Lately she’s made some true masterpieces. They taste so delicious, and look so beautiful, it’s almost a crime to carve into them. I have about a bazillion photos on my phone of her cakes, like I’m a proud mama dying to show them off. I need to create some sort of brochure featuring them all.

Another sigh leaves me, and I’m feeling stuck. We don’t have enough money in our current advertising budget to do much beyond the chalk easel I set outside the front door every morning announcing our daily specials. We do a lunch special featuring sandwiches with our artisan breads and homemade soup that Gina also makes, so we get a terrific lunch crowd. Our morning crowd is okay too, but we’re no Starbucks.

Grr. Just thinking of giant conglomerates makes me frustrated. Small towns gripe all the time about Walmart coming in and destroying local businesses. I’m starting to believe them one hundred percent. Walmart, Starbucks, they’re all soul-sucking destroyers of the local business economy.

Yet I frequent our local Walmart at least once a month. Don’t do Starbucks anymore, though. Why would I, considering I have an espresso machine here in the bakery and I know how to use it? Besides, I can’t hand them four dollars plus for a coffee when my place is barely making it.

Propping my elbow on the edge of my desk, I rub my forehead, feeling the unmistakable tension there. I always get headaches when I pour over the bills. Who wouldn’t, the task is so depressing. I press my fingertips into my skin in a circling motion, trying to ease the stress, but it’s no use. The only thing that could cure my stress is a bottle of wine and a soak in my tub.

I remember my earlier encounter with Gage and glance over at the flowers sitting on top of the filing cabinet. I brought them in with me earlier when I knew I’d get stuck back here going over our bank account and the invoices due. If I’m going to do the drudgework then I need to make the spot pretty, right?

Plus, just looking at them makes me think of him. The things he said—both the good and the bad. And he says terrible things. It’s like he doesn’t even think. He’s a successful businessman worth billions. Some of that is family money, but the guy is smart. Right? So how can he conduct business when every time he opens his mouth he says something crazy?

I can almost forget about the terrible things he’s said when I think about how freaking gorgeous he is. How those beautiful green eyes seem to see right through me. Just one glance in my direction and he sets my skin on fire. Leaving me so hot I feel almost fevered every single time he looks at me.

And that his touch is my only relief . . .

Closing my eyes briefly, I stifle the moan that wants to escape and sit up straight, shuffling the stacks of bills into their own haphazard organized piles that only I understand. I drop them all into my desk drawer and shut it with a satisfying thud, then wipe my hands. Like I’m all efficient and totally handled yet another stressful workday, going over bills and taking care of business.

I so didn’t handle it. I barely made a dent in our past-due situation. Yet another fun night trying to manage everything at the bakery, while it all falls down around me no matter what I try and do.

I push away from my desk and stand, then grab my sweater and purse hanging from the little coatrack I keep in the corner of the room. Hitting the light switch as I exit my office, I walk through the kitchen, smiling when I see everything shiny, bright, and clean. My aunt prides herself on keeping an immaculate kitchen and scrubs until it’s spotless every single evening before she leaves.

Walking through the swinging door that opens onto the front of the café, I turn off the switch next to the doorframe, so the only thing left lit is the glass case that houses the cakes, cookies, bars, and all the other delicious stuff Gina bakes, though it stands empty now. Gina will be back at it tomorrow, arriving before the sun rises so she can make all of her delicious goodness ready for the morning crowd.

She can make a chocolate croissant that would have your eyes rolling into the back of your head it’s so good. I’d put in a special request for them tomorrow just before she left. She said she’d make a double batch just for me.

Working at the bakery is going to kill my figure and make my butt big if I don’t watch it. A girl can hold out for only so long.

I push in the rest of the chairs, the task forgotten after I rejected Gage and basically kicked him out of the café. Everything else in the area is clean. Perfect and ready for tomorrow—so why am I lingering? Shouldn’t I want out of this place since I’m going to be right back and at it with gusto by seven o’clock tomorrow morning?

Where else do you have to go? Not like you have anyone to go to besides your parents, and they sure as heck don’t count.

That is the most depressing thought ever. I feel like I’ve been listening to all the women in my family crying over how I’m a spinster at twenty-freaking-three and it’s starting to take hold. If I think about it too much, I believe it. I’m a total screw-up.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I hang my head back, staring at the ceiling. Since when did I turn into such a world-class failure?

I hear a faint knocking on the front door, causing the bell hanging above it to tinkle and I startle, looking straight through the glass and right at . . .

Gage Emerson? Standing on the doorstep?

I frown at him, wondering if I’ve become delusional. I’m hallucinating. No way is he really standing there . . . is he?

Shaking my head, I blink my eyes shut, counting to ten before popping them open again. He’s still standing there, though now he’s clearly impatient with me, if the glower on his face says anything. His hands are resting on his hips, pushing back his unbuttoned, elegantly cut navy jacket and showing off that broad chest of his, his tie loose around his neck, his shirt wrinkled. He’s rumpled and looks absolutely delicious.

Oh God. I need to get rid of him, and quick.

Gage

MARINA IS LOOKING at me in utter disbelief. Like she can’t believe I’ve somehow magically appeared in front of her. She even closed her eyes for a few seconds. Does she think I might be a figment of her imagination or something? I don’t know. There’s an entire building separating us and I want in. She didn’t conjure me up.

Nope. I’m real. As in I’m the idiot who’s drawn to her despite her obvious hate—or at the very least, disinterest in me. I must be a glutton for punishment because here I am, standing in front of her door in the hopes that just maybe she’ll still be inside the bakery. Despite the fact it’s past nine o’clock and she shut the place down at five.

Then unceremoniously kicked me out.

Luck’s on my side tonight, I guess, finding her here.

Honestly, I don’t know what possessed me. I left Autumn Harvest and went back to the house, hoping to get in a few phone calls. Hell, I even tried to call her father but he wasn’t in. Not that he’s ever in for me.

I think the guy is on to me. I haven’t been sneaky about my approach, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew all about my sniffing around his property.

But the thrill of the hunt couldn’t hold its allure today. I got depressed. And I never get depressed. I’ve been rejected twice within an hour. First by Marina, then by her father. It’s a multigenerational-rejection type of day.

Deciding the house was too quiet, and I didn’t want to be alone, I left. Wandered down the cute little Main Street in St. Helena, purposely avoiding the bakery. I ended up at a bar and grill, where I ate dinner and consoled myself with a few beers. Watched the baseball playoffs on the flat screen TV over the bar. Giants were in the lead and eventually ended up winning the game.