Marina MY EYES BURN as I flip through the stack of bills yet again, pulling one out in particular that I've been avoiding for a while. I order flowers from a local florist-not the one Gage used because I so can't afford that place. Gina and I use them to decorate around the cafe where we can, knowing they add a nice touch. The customers appreciate them, as do Gina and I.

The flower order has gotten smaller and smaller over the last year. I'd started choosing the cheapest flowers they had, too. And now it's finally time for me to bite the bullet and cancel the order outright. I hate having to do it but we can't afford the expense. I'm trying my best to cut corners where I can.

And this is the next corner being cut.

Deciding I can piece out the bouquet Gage sent me and use the large variety of flowers for decoration over the next week or two if I stretch it right, I slap the bill on my newly made "call tomorrow" pile and sigh wearily.

Sometimes it feels like we're spinning our wheels. I'm doing everything I can to make this bakery work, but compet.i.tion is stiff. There are popular bakeries and cafes all over the valley. The locals and the tourists love to get their eat and drink on so we're all battling against each other, trying to fulfill that need.

No one-and I mean no one-can make a cake like my aunt, but not enough people are discovering them or discovering our bakery. I got her out of the ruthless catering circle despite the loss of decent revenue. I had to do it. Baking and decorating elaborate wedding cakes every weekend was both exhausting her and killing her creativity. She does her best work when she can let the wild ideas fly.

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 cafe, I turn off the switch next to the doorframe, so the only thing left lit is the gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.t 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 cafe. 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 gus...o...b.. 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-cla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 unb.u.t.toned, 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 G.o.d. 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. h.e.l.l, 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.

The Giants are my favorite team. h.e.l.l, my friend Matt used to play for them, so of course I love them. But I couldn't work up even a trickle of enthusiasm for their win. All I could think about was . . . her.

She's consuming my thoughts. I never a let a woman do that to me, and I can't believe how fast my attraction for her has grown. I like everything about her, even how much she seems to hate me.

How driven she is, how protective she is of her family. I understand that side of her and I'm drawn to it, too. That she acts like she's attracted to me despite herself is intriguing too. Most women practically beg for my attention, drawn by my bank account more than anything else.

Not Marina. She'd rather I never darken her doorway again. And she'd most definitely benefit from my bank account. Yet she views my wealth with contempt.

I admire her for that. h.e.l.l, I want her more because of it. I feel like she sees me, the real man behind all the bulls.h.i.t. Flaws and all, and despite that, the attraction is still there between us. Like a living, breathing thing. Does she see it?

If she does, she's pretending it doesn't exist.

A shiver moves through me as Marina slowly approaches the door, her expression wary, those pretty blue eyes narrowed as she studies me. I'm this close to leaving, but something keeps me there. I think I want to see what she might say to me. See if she's going to let me in.

I'm freaking desperate for her to let me in.

My problem? Too many beers made me think too much, and now here I am, basking in the bakery's autumnal finery. Late September and there are already a few pumpkins decorating the front. Two large planters flank either side of the door, filled to the brim with giant, rusty, orange-colored mums.

AUTUMN HARVEST is written in elegant black script across the door. The front window is large, allowing pa.s.sersby a glimpse inside. Tiny tables and chairs fill the room. Large wicker baskets full of fresh fruit and wrapped baked goods line the walls. The bakery has a very warm, trendy Napa feel to it.

Yet she's having trouble with the business. I don't understand why.

Yeah. I really don't know what possessed me to come back here. I mulled over the reasons why Marina sent me packing for hours. I freaking still can't believe she told me no when I asked her to dinner. That she literally pushed me out of the bakery like she never wanted to see me again. I dangled the Archer carrot and she didn't give a s.h.i.t.

She didn't think I was worth it.

No one tells me no. Well, I take that back. I've heard no plenty in my career. No is a part of negotiations. In fact, when I hear a no it makes me work that much harder to turn it into a yes.

But when it comes to women? They don't tell me no. I'm the one who usually turns them away. The one who has to break it off first. I'm not used to rejection.

Maybe that's why I'm drawn to her. She's the complete opposite of any woman I've ever met.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, barely cracking open the door. Like she might be afraid I'll push past her and force my way inside.

She wouldn't be too far off base. The idea does cross my mind.

"I don't know," I answer honestly, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

She studies me for a long, quiet moment and I stare back. She looks . . . weary. A little sad, a lot irritated. "I usually never stay this late," she admits. "Are you stalking me or what?"

"No, I'm not stalking you." I chuckle, shaking my head. A cool breeze washes over me, making me shiver, and I nod toward her. "Can you let me in?"

"I was just locking up for the night." She moves to close the door, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I'm afraid she's going to slam it completely and shut me out.

For good.

"Just a few minutes. I want . . . to ask you something." I made that up. I have nothing to ask her beyond why do you hate me so much, which has been running through my brain for the last five hours or so.

"Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

Jesus. I have never, ever met a woman so disinterested in me before. I hate it.

I'm more determined than ever to turn her no into a yes.

"No, it can't." I try to turn on the charm and flash her a smile, but even I can feel how halfhearted my effort is. "Come on, Marina. Throw me a bone here."

Rolling her eyes, she pulls the door open and I enter the quiet, dark bakery, brushing past her as I walk inside. I hear her sharp intake of breath when my body touches hers.

Just like that, I'm aware of her. Of every little sound she makes, the intoxicating scent of her, how she looks at me like she's ready to run and hide.

I make her nervous. f.u.c.k, she makes me nervous. I shouldn't want this. Want her. She hates me. I don't like her much either. At least I don't like her att.i.tude toward me or the way she treats me.

"What did you want to ask me, Gage?" She locks the door and leans against it, her tone bored, as is her expression. "It's late so make it snappy. I need to go home and collapse into bed."

Make it f.u.c.king snappy? I can't even acknowledge that or I'm gonna lose my s.h.i.t and say something I really regret. And the bed reference sends all sorts of dirty images into my brain.

The fact that she's able to both turn me on and p.i.s.s me off is quite the feat. She deserves a medal or something.

"Why won't you go to dinner with me?" I blurt, instantly hating myself for letting the question fly out of my mouth. I don't think I want to know her answer. I don't think she appreciates me asking when I sound like a whiny little baby either.

"You want the truth."

I nod furiously. "h.e.l.l yeah, I do."

"You're trouble." She says nothing else, just regards me with those cold, a.s.sessing blue eyes.

"I think you have me mistaken with Archer." No one has ever called me specifically trouble. Archer, yes, all the d.a.m.n time. Me, Archer, and Matt together? Oh, h.e.l.l yeah. We caused all sorts of trouble together, especially in our younger years.

But me, all alone? I'm not trouble. Not really. I'm a pretty responsible guy. My dad instilled it in me to take care of everything that matters. In business and in pleasure. When I see something I want, I go after it until I make it mine.

Is that what you're doing right now?

I push the scary-as-f.u.c.k thought right out of my head.

"I already told you I don't know Archer that well. I do know he has a reputation," she starts.

I interrupt her. "Well earned, let me tell you. He's an absolute dog."

"Hmm. Well, from what I've heard, he's settled down now that he has a fiance."

My sister, but I don't bother telling her that. I have to keep some of my secrets. I might want to use them someday. And I can't keep up this pretense that Archer's a total dog because he's not. Everything Marina says is true. "Listen, I swear I'm not trouble. Trust me."

She laughs. "Any guy who says aI swear' and atrust me' is one hundred percent trouble."

I'm starting to get offended. More than anything, I'm f.u.c.king tired of dealing with her. Yet here I stand, still dealing with her. Wanting to f.u.c.king deal with her. And wanting to prove her wrong too. "You don't know me."

"I know your kind. You think you can get what you want and when you don't, you turn it into a challenge," she tosses at me.

Well, h.e.l.l. She's pretty dead-on with that one.

"And I think for whatever sick and twisted reason, I've become a challenge to you," she continues, her eyes blazing with newfound anger. "I'm not some game to play and eventually win, Gage. I've already told you I'm not interested in you or your offer. What else do you want from me?"

I move toward her, grabbing her hand and pulling her to me. She presses her other hand on my chest, her eyes have gone wide as she stares up at me in shock. "I want a chance."

"If you're circling back to the dinner date thing, no. I think it's a bad idea." She takes a deep breath. "I think the two of us together is a bad idea. You don't like me. I don't like you. There's no point to this. We should walk away from each other right now."

Now that sounded dramatic. "I never said I didn't like you." I might've thought it because, h.e.l.l, the woman loves to throw up roadblocks. I thread my fingers through hers, pulling her into me. Her hand is small, soft, and warm. I like the way it feels in my grip.

"We don't even know each other." Her lower lip trembles as she stares up at me. "You make me nervous, I hope you know."

"Guess what? You do the same thing to me."

She stares at me incredulously. "Really?"

I nod and don't say another word. Something about this woman makes me want to be honest with her. Lay it all on the line.

Whether it's good or bad. Whether I want to know her response or not, I need to hear it. For once in my life, I want to leave myself vulnerable when it comes to a woman. But only for this woman. She has me so twisted up in knots I don't know if I'll ever be able to unravel them.