Cross Creek: Crossing Hearts Part 7

"I'm game," Eli said, s.h.i.+fting on his broken-in Red Wings to take a step closer to Emerson.

Hunter's pulse kicked hard against his rib cage. "No, you're not."

Despite the ruckus going on in his chest, his words came out as slow and easy as a Sunday morning, and although they stopped Eli's movement, his brother's grin stayed put.

"Lavender and chamomile sound kinda nice. Sure, I am."

"No," Hunter repeated, neither his smile nor the rest of him letting up. "You're not."

Okay, so he had no claim to Emerson whatsoever, and considering how seriously she took her job, a hand ma.s.sage right here in front of G.o.d and everybody was bound to be harmless. But good behavior wasn't one of Eli's talents, and even though Hunter knew his brother had a code of honor lurking someplace beneath his c.o.c.ky exterior, he wasn't about to choose now to test the boundaries of where the freaking thing began.

Even if that meant testing the boundaries of where his composure ended.

"Okay, then," Eli said, holding up his hands in surrender for just a second before gesturing toward Emerson. "Guess you get to be the one to give it a go. I always knew you had a softer side."

Hunter's breath jammed in his lungs, and he realized too late what Eli had done. But backpedaling now was out of the question, and anyway, he'd been doing PT with Emerson all week. He could handle a little hand ma.s.sage, no problem.

The fact that he didn't want to backpedal, even if he probably should? Yeah. He'd deal with that later.

Hunter shot Eli a split-second look that promised murder, or at the very least a solid a.s.s kicking later, before turning toward Emerson. "Looks like I'm your guinea pig."

She took the lotion from Daisy, who turned to answer Eli's question about the sandalwood soap at the other end of the tent, both of them moving out of earshot.

"Your brother's still a troublemaker, I see." Emerson pinned the words with enough of a smile that Hunter's smile in return slipped out with ease.

"Yeah, it's at the top of his resume. But, really, we can skip the ma.s.sage if you want." As much as Hunter didn't mind the one on one, he wasn't about to make her uneasy in order to get it.

"Therapeutic ma.s.sage is part of my job, remember?" Emerson freed the lid from the bottle with a soft pop, squeezing a dime-sized amount of lotion into one palm. "Plus, we've done nearly half a dozen of them this week on your shoulder."

"Not in the middle of Town Street."

Just like that, she froze, her cautious demeanor slamming back into place like a set of two-ton doors. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I only offered-"

"I'm not uncomfortable," Hunter said, mostly because it was the truth, but also because, dammit, he wanted that smile of hers back. "I know you want to help Daisy with her business. All I meant was that people will probably talk."

Emerson laughed, soft and yet matter-of-fact. "They started talking the minute I got back, and I doubt they'll stop anytime soon. The reality is, I live here now, and you and I are going to run into each other. Seems like turning that into a big deal is only feeding the fire."

And wasn't that a h.e.l.l of a good point. "Okay then," Hunter said, extending his arms toward her. "I guess my hands are in your hands."

"Great." Emerson pressed her palms together, rubbing her fingers back and forth just like she did before the ma.s.sage therapy they did at the end of his sessions. "So are you having a nice festival so far?"

"Awfully formal, aren't you?" The teasing was out before he could trap it, and s.h.i.+t, could he put her any further on the spot? "Sorry, I just meant-"

"I know what you meant," Emerson said, reaching for his hands. Closing her fingers around one wrist, she pressed her thumbs into the heel of his palm, rotating them in slow circles. "And I guess you're right. It's just a little weird to be back in Millhaven as an outsider."

"You're not an outsider." She'd been born and raised here, for Chrissake. Now, that a.s.shat Daisy had met in Camden Valley and married a few years ago? He was an outsider.

Emerson seemed unconvinced. "I've been gone for twelve years, Hunter."

"So now you're back. Sure, some things have changed a little." Twelve years wasn't twelve minutes. Nothing stayed exactly the same, even in small towns. "But that still doesn't make you an outsider."

She lowered her chin, a tendril of hair dropping over her gaze in a copper-colored curtain as she concentrated her touch on the spot between his thumb and forefinger, and d.a.m.n, how could he feel one little touch all the way up his arm?

Emerson spoke without looking up. "Not even if I'm one of the things that's changed?"

"You haven't changed that much."

Okay, so the reply was bolder than his norm. But despite whatever she was guarding, the words felt as obvious as the bright-yellow canopy tent over their heads.

What's more, Emerson didn't argue. "Neither have you. You still like to fix things, don't you? Keep the status quo."

For a second, Hunter was tempted to call her out on the subtle s.h.i.+ft in focus, but since that'd probably kill the conversation in six syllables or fewer, he said, "I still like things simple, sure. I live on a farm. I don't want to fix you, though, if that's what you're getting at. I think you're fine just as you are."

Her laugh was all amus.e.m.e.nt. "But you don't even know me anymore."

"Bet I do." Okay, so he was borderline flirting with her now, but that relaxed, wide-open smile she'd been wearing when he'd first seen her talking to Daisy had found its way back over her face, and Hunter felt too d.a.m.ned good to listen to reason and stop.

"It's been twelve years," Emerson tried again. Too bad for her, she wasn't the only stubborn kid on the block.

"Uh-huh. You still hate mayonnaise."

She scrunched up her nose, and even with frown lines bracketing both her mouth and her forehead, she looked cuter than anyone had a right to. "That's a given. I've hated that stuff since birth, and I'll hate it 'til I go in the ground. Anyway, mustard's better."

"Okay." He paused while she seamlessly transferred her touch from his right hand to his left, the crisp, fresh scent of lavender filling the s.p.a.ce between them. "Something tougher, then. Let's see. I bet you still have that dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice on your bedside table even though you know more than half the book by heart."

"That's not too surprising," she said after a pause. "Pride and Prejudice is my favorite book."

"Uh-huh. Even money says it's sandwiched between two romance novels."

Emerson's blush had her dead to rights. "So I still like a good happily ever after." The doubt in her eyes remained, and okay. Guess he'd have to go all in.

Hunter tilted his head. "I bet you make a charitable donation every year, but not to a big organization. You pick something small, where the people really need the help."

Her hands. .h.i.tched over his, and ha! He had her. "I may make a contribution to the local food pantry in Las Vegas every winter," she said. "But those volunteer-run places get so much less donation money than you'd think. Every dollar helps."

He measured her with a thoughtful glance, hoping like h.e.l.l that his triumphant smile wasn't popping through too much. "See? Not so different after all."

"Just because you made a couple lucky guesses doesn't mean I'm the same girl you went to high school with."

The slow, deliberate pressure she was sweeping over the tops of his knuckles put him at a tactical disadvantage-holy h.e.l.l, her hands felt good on his-but he wasn't about to scale back now, even if she seemed more pragmatic than p.i.s.sy. "And just because you've been gone for a while doesn't mean you're an outsider in your own hometown."

Emerson lifted her chin to move the hair from her eyes, the sa.s.sy smile on her lips sending yet another slap shot against his sternum. "Some of my favorite things include indie movies and sus.h.i.+, Hunter. At the very least, I'm pretty sure that puts me outside the norm here in Millhaven."

Whoa. She might have you there, chief. "Okay," he conceded. "So I wouldn't know an indie movie if it jumped up and bit me, and you already know that around here, we call sus.h.i.+ 'bait.'"

She lifted her brows into victory formation, but uh-uh, he wasn't ready to go down just yet. Although Emerson hadn't completely shed her air of caution, she was a h.e.l.l of a lot more at ease than he'd seen her since she'd been home.

And calm composure be d.a.m.ned, Hunter wanted to show her what he saw.

"Still, I bet you fit in better than you think," he said.

She shook her head as she slid her fingers over the work-made calluses on his thumb. "I'm gossip fodder, Hunter. In fact, I bet Amber Ca.s.sidy is probably itching to tell the entire universe that we're holding hands right now."

Emerson's eyes darted to his left like a lightning strike, and sure enough, Amber was doing some high-grade whispering into Kelsey Lambert's ear across the sunny pavement of Town Street.

But Hunter didn't care. He curled his fingers around Emerson's without so much as a nanosecond's hesitation, pulling her close enough that their forearms touched, warm skin on skin.

"Then I guess she'll come d.a.m.n near close to hives when she sees us having lunch together later."

"What?" Emerson's breath coasted over his cheek in a puff of hot surprise, but again, he didn't hesitate.

"Look, beating around the bush isn't really my style. I like things simple, so I'm gonna cut right to the truth. You said you think you're an outsider here, but I disagree, and I'd like the chance to prove you wrong."

"You want me to go to lunch with you to prove that I still fit in after being gone all this time?"

Ah h.e.l.l. Maybe taking the no-bulls.h.i.+t approach wasn't the very best idea he'd ever sprouted. But he'd already let the words fly.

Now it was time to take action and back them up.

"I want to show you that you're not too far from home. So what do you say? Are you going to let me give it my best shot, or not?"

"I've got to hand it to you, brother. You are one lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Fifteen minutes had pa.s.sed since Hunter and Eli had walked away from Daisy's tent, yet neither Hunter's s.h.i.+t-eating grin nor Eli's merciless ribbing had let up, even for a minute.

"Who, me?" Hunter asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of his chest. "I don't know what you're talking about. You got the exact same treatment I did, hand ma.s.sage and all."

Fair being fair, Emerson had corralled Eli for his turn with his lavender-scented softer side as soon as she'd finished Hunter's hand ma.s.sage. Of course, that'd been after she'd agreed to meet Hunter at Cross Creek's tent during her lunch break in three hours.

Okay, fine. He really was a lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Eli held up his hands, flipping them from palms to knuckles, then back again. "I told you the lotion sounded kinda nice. That lavender smells relaxing, and the chamomile . . . anyway." He returned to the topic just in time to head off the gigantic raft of s.h.i.+t Hunter had been thiiiiis close to heaping on him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, you sly dog. You're going on a date with Emerson Montgomery."

Hunter's boots tripped to a graceless halt. "It's not a date," he said, his smile evaporating and his heartbeat working out a solid hey now beneath his white T-s.h.i.+rt. Sure, he and Emerson had flirted a little, and maybe asking her to meet him later had been a touch more impulsive than his usual MO. There was certainly no way he could deny that she was s.e.xier now than ever-for Chrissake, he wasn't blind, dead, or stupid. But walking around the Watermelon Festival for an hour to reacquaint her with the town was still a far cry from a date.

s.e.xy or not, Emerson had turned his heart into finger paint once. He couldn't let that happen again.

Eli's expression said he wasn't buying Hunter's veto, but at least his brother had the wherewithal to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself. "Whatever you say, man."

"Good, because I say it's not a date."

Hunter pulled in a slow, steady breath, nailing his calm back into place. He and Eli retraced their steps over Town Street, walking past the multicolored tables and tents now packing the thoroughfare with no room to spare. s.h.i.+t. They'd been gone longer than Hunter had realized or intended.

"We're gonna have to haul b.a.l.l.s to get back with enough time to finish setting up," he said. Eli lifted one shoulder but nodded in agreement and picked up the pace. Two minutes of solid hoofing it had them back at Cross Creek's tent, where Owen and their father looked to be setting out the last few crates of watermelons and summer squash.

"Hey, there you are. I tried both of your cell phones." Sure enough, the words had barely crossed Owen's lips when both Hunter and Eli's back pockets chirped with incoming text messages. The spotty-on-a-good-day cell service they got out here in the sticks was pretty much the only thing Hunter didn't love about Millhaven. h.e.l.l, two steps in any given direction could turn even the fanciest cell phone into a sleek silver paperweight.

Eli shook his head, sliding his phone from his banged-up Wranglers to silence it with a quick tap. "That's service in the boonies for you."

"We could've used your help hauling all the rest of these crates. Where'd you run off to, anyway?" Owen asked, his chin lifting a few inches as Eli sauntered by him to grab a bottle of water from the cooler by the cash box. "And what's that smell?"

"Ah, it's Daisy Halstead's new lavender and chamomile hand lotion," Eli said, his brows waggling beneath his faded red baseball hat. "Free hand ma.s.sages to anyone who gives it a try. I'm totally going back later for seconds."

A muscle in Owen's jaw hardened beneath his dark stubble. "Seriously? We're three minutes from the start of the Watermelon Festival, and instead of working like you're supposed to, you're wandering around hitting on Daisy Halstead? She's one of the nicest people in Millhaven, for Chrissake."

"I wasn't hitting on her, and I got plenty unloaded before Hunter and I left." Eli's demeanor turned as subarctic as his voice. "Anyway, what's that supposed to mean? A nice girl's too good for a guy like me?"

Hunter's gut formed a knot, and he stepped in to fill the s.p.a.ce between his brothers. "We were just blowing off a little steam and checking out the other vendors, O. If anything, this is my fault." He'd been the one to beeline for Daisy's tent in the first place.

"No, it's not," Owen said. "You were in charge of the schematics and inventory, and both of those got done. That's more than I can say for Eli's share."

Confusion trickled past Hunter's unease, and wait . . . "Eli, didn't you unload all the greens before we left?"

He jammed a thumb through his belt loop, his silence extending for just a beat too long. "Most of 'em. I figured I'd just do the rest when we got back, but I didn't realize we had so much inventory from the greenhouse. Or that we'd cut it so close to the start of the festival."

Hunter cursed under his breath-dammit, he should've double-checked the inventory list to be sure the work had been done-but Owen cut him off with a curt shake of his head.

"You're hurt, Hunt. No one's blaming you for not being able to haul these crates around. But it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that we need all the hands we can get around here, and instead, Eli's got his own agenda. As freaking usual."

Although he knew his brother didn't intend any guilt, the reminder of his injury peppered Hunter's chest full of holes. Before he could recover-and before Eli could pop off with the angry retort clearly brewing in his mouth-Owen shook his head in disgust.

"Just forget it. I'm tired of trying to get you to take the farm seriously, Eli. You're going to do whatever you want no matter what anyone says, and there's slack that needs picked up. I'm unloading the last of these crates." Owen's boot heel sc.r.a.ped in a hard turn over the pavement as he pivoted toward the box truck parked adjacent to the tent and walked away.

"You could use a good hand ma.s.sage. Along with a serious a.s.s kicking. I would've gotten everything off the truck just fine," Eli muttered under his breath. Shoulders bunched and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tension, he threw his half-empty water bottle into their plastic trash bin with a curse. "Screw this. He wants the work? He's got it. I'm taking Lucy for a walk. Call me if you need me, Dad."

Uncharacteristic impulses flared in Hunter's chest. He turned to haul Eli back and remind him that, A) he knew d.a.m.n well they'd need him since now they were behind schedule and everyone and his mother would be at the festival today, and B) calling him when they did would probably be about as useful as a trap door on a frigging canoe with cell service being what it was, but his father stopped him cold.

"Let him go, Hunt," he said, his gravelly voice low and quiet. "He'll burn it off and be back quick enough."

Hunter watched Eli clip Lucy's old red leash to her even older collar before stomping off in the opposite direction from Owen and the truck, and truly, Hunter didn't know how much longer he could hold the two of them off before s.h.i.+t turned into World War III.

"Well, that was fun," he said, releasing a slow exhale as he looked at his father. He wasn't surprised his old man had remained quiet during the exchange. Letting the three of them duke out their grievances on their own was simply his way. Hunter supposed there were worse things to inherit than the desire not to rock the boat.

"Your brothers have been fixin' to throw down for a while now," his father agreed, a small frown traveling over his sun-weathered face. "My guess is they'll get to it soon enough."

Now it was Hunter's turn to mutter under his breath. "That's what I'm afraid of."

His father looked at him from beneath the brim of the caramel-colored Stetson he d.a.m.n near never took off. His eyes flashed with steely gray concern Hunter recognized all too well, but the emotion disappeared quickly, replaced by quiet calm as he straightened the wooden crate full of pickling cuc.u.mbers on the table at his hip. "How's that shoulder treatin' ya?"

Not wanting to linger on the current topic, anyway, Hunter dropped a glance at the offending joint, rolling it gently beneath his T-s.h.i.+rt before answering with the truth. "Best day yet, actually. The physical therapy seems to be working."

His dad lifted one salt-and-pepper brow, just enough for Hunter to notice. "Sounds like you're in good hands."

"Three weeks and I'll be better than new," he said, trying like h.e.l.l to dodge the thought of who those hands belonged to and this morning's impulsive reminder of how warm and sweet they'd felt on his skin. He had enough on his freaking plate as it was. "For now, guess we'd better get ready to sell some produce."

Hunter and his father lapsed into comfortable silence, both of them working up a sweat as they finished the last-minute prep for the festival. The simplicity of the food in front of him smoothed the raw edges of Hunter's nerves-round, jewel-green Sugar Baby watermelons, velvety bunches of sweet-scented basil, satiny, fat tomatoes, and brightly ruffled b.u.t.ter lettuce. Sunlight speared down from overhead, tag-teaming Hunter in a vicious combination of heat and humidity despite the limited shade from their canopy tent, and man, the weather had been brutal lately.

"I don't usually mind a little heat, but it's getting to be an inferno out here," he said, swiping an arm over the moisture already fully formed on his brow and reaching down to palm a pair of water bottles from the battered cooler. "Even my sweat is starting to sweat."