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"You are wearing jeans," Emma whispered, her voice rough.

Victoria felt a wicked surge of power. She climbed into the cab, deliberately stretching her legs. "Your observation skills remain unparalleled," Victoria murmured, aware of where Emma’s eyes were glued. "Drive."

Emma snapped her mouth shut, wrestling the truck into gear. The cab sank into a heavy, suffocating silence, the air suddenly thick with a completely different kind of heat.

They pulled up behind the B&B kitchen. A delivery van had left a towering stack of wooden crates for the festival. Emma hopped out, muttering under her breath as she dragged a heavy crate of cider toward the tailgate.

Without a second thought, Victoria stepped up, catching the opposite handle. "I have it," she said.

Working in tandem, they hauled the crate across the sunlit gravel and into the kitchen. Victoria straightened, absently wiping the dust off her palms onto the denim of her thighs.

When she looked up, Emma was still rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the curve of Victoria’s hips in the denim. Without the sharp tailoring, the cold distance Victoria usually commanded had dissolved into thin air.

"Are you having a stroke Ms. Hayes?" Victoria asked, tilting her head as a ruthless gleam lit her eyes. She stepped into Emma's space, fully leaning into the sudden advantage. "If you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole straight through the fabric, Ms. Hayes."

A dark flush crept up Emma’s neck, blooming fiercely across her cheeks. She dragged a hand through her messy hair, looking violently unsettled. "I’m still adjusting to you in denim, honestly. It’s deeply disorienting."

"I can take them off, if they bother you so much," Victoria offered, her tone a low purr.

Emma actually choked on her own breath. "I'll go get the rest of the boxes," she muttered frantically, practically sprinting back outside.

Victoria watched her retreat, her lips curling into a deeply satisfied smile. If putting on a pair of cheap jeans was all it took to leave Emma Hayes utterly derailed, she might never wear a suit again.

When Emma finally came back inside from the van, she pointedly avoided looking at Victoria’s legs, keeping her eyes glued to the sketched layout of the festival on the butcher block.

"The vendors set up next month," Emma said, clearing her throat as she traced the paper with a pencil. "The main food stalls go near the front gate."

Victoria stepped up beside her, leaning over the map. In the plain white t-shirt and denim, there was no wool left between them. Her bare forearm deliberately brushed against Emma’s shoulder.

Emma’s breath hitched. She didn't step back, though her pencil stalled completely on the paper.

"Move the food stalls to the back of the garden," Victoria murmured, keeping her eyes on the sketch, pretending not to notice the way Emma’s pulse was suddenly hammering at the base of her throat. "It forces the crowd to walk past the local craft vendors first. Increased foot traffic means the artisans make more money."

Emma slowly turned her head. Up close, the scent of vanilla and warm skin wrapped around Victoria like an inescapable gravity. "That... actually makes a lot of sense," Emma whispered.

"I have my moments, Ms. Hayes," Victoria replied softly.

She raised her head, meeting Emma’s green eyes. The banter evaporated on the spot, leaving the kitchen dead silent. Emma’s gaze dropped to Victoria’s mouth, then lifted back up, wide, unguarded, and burning with a question neither of them was ready to answer. For three agonizing seconds, they just stood there, breathing the same heated air, hovering right on the edge of the cliff.

It was Emma who finally broke. Her throat locked, a dark flush sweeping up her cheekbones as she jerked a step backward, dragging a shaky hand through her hair.

"I need to—the, um—"

"Emma!" Lucy’s voice echoed loudly from the front porch, shattering the quiet as the screen door banged open. "The delivery guys just dumped four sacks of flour on the steps! I need a hand before my spine snaps!"

"Coming!" Emma called back, bolting out of the kitchen without looking back.

Victoria stood alone by the butcher block, her fingers brushing the new denim on her thighs. On the wood in front of her, Emma's yellow pencil was still rolling slowly across the sketched map of the garden.

Chapter Twelve

Emma

The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway chimed three times.

Emma lay staring at the ceiling of her bedroom in the private wing, listening to the house settle around her. Sleep was impossible. Her mind kept looping through cake recipes, stall placements, and the fact that she had leaned too close to Victoria Sterling over a map of the garden.

With a low exhale, she pushed the duvet aside. Her throat was so dry. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet meeting the floorboards, and pulled open the door. The corridor was quiet, Victoria’s door just a few paces down. Emma padded toward the stairs in her sleep shirt and shorts, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water.