“No. It’s good.”
“But?”
“It’s great, Elodie. Everything you make is.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I say harsher than I mean to. His brows pop up. Crap. I overstepped, but he’s eating in my kitchen. Other than my part-time staff, only Clem, my dad, and Uncle Karl have been in the back. Cruz is the first man I’ve had a one-on-one meal with in years. “I can handle a bad review.”
“I’m not lying,” he says like he’s consoling me. “It’s good. Oatmeal raisin isn’t my thing. I didn’t remember that’s what you made, and I missed the signs that there weren’t chocolate chips. When I bite into oatmeal raisin, there’s always the punch of betrayal that it’s not a chocolate chip.”
A giggle leaves me. The way he explains it is just like him—irreverent and charming. “So you’re an oatmeal raisin hater?” I ask lightly. “It’s not something to be ashamed of.”
His whole demeanor relaxes. Was he that afraid of insulting me? “No, I’ll eat them. I’ll eat the whole batch. You can ask Mae Bailey. But that punch of disappointment in the first bite is hard to get over.”
I bark out a laugh, feeling lighter than I have the whole day. “Well, since I have only a bite or two to hook people at the fair, then I’d better table this recipe.”
Cruz’s crooked smile is back, only there’s something different about it, something softer and personal. Almost intimate. Paired with the two of us together in my cozy dining nook, my guards slam back up.
“I’ll figure something else out,” I say briskly. “I thought the raisins would work better in the heat since most people will carry them around instead of buying them for an immediate snack like the other stuff.”
The aloofness is back in his grin and it becomes the one everyone else gets. “Then go for it. The guys will probably like it. They’ll like them all.” He pushes back. “Thank you for the amazing food.” He rises and picks up our plates. “Where can I put these?”
My heart twists. I want his special smile again, but I’m the one who shrugged it off. Now I mourn when Cruz acquiesces and gives me the distance I insist on. Despite that, he’s not forgetting his manners. “By the sink, please. I’ll throw them in the dishwasher with my morning dishes.”
His broad back is to me as he arranges the plates and silverware by the sink. This kitchen isn’t as large as I’d like it to be, but I’m the only baker, so it works. He takes up all the room and fills it with a vitality I’ve never been able to replicate.
When he’s done, he washes his hands. “Lane won’t be back for a few days, but I can take a look and talk with him.”
A few days. And then the repairs. What if I need a new engine? I could afford one, but I have to pay off my ex.
Shit, shit, shit. I have places to be, money to make, so I don’t lose this shop or my reputation. I’ll have to ask my parents or Clem, and they’ll worry. Acid splashes up my throat. I’m an adult now, but the suffocation of my teen years clings to me. Still, I don’t have anyone else to ask for help.
Cruz turns and pauses, concern lining his eyes. “You all right?”
No. “Sorry, I’m just figuring out the logistics of the craft fair in Billings next week.” It’s one of the bigger events in the area, and with the natural dip in the summer season, I need all the chances I can get to sell my goods. Add in the collaboration with Foster House, and it’s not just me who’s out more than a little exposure if I have to bow out.
His face lights up. “You can hitch a ride with one of us.”
The pressure in my chest returns. Is he always accommodating? Why is an accommodating, nice guy stressing me out so much? “I’ll have displays and my tent.”
“We have trucks.”
“I can ask Clem.” It’s better than my dad trying to load everything into his SUV. “Wait, no. She’s going to be there for the library and help me when she’s not with them, but she’ll have to drive separately.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to insist, then he snaps it closed and heads for the door. “Keep us in mind. Durban has the Rafting and Tasting event, and Iverson’s still on reduced hours with the new baby, but Lane, Haven, and I will be working the summer fair.” He tips his head like he has a cowboy hat on. “You know how to get a hold of me. Have a good evening, Elodie.”
He takes all the air with him when he walks out, just like I wanted him to. I’m left alone with all my problems, and an oatmeal cookie that tastes like betrayal.
CHAPTER THREE
Cruz
“Yeah, she’s gonna need a new engine.” Lane’s voice drifts out of the speaker I have connected to my phone in his shop. I knew going in that Elodie’s car was toast, but I still looped in my brother, though I have to be his eyes and ears. Not that there’s much to pass on. It has no oil. “I can get her some times and pricing for shipping. The labor’s no issue. I won’t charge her.”
For Lane, it’s like a day of play. He doesn’t have to tell me that; I just know he misses being a mechanic. He loves ranching and he enjoys distilling, but his zen is grease-filled hands and engine parts lying around. The pickup he’s restoring is parked at the back of the shop.
My happy place is not being a degenerate. I scrub all the grime off my hands. Ranching and the distillery are better than a lot of things I could’ve ended up doing, and they’re both fun while keeping me productive. I like keeping busy, and when one is slow, the other will pick up. I can always count on cows getting out when I think it’s time to relax, and the distillery participates in enough street fairs, craft fairs, and holiday shows to fill inthe spare time. I wave to law enforcement these days instead of hiding from them.
“I’ll let her know,” I tell him, and dry my hands, inspecting my nails while I do it. Good. They’re spotless. “Hey, you mind if we help her get to Billings and back?”
