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"What the hell did you do to my pantry?" Emma demanded, pointing a rigid finger at the open door.

Victoria didn't miss a beat. She walked over to the counter, setting her iPad down. "I optimized your inventory storage, Ms. Hayes. And that on the bottom shelf is flour. Procured at a forty percent discount compared to the extortionate rate your friend Mrs. Marble charges in the ledgers."

"Mrs. Marble custom-mills that rye specifically for our sourdough!" Emma exploded, stalking toward the island. "You can't bake my recipes with cheap, bleached dust! You’re ruining my product!"

"I am fixing your margins," Victoria corrected, her voice velvety and unnervingly calm. "We have a six-month agreement based on profit. Learn to adapt your recipes to the market, or you will fail long before September."

Emma’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Hating Victoria was easy when she was just an arrogant snob in expensive pants. It was a lot harder when she actively sabotaged Emma's life's work to win a bet.

"I see the silk pajamas didn't cure your complete lack of humanity," Emma spat out, grabbing a carton of milk from the fridge with unnecessary force. "If you think I'm serving industrial cardboard to my guests just to pad your spreadsheet, you're delusional."

Victoria didn't look up from her screen. She picked up her mug with a grace that made Emma want to bang her head against the wall. "Don't worry about my humanity, Ms. Hayes. Worry about how you're pouring that milk."

Emma frowned, glancing down. It was infuriating to look at Victoria wrapped in all that immaculate silk, knowing exactly what she looked like tangled in cheap hotel sheets. Emma couldn't look at the curve of Victoria’s neck without remembering the exact taste of her skin, or the way she had gasped when Emma’s hands had—

She realized too late that she had tilted the carton completely blindly. She had missed her mug by a good three inches and was currently pouring a puddle of cold milk directly onto the counter.

"Shit!" Emma swore, scrambling to grab a dish towel as a furious heat exploded across her cheeks.

Victoria didn't laugh out loud, but her dark eyes gleamed with pure amusement. She took a slow sip of her coffee, holding Emma’s gaze over the ceramic rim, and turned to walk out of the kitchen. Emma stood there, clutching the soggy towel, her ribcage feeling suddenly three sizes too small for her lungs.

Okay, she thought, swallowing hard. You wanna play? Bring it on, Sterling.

✽✽✽

Two hours later, Victoria Sterling was sitting in the passenger seat of Emma’s beat-up Ford pickup, eyeing the dusty dashboard as if it were an active crime scene. The cabin was ridiculously small. Every time Emma shifted into third gear, her hand brushed the heavy wool coat Victoria wore over her blouse. It was driving Emma insane. Victoria sat there perfectly composed, completely ignoring the fact that a few days ago, those same long legs had been wrapped tightly around Emma’s waist. The disconnect between the woman moaning her name in Oakbridge and the ice queen glaring at the windshield was giving Emma mental whiplash.

"I wasn't aware cars could survive the First World War," Victoria remarked dryly over the agonizing hiss of the heater, keeping her leather bag planted on her lap like a shield.

"Show some respect for Betsy," Emma countered, grinding the gears with a horrible metallic crunch. She tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel to the radio, highly aware of Victoria’s eyes on her—a quiet, observant look, like Victoria was trying to solve a frustrating puzzle.

Their first stop was the local hardware store. It smelled of sawdust and WD-40, and the aisles were notoriously, dangerously narrow. Victoria followed Emma past a display of garden gnomes, her heeled boots clicking sharply against the scuffed linoleum, looking like an exotic bird that had taken a wrong turn.

Emma stopped in front of the plumbing supplies, realizing immediately there wasn't enough room for two people. Victoria stopped right behind her.

"I need the sealant behind you," Emma said, keeping her voice casual.

Victoria shifted, pressing her back against a shelf of heavy-duty tape, but the space was still impossibly tight. Emma had to reach directly across her. As she stretched her arm out, the soft denim of her jacket brushed against the front of Victoria’s coat.

The physical proximity was instantaneous and derailed Emma’s brain. The sharp, expensive scent of Victoria’s perfume cut right through the hardware store dust. Emma felt the subtle shift in Victoria’s breathing—an involuntary catch in her chest as Emma’s arm grazed her shoulder.

Emma grabbed the tube and pulled back, every instinct was screaming at her to step back, but her heels stayed anchored to the floor. She looked up and found Victoria staring directly at her mouth. The dark eyes were heavy and completely unguarded for one breathless second before Victoria swiftly looked away, clearing her throat and adjusting her collar, the serious expression snapping violently back into place.

They survived the hardware store, only to move on to the greengrocer, where Victoria stood by the door in bristling silence while Emma chatted with Mr. Staple. By the time they piled the bags into the back of Betsy and parked in front of the Rosebrook café, the air outside had turned heavy and slate-grey, thick with the humidity that always preceded a classic English downpour.

"Alright," Emma said, yanking the emergency brake. "Last stop. I need to pop in here, talk to Nate about the cake order for this weekend, and grab a bite. Do you want anything? A coffee that actually tastes like coffee instead of dirty water?"

Victoria checked the sleek silver watch on her wrist, her expression tightening. "No, thank you. I've reached my quota of rustic charm and town gossip for the day. I have a video conference with a development team in two hours, and I need to prepare it. I have absolutely no intention of doing it sitting in this rust bucket while you do PR with the entire village."

Emma hopped out of the truck, slamming her door shut, and leaned over the hood to check the sky. The clouds were low, swollen, and charcoal dark. "You sure, Sterling? The English sky is unforgiving. It could pour at any second."

Victoria gave her a look of pure, unadulterated superiority—the kind she usually reserved for people who forgot who was in charge. "It's just a little overcast, Emma. I’ll survive. Enjoy your doughnut."

Emma offered her a two-finger salute, biting the inside of her cheek to hide a smirk. "Good luck with that," Emma muttered, pushing open the glass door of the café.

The bell chimed brightly overhead. The smell of roasted coffee, frying bacon, and worn linoleum wrapped around her instantly. Nate was behind the counter, polishing the espresso machine with a rag, while Lucy sat on a stool nursing her usual oversized mug.

"Look who it is," Lucy said, leaning her elbows on the counter with a sympathetic grin. "Please tell me you’re here to hide from the New Yorker."