Page 42

She set the tumbler down on the table and stood up.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the small bulb above the stove. Emma was leaning against the island, tearing a piece off a leftover baguette from dinner. She looked up, startled, as the door swung shut behind Victoria.

"Change your mind about the bread?" Emma asked, her voice dropping lower in the quiet room.

"No," Victoria said.

She walked slowly across the tiled floor. She walked around the island, stepping directly into Emma's space. Emma stopped arranging the crackers, her eyes widening. She swallowed, her breath turning shallow. She leaned back slightly against the edge of the marble, not in retreat, but as if making room for Victoria to step closer.

Victoria did. She stopped mere inches away. Emma’s hands dropped to the counter, gripping the edge of the marble. "You're staring at me," she murmured, her voice vibrating in the small space.

"I am," Victoria agreed softly.

Emma drew a fragile breath, her pulse fluttering visibly at the base of her neck. "Why?"

Victoria looked at the worn edge of Emma’s collar, then straight into the sudden flush across her face.

"Because," Victoria murmured, letting her voice drop to a private whisper, "I find you distracting tonight."

Heat rushed up Emma's neck, hot enough to sting. Her grip on the counter slipped, her hands hovering for a split second before she wiped her palms against her jeans.

"Am I?" Emma whispered.

"Yes." Victoria didn't break eye contact. She tilted her head slightly, closing the distance until they were sharing the exact same air. The smell of apples, sugar, and the sharp bite of scotch surrounded them. "Extremely."

Emma let out a shaky exhale. Her gaze dropped to Victoria’s mouth. She shifted her weight, leaning forward, her eyelids fluttering shut as she surrendered to the magnetic pull between them.

Victoria’s pulse jumped, an erratic flutter catching at the base of her throat. The urge to close the final millimeter, to take Emma’s mouth and devour the soft surrender right there against the marble counter, was almost physically agonizing.

But Victoria Sterling was a master of leverage. And she never gave in that easily.

Right as their lips were about to brush, Victoria stopped.

She held herself perfectly still, letting Emma hang suspended in the electric space between them. Slowly, deliberately, Victoria barely turned her head, letting her lips brush feather-light against the shell of Emma’s ear instead.

"It is a good thing I possess exceptional self-control, Ms. Hayes," Victoria whispered, her breath sending a violent shiver straight down Emma's spine. "Your temper was absolute hell the morning after Oakbridge over a single pint. I shudder to think what you'd be like after mixing five glasses of cider with twelve-year-old scotch."

Emma gasped, her eyes snapping open, totally derailed.

Victoria retreated, restoring the boundary between them. She curved her mouth into a slow, ruinous smile.

"Sleep well, Emma."

Victoria turned on her heel and pushed through the swinging door without looking back. She walked through the sitting room and headed for the stairs, her pulse racing. Her chest still ached for the letters in the study, and the ticking clock of Richard Vance's acquisition still hung over her head.

But as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, leaving Emma flushed, panting, and entirely speechless in the kitchen, the freezing isolation was completely gone.

Chapter Fifteen

Emma

With exactly seven days left until the Rosebrook Summer Festival, the weather delivered a torrential downpour.

It was Friday morning. The rain lashed against the sitting room windows, turning the hiking trails into mudslides. Trapped indoors since breakfast, Harry and Martha Caldwell had cheerfully volunteered to help Emma, Lucy, and Nate fold fifty cardboard boxes for the pastry stand.

Harry was struggling with the tabs, Martha was meticulously folding the corners, and Lucy was complaining about a paper cut. Emma smoothed her thumb over the edge of a pink box, stealing a glance toward the armchair by the fireplace.

Victoria was sitting there, a laptop balanced on her knees. She wasn’t typing. She was reading an email, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She absently tapped a silver pen against her lower lip. A flare of heat caught Emma off guard, and she dragged her eyes away, forcing them back down to the cardboard flaps.