Kristin Hardy - The Chef's Choice / The Boss's Proposal

Because she knew it wasn’t real.

“That’s it?” he repeated and started back toward her. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on here but you don’t start up something like this and just shut it down.”

“I wasn’t the one who started it,” she retorted.

“But you were part of it. And you kissed me back, you can’t pretend you didn’t."

Cady could feel her cheeks heat. “So you’re a good kisser, big deal. You ought to be, after all the practice you’ve had."

Her jab didn’t make him angry, as she’d hoped. His slow smile was far more dangerous. “Practice has made me good at a lot of things. Want me to show you?"

“No.” It was too quick and a little too nervous sounding. It took all she had not to move away as he stopped before her and leaned in by her ear.

“It happened,” he murmured. “You can’t make it go away. Maybe it’s not smart but you and I both know we’re going to be thinking about it until the next time."

And turning, he left her there, shaking.

It was difficult, Cady discovered, to avoid thinking about someone when the person you were trying to avoid thinking about was always around. It was even worse when they popped up in your dreams. She could try all she wanted to forget; she could tell herself she wanted no part of him.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

She’d always told herself she was different, worn it like a badge of honor, but when she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, her legs got weak. And that was no way to be feeling with the leg weakener nearby.

She knelt at one of the flower beds on the back side of the inn, setting out marigolds as quickly as she could. Behind her, closer than she liked, lay the restaurant. And Damon. She’d put off planting this particular bed as long as she could. Now, she flipped a pony pack over in her hand, hurrying to finish. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into him, with that low, persuasive voice and that killer smile.

The worst part of it was that she couldn’t really blame the kiss on his smile. She could have stopped him if she’d really wanted to. She hadn’t. He’d been right that day in the greenhouse; they’d both been wondering about it. And if she’d been awash in nerves when he’d approached, she’d been awash in anticipation, too.

Making a noise of frustration, Cady picked up another pony pack. The problem was that her workdays were largely physical. Normally, that suited her to a T because she was largely physical, too. Now, though, it merely provided her with way too much time to think.

About Damon. About the kiss. And about all of the other things she was missing.

Her hands slowed. What would it be like to have him touch her, really touch her? What would it be like to have those strong, nimble hands on her skin? She’d had so little experience—kisses with a few men, a pair of memorably disappointing encounters in bed. How would it be with a man who knew about pleasure? And if he could take her so far with a kiss, what else could he do?

The back of her neck prickled and she reached back to rub it absently. Bad question to ask. It was pointless—dangerous, more like—to think about sex or anything else with Damon Hurst. Like a deer trying to have a relationship with a hunter, and she wasn’t the one wearing the camouflage vest. He was here and gone, and she needed to remember that.

Cady rubbed her neck again and shifted uneasily. The prickling hadn’t gone away. Even though it was a cloudy day, even though she was working under the shade of the tall pines that grew between inn and restaurant, the back of her neck felt hot.

Just her imagination, Cady told herself. But she couldn’t keep from glancing over her shoulder.

Only to see Damon in his apron, leaning idly against the wall by the back door. He looked tall, lean, insouciant. His teeth flashed white as he tapped the side of his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Face flaming, she turned hastily back to her marigolds.

It had been going like that all week. The more she tried to avoid him, the more he was everywhere she looked. No matter how early she dropped in to work the grounds or tend the greenhouse or get supplies for her workday, she always seemed to run into him. He’d be heading into work or coming back from the farmers’ market or taking a break from the heat of the kitchen, but he’d be there.

The fact that she’d been able to avoid talking to him so far was scant comfort. She could read it in his eyes as he nodded or winked or gave one of those half-assed salutes: he hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time.

The thought made her stomach tighten.

Enough, she thought impatiently and pressed another marigold into place, using her knuckles to tamp down the earth around each plant. She didn’t need to think about it anymore. What she needed to do was—

A thump and a curse from one of the guesthouses had her glancing over. It was her father, carrying one of the inn’s Adirondack chairs up the stairs to the guesthouse deck, and not having an easy time of it.

She frowned as he stopped halfway up, leaning on the railing, breathing hard. “Dad?” she called, rising to her feet. “You want some help?"

She didn’t wait for the answer but jogged over anyway. By the time she got there, he was standing again and waving her away. “Everything’s fine, hon. I was just catching my breath. This fool cold I’ve had just won’t go away.” He wiped his forehead.

She caught hold of the bottom of the chair and began carrying it up with him. “Don’t you have someone who can do this?” She shook her head before the words were even out.

“Okay, dumb question, never mind. But seriously, maybe you ought to give it a rest. You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m fine,” he puffed. “I just need to kick this bug.”

“You just need to stop running yourself into the ground,” she countered. “Didn’t the doctor tell you that last week?"

“The doctor’s office is probably where I got the cold. I was fine until I went to see him."

“You probably had it already, you just didn’t have symptoms.”

“That’s what your mother says.”

“And if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll never get over it,” Cady scolded.

“Your mother says that, too.”

“Lucky you, surrounded by adoring women.”

“Or women who think they’re always right.”

“That’s because we are right,” she said as they topped the stairs. “And one thing I’m right about is that you need to take a break."

“I’d better not. I’ve got to get these chairs out. Tomorrow’s Friday and we’re full up. First time all year.” He sank down on the Adirondack with a sigh. “I just need to sit down for a minute, that’s all."

“What you need is to take some ibuprofen and go to bed.” She bent over him worriedly, studying his pasty face. “I’m going to call Tucker. He and I can put the chairs out."

“Don’t bother him,” Ian protested. “He’s got the marina to worry about."

“I’ll help him push his boats around next week.” Straightening, she pulled out her cell phone.

Ring tones sounded in her ear and then there was a click. “Whadda you want?” Tucker demanded, but she could hear the grin in his voice.

“Is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?” Cady asked.

“The one who never calls me unless she wants to ask a favor? That cousin?"

“You mean the cousin who comes to every one of your gigs, no matter how many Dave Matthews songs you insist on playing?” Tucker played bass on weekends in a local bar band that featured more enthusiasm than talent.

He gave an elaborate sigh. “All right, all right. What is it this time?"