add to the menu or open another location. Just because those things occurred to him, didn’t mean he had to act on them. His restlessness simply meant that he needed a hobby or something. And yes, he kept binders that had color-coded tabs in them. And yes, he was a stickler about the food. Otherwise, he was laid-back and fucking relaxed about things. He let customers linger past closing time, didn’t he?

“Yeah, well, I don’t want her all over me. Or my business,” he told Evan quietly. “I don’t want anyone organizing me.”

“Or bossing you.”

“That too.” He took a deep breath. “Well, I’d better get in there,” Parker said, a little louder. “If she’s working this hard to get me alone, can’t make her wait too long.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing exactly,” Evan said, clearly confused by Parker’s fuck no a minute ago and now saying that he’d better get in to Ava. “But this is going to be entertaining.”

Parker started for the kitchen. At least he knew what he was doing in there. Mostly.

As his hand hit the swinging door, he heard a clatter, a clicking, and then another clatter.

The first sound was the clatter of metal on metal. The click was high heels on tile. And the second clatter was plate on plate. He’d know those sounds anywhere.

When the door swung open, Ava was putting plates into the dishwasher rack. But he glanced at the stove where he had soup simmering. In a metal pot. There was a spoon resting on the stovetop next to the pot. A spoon that would definitely make a clattering noise against that pot.

“I’ve got that.” He moved in next to her, setting the report he still carried up on the shelf above the dishwasher and reaching for a plate.

She faced him. “I’ll finish these. Have you read that?” She gestured toward the report.

He lifted a brow. “You want me to read it now?” He’d known better than to think she’d been joking with the report. Someone else might have put blank pages inside the report cover just to mess with him. But Ava would enjoy doing the report. He was sure the report was thorough and perfect too. Not a single typo to be found. And he could only imagine what references she’d used. He was a little curious about the photos though, now that she mentioned it. What the hell had she taken pictures of? “Do you want me to grade it too?”

Her cheeks got a little pink. That intrigued him. Ava didn’t blush easily. The only time he’d seen her cheeks red were when they were flushed because she was irritated with him. Maybe she didn’t blush because no one teased her. It would take someone with big cojones to tease this woman.

But Parker would like to think that he had big ones.

“No, of course not,” she said primly.

Yes, prim fit her much better than cute.

“Because I’ll warn you,” he told her. “I’m a tough guy to impress.”

There was a flicker in her eyes and Parker realized that being graded by someone who would be tough got her going. She liked to be challenged. Or, at least, she was used to it. And to rising to the occasion.

Had Rudy been the one who had been hard to impress? The thought flashed through Parker’s mind. Had Ava grown up trying to win her dad’s praise? That made some sense. Rudy had been one of the most laid-back, accepting guys Parker had known, but he also knew, directly from Rudy’s mouth, that he was a very different guy in Bliss than he’d been in New York. And he’d had regrets about his daughters.

Parker moved in closer and found his eyes dropped to the front of her apron. There was a dab of what looked like some of the cheesy chicken tortilla soup he had on the stove.

So maybe Ava wasn’t completely immune to spills and messes.

He felt that surge of anticipation again and quickly tamped it down. Sure, getting a little messy would be good for her, but it wasn’t his responsibility to make sure she let her hair down.

Rudy’s will says she’s supposed to have fun. That’s the main intention behind the dating stipulation.

Parker really wished he didn’t know as much about Rudy’s will as he did. Or about Rudy’s daughters, come to think of it. Rudy had talked about his girls a lot. And he’d been concerned about how serious Ava was and how hard she worked. He’d hoped a nice guy from Bliss could help her relax a little.

Dammit.

If he was stepping in to help with that requirement, then he had to make sure she was having some fun. For Rudy.

This was getting complicated. Of course it was. Relationships were like that. Especially with women like Ava. He needed to take out some sweet, small-town girl.

“Did you at least try the tortilla strips and stuff with it?” he asked, not pretending not to see where she’d spilled. Probably when she’d jumped guiltily when he’d been on his way into the kitchen.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment, clearly trying to decide how to answer. “What stuff?” she finally asked.

He shook his head and turned. He crossed to the fridge and pulled out the garnishes for the soup. Though, he was stupidly not upset about feeding her again. He dished up a bowl of soup, tossed crispy tortilla strips on top—which he’d made from corn tortillas dusted with a special blend of spices—added a dollop of sour cream, sprinkled cheddar cheese and green onions over it and then handed her the bowl. With a napkin.

She rolled her eyes at the napkin but took it anyway before taking a big spoonful of the soup, getting a little bit of all the extras in the spoon as well. Parker approved. But he didn’t let it show.

He also didn’t let it show how awareness and heat slid through him as she closed her eyes and gave a happy sigh as she swallowed.

Damn, he liked feeding this woman.

“That’s my lunch,” he said. “Again.”

She opened her eyes and took another big bite before saying, “That’s why I was sneaking bites of it.”

He snorted before he could stop it. “You don’t have to sneak around.” He wouldn’t go so far as to admit that he’d made extra soup today with the thought that she might like some before they started baking. He had no idea what she typically ate for lunch unless she was eating from the diner. She’d had salads and sandwiches and soup from him in the past three months. She usually stopped in and got it to go though. And he was definitely not going to tell her that he added things to her orders that he didn’t to everyone else’s. Simply because they didn’t care. They wouldn’t appreciate it. But he’d thought from the beginning that Ava might be someone who would appreciate chipotle mayonnaise and cilantro-lime dressing and basil in her tomato soup.

And he’d been right.

She was in the midst of another bite, but she lifted her eyebrows. “I have to sneak the butter.”

“You never sneak the butter,” he countered. “I hear you every time. You bang the doors and you stomp around here in those heels. There’s no way to miss you.”

She didn’t respond to that. But she did run her finger around the edge of the bowl and lift it to her mouth, sucking the rest of the soup away. Parker swallowed hard. Yeah, there was no way to miss this woman. She wasn’t as bubbly as her sister, Cori, but you didn’t ignore Ava Carmichael when she walked into a room.

She sighed. “This is amazing.”

The jolt of satisfaction was ridiculously strong. “Thanks.”

“I have no idea why you don’t put this stuff on the menu.”

“They like chili and chicken noodle.”

“And tomato basil,” she said.

Well, tomato anyway. He just gave a single nod. She didn’t need to know that he’d added the basil only to hers.

“You really don’t think they want to try anything new?”

He lifted a shoulder, feeling the tension creep up his neck. “I’ve tried new things. It doesn’t usually do well.”

“They complain?”

“They don’t even really try it.”

She frowned and opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “I’ll finish in here and you can make sure no one’s heading out without paying, okay?”

He needed her out of his kitchen. He would prefer to get her out of the diner altogether, but he shared the front of the diner with people all the time. The kitchen was another matter. And he didn’t need her in here, changing the energy, talking to him about his frustrations, and getting his wheels turning about new ideas and what-ifs. He could feel it in her—the absolute inability to not be creative and driven and to look at everything with a how-could-it-be-more in her mind.

The diner was exactly the way his dad had wanted it to be, and it was giving Parker a very nice life. He had an income, he got to do something he loved every day, he got to help take care of the town that meant the world to him, carry on his father’s legacy, and not keel over from a heart attack before he was forty. And he had plenty of time to hunt and fish and play poker and watch ball games and all kinds of other relaxing, fun stuff with his friends. It was all good. Fine. Perfect. He didn’t need Ava Carmichael in here making him think about other things. About more.