Emerson's stomach growled again at the thought, and, okay, she was definitely a coffee person.

As if he'd suddenly sprouted brain-reading superpowers, Hunter said, "Coffee doesn't count."

"Are you insane? Coffee always counts. It's practically its own food group."

The corners of his lips edged up against the dark stubble on his jaw, shaping his firm, full mouth with just a hint of a smile. "I a.s.sure you, I'm perfectly sane. I also farm for a living, so there's pretty much nothing you can say or do to convince me that meals involve anything other than fresh food. Did you seriously not have any breakfast this morning?"

"I told you." Emerson tried on her very best stern expression, but holy cow, that s.e.xy little smile of his was making it tough to stick. "I had coffee."

"Mmm. I'm bringing you some of those tomatoes on Monday."

"Oh no." Emerson motioned him off the rec.u.mbent bike and pled her case at the same time. Yes, the tomatoes sounded amazing, but she'd meant to get him talking to relax his shoulder, not take advantage by way of her pantry. "That's really nice of you, but-"

"But nothing. Do you still love BLTs?"

Her lips parted in surprise, but she was powerless to say anything other than, "Yes."

He followed her to the exercise stations she'd set up for him earlier this week, his muscles flexing beneath the snug cotton of his T-shirt as he gripped the handle on the resistance tubing looped around the weight rack. "Then I insist. If you won't eat breakfast, the least I can do is aim for lunch."

Emerson nearly argued. But Hunter wasn't the only one with a great memory. His laid-back charisma didn't fool her one bit. She'd bet he could still be stubborn as h.e.l.l when he set his mind to fixing something, and she knew all too well how to choose her battles. Plus, she'd spent the last few years living on quickie meals she could throw down the hatch between therapy sessions and whatever she could order on the fly at various airports and hotels, and Hunter hadn't been off the mark about her love for a really good BLT.

"With an offer like that, I suppose I can't refuse." She guided him through a mobility exercise, although their conversation didn't skip a step when they returned to the topic a minute later. "Hey, does the county still run that farmers' market outside of Camden Valley every Sat.u.r.day?"

"May through October, with the exception of the day of the Watermelon Festival," he confirmed. His movements were nice and fluid, and Emerson pressed a gotcha smile between her lips as she listened to him continue. "The farmers' market is actually another great source of revenue. Cross Creek has one of the busiest tents there."

"Considering the new crops you've been growing, that's not too surprising."

"The whole event has gotten pretty popular, actually. They had to move the event to the pavilion by the town park about three years ago to accommodate all the vendors."

Whoa. "The one by the old train yard?" That place was huge.

"Yes, ma'am. One and the same."

Hunter's voice-and his smile-held just enough s.e.xy Southern charm to remind Emerson that getting personal with him was a very bad idea. But even though he probably didn't realize it, he'd already made more progress today than all four of their other sessions combined. No way could she clam up on him now.

Emerson smiled back, working up a little charm of her own. "Isn't 'ma'am' for old ladies, Mr. Cross?"

He lowered the resistance tubing, stepping close enough for Emerson to catch the double whammy of woodsy, masculine soap and the felony-grade dimple peeking through the stubble on his left cheek. "No, ma'am."

Hunter's gaze traveled a slow, hot path from her eyes to her mouth, then back up before he added, "It most definitely is not."

Oh. G.o.d. Suddenly, she felt far from being old. As for any ladylike tendencies?

Yeah, those had just gone up in flames. Along with her cheeks.

And maybe her panties.

Emerson looked up, her pulse beating hard and fast against her throat. She opened her mouth to say something-at this point, anything to distract her from the dizzying heat of his nearness would do.

But then Hunter stepped back, his expression perfectly polite as he moved on to the next exercise with the resistance tubing. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Calling women 'ma'am' is one of those small-town habits, I guess. Anyway, the farmers' market is what put the idea in Owen's head to try all the specialty items."

Emerson dipped her chin toward Hunter's chart in an effort to hide the still-raging heat on her face. Of course he'd just been letting his manners show. How could she have forgotten that everyone with an XX chromosome got the "ma'am" treatment in Millhaven?

"That makes sense," she managed, refocusing on the subject at hand. "You, ah, don't need as much quant.i.ty for the market or the CSA as you would for a deal with a distributor, right?"

"Right." He stretched his arm across the front of his T-shirt, holding it steady with his opposite palm. "With the greenhouses, we have the ability to plant year-round. Plus, we can get kind of creative since we're growing those crops on a much smaller scale, then we can gauge trends over the course of a season and plant accordingly in the fields for the next year if something really takes off."

Huh. Low risk, high reward. h.e.l.l if she didn't know all the words to that song. "Sounds like a win-win."

Hunter nodded, letting go of the stretch and rolling his shoulder in a gentle circle before answering. "Yeah, when the climate and the soil cooperate. Owen's goal is to open a permanent shop on site at Cross Creek so we can fulfill the demand for those items more than just twice a week with the farmers' market and the community share program."

"Wow." Masking her surprise would've been impossible, so Emerson didn't bother trying. "That would be a big source of income for you guys, right?"

"It would if we could make it go," he qualified. "But building even a small retail store takes a ton of money and manpower. Between the bad weather this year and now me being hurt, we're really tight on both."

The flicker of raw emotion in his stare lasted for less than a second, but it sent a sharp tug through Emerson's chest all the same.

Cross Creek really was everything to Hunter. He didn't just love his job. He needed it.

And, oh, she knew just how that felt.

"You've made some great progress this week, Hunter. Look"-she motioned for him to lift his injured arm in front of him, extending her own hand above shoulder height to give him something to aim for, and well, well, would you look at that-"your range of motion is better than it's been all week. See?"

Hunter's brows climbed in obvious surprise. "But my shoulder was totally jammed up when we started our session. I thought I'd managed to make it worse somehow."

Emerson guided his hand back to his side, unable to keep her wry smile in check. "I hate to break it to you, but that tension had more to do with your head than your arm."

"Sorry, I don't follow," he said, and his expression backed up the sentiment.

"I'm not saying this is some sort of miracle cure, or even a cure by itself at all. You've still got to do three more weeks of therapy in order to safely heal. But your body's musculature takes cues from the rest of you," she said, moving past the weight rack to grab the four-foot wooden pole propped in the corner, then retracing her steps to the spot where Hunter stood. "So when you're stressed mentally, your body responds in kind. But when your mind is relaxed . . ."

She dropped the pole between Hunter's hands, waiting until he flattened a palm over each end before gesturing him into a stretch to prove her point.

Yessss. "Your body relaxes, too."

"Holy-" The rest of his words fell prey to his shocked exhale, and he held the markedly improved stretch for a few beats, just like she'd taught him. "That's incredible. How did you know that's what the problem was?"

"You mean aside from the fact that your muscles went tighter than a snare drum as soon as you mentioned being on the sidelines at the farm?" Okay, so teasing him might not be strictly professional, but d.a.m.n, it still felt good.

Hearing Hunter's laugh in response? Even better.

"Touche, Dr. Montgomery. You clearly know your stuff."

His use of the formal address sent her shoulders into an involuntary vise grip around her neck. Hunter's gaze narrowed over the movement, and s.h.i.t. So much for feeling good.

But no amount of casual conversation could segue into her admitting that the only people who ever called her "doctor" were her parents, as if the use of her t.i.tle would somehow add to her value and they could pa.s.s her off as something she wasn't.

"Right." Emerson controlled her voice, smoothing the words over her quickening heartbeat. "Well, I guess we'd better continue with your session."

She straightened, her knees suddenly aching in time with her lower back. The three hours she'd spent driving to her new neurologist's office all the way out in Lockridge two days ago hadn't done her joints any favors, but no way could she risk seeing a specialist in Camden Valley. G.o.d, she should've known that escaping her father's shadow was going to be a full-time job now that she was back in Millhaven.

Emerson gestured to the portable ma.s.sage table, and although Hunter's smile didn't budge, his body didn't, either.

"Looks like I'm not the only one with mental stress."

Knowing he'd seen the hitch in her shoulders and that he'd never buy it if she said she was fine, Emerson went for option number two: deflection. "Maybe, but you are the only one with a therapy session right now."

Of course he didn't bite. "This session might have my name on it, but we're both here." Hunter lowered one end of the pole to the floor, leaning against the other just as easy as you please, and dammit, eyes that blue should seriously come with some kind of warning label.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked. "I mean, I am sort of a captive audience, and you said it yourself. Relaxation does a body good."

The ache in her back twisted and throbbed. Listening to Hunter talk about Cross Creek was one thing, a thing that had gone a long way toward helping him get through today's therapy session. But listening was in a whole different universe from talking, and airing out her personal life was a far cry from a little back and forth for the greater good. Letting anyone in wasn't part of the plan to work hard and move on.

Letting Hunter in, with that rugged smile and those ice-blue eyes that had always tempted her to let down her t.i.tanium-reinforced guard?

That was downright dangerous. Because if Emerson started talking to him, she might not stop until every last secret was out on the table. And she could not, under any circ.u.mstances, allow that to happen. No one could know she was sick. Damaged. Defective. No one.

No matter how crushingly heavy the weight of her recent diagnosis was.

Head up. Eyes forward. Just work.

"I'm fine," she said, turning toward the portable ma.s.sage table and ordering the rest of his session in her head. External rotation exercises, posterior deltoid static stretches, pressure point ma.s.sage . . . yeah, they'd be good to go.

At least, they would be, if Hunter stopped pinning her with that X-ray vision stare. "Are you sure? Because I really don't-"

"Thanks for the offer, but I really am fine," Emerson said, dialing up every last ounce of her resolve along with a courteous smile. They'd made a ton of progress today. She didn't want to lose that momentum. "Your shoulder looks strong enough for some new exercises. Why don't you get comfortable on the table and we'll give some lateral raises a try."

Hunter looked at her for what had to be the longest minute of her entire thirty years, and, please, please, all she wanted was to be able to do her job, to help him heal.

To bury herself in the one thing she had left.

Finally, he dropped his eyes and lowered his body to the exam table.

"Lateral raises it is. You're the boss."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Hunter rocked back on the heels of his farm-dusty work boots, taking in the early-morning view of Town Street with equal shots of excitement and unease. He'd been up since before daybreak, which for a Sat.u.r.day in June wasn't necessarily news. But Millhaven's Fifty-Sixth Annual Watermelon Festival kept today from being any run-of-the-mill Sat.u.r.day, just like Hunter's shoulder injury was keeping him from being able to fully relax. With the workout his comfort zone had gotten over the last week, it was the eighth wonder of the world the d.a.m.n thing hadn't detonated. Still, even though he'd been put on restrictive duty for working the festivities, the sights and the sounds and the antic.i.p.ation brewing in front of him right now made not smiling pretty much a statistical impossibility.

Every year for the Watermelon Festival, the two-lane thoroughfare of Town Street was closed off to through traffic, allowing everyone in Millhaven to gather along its path to set up tents and tables to showcase their wares. The whole "watermelon" part of the festival had grown more symbolic than literal over time, although Owen and their father had loaded a dozen crates of hothouse Queen of Hearts and another ten of Sugar Babies into their produce truck at the whip crack of dawn. It had wiped out their supply d.a.m.n near completely-watermelons were a tough grow in smaller greenhouses, and the ones they had infield wouldn't be ready for harvest for a couple more weeks-but for this, it was worth the pain in the pants. The Watermelon Festival was a celebration of the impending summer, with everything from horseshoe compet.i.tions to pie-eating contests to old Harley Martin serving up pulled-pork barbecue out of a drum smoker that'd been around since Methuselah.

The event wasn't just a draw for revenue, although the fact that people came from all over the Shenandoah to enjoy the festivities didn't hurt. To Hunter, the Watermelon Festival was more like a chance for everyone to show off what made the town special. Mrs. Ellersby's hand-sewn quilts, the Baker's Dozen's fresh-canned jams and jellies and even fresher-baked cakes and cookies, the detailed truck tours the fire department gave to every wide-eyed kid who came asking-every last contribution made the festival as unique as a fingerprint and as warm as the handshake that went with it.

Millhaven might not qualify as the big time, or okay, even have a fast-food restaurant within a thirty-mile radius, but d.a.m.n, Hunter loved this town.

"Well, aren't you just standing there looking pretty as a prom queen," came a voice from over his shoulder, and he put a sardonic edge to his smile as he (barely) bit back the urge to give his little brother a single-fingered salute.

"Not me. That falls square under the heading of Your Job." While Hunter liked to think he wasn't terrible to look at, Eli had always gotten far more play with the opposite s.e.x than him and Owen combined. A c.o.c.ky smile, some flirty innuendo, and bam. Eli had someone's panties in his pocket. The a.s.shole.

Of course, Eli just laughed. "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Where do you want these, Boss Man?" He used his chin to gesture to the wooden crates full of collards and spinach stacked three high in his grasp.

Hunter held on to his smile, although suddenly, it was a stretch. "Come on, now. Don't add being in charge of you to my resume. That's a full-time job all by itself, brother."

"Please." Eli snorted without losing his grin. "Half the time, I'm not even in charge of me. But don't worry. I know you're not all hat and no cattle, Hunt. The clipboard's temporary. Once you ditch it in a few weeks, I'll try bossing you around the farm."

"Believe me, I'd pa.s.s this thing over with a hallelujah if my shoulder would let me." Hunter held up the old-school brown clipboard between his fingers before sending his gaze back to the trio of oversized canopy tents Owen and their father had finished putting together just a few minutes ago.

"All the greens are going to go over here, so I guess just set them down in the middle tent 'til we get the rest of the tables unloaded and good to go," he said, double-checking the schematic he'd drawn up last night with the reality of the setup on the street in front of him. His fingers itched like crazy to take the triple-stacked crates out of Eli's hands and move them himself-s.h.i.t, they weren't that heavy-but he burned the energy on adjusting his baseball hat and bending down to give Lucy a scratch behind the ears instead. He'd ended the week on a high note in physical therapy. Pushing his luck would be stupid, no matter how tempting.

Haven't you ever wondered what if?

Speaking of pushing his luck.

Not to mention tempting.

"Whoa." Eli stopped short, lowering the crates to the asphalt with a thunk as his brows winged up toward his hairline. "That's a h.e.l.luva face. You feelin' okay?"

"Yup." The auto answer shoveled past Hunter's lips, but Christ, the sentiment behind it still sat in his chest like a wad of cold rubber cement. No matter what she'd said at the end of their session yesterday, Emerson wasn't fine.

And no matter how much he knew he should, Hunter couldn't forget the look on her face when she'd lied.

Eli measured him for a minute before throwing a thumb into the belt loop of his Wranglers. "Tell you what," he said, his voice all lazy drawl. "We got here before nearly any of the other vendors, so we're ahead of the game. Why don't we take a break for a quick spin up the street to see what we can see."

"I don't know." Hunter eyed the filled-to-the-gills box truck. "There's a lot of work to be done here. Owen packed up two dozen crates of specialty produce alone, and that was even before the regular stuff like corn and greens." He gestured around Town Street. "We've got one of the biggest tents at the festival."

"We also have a b.u.t.tload of time on our side," Eli said with a patented grin. "I'm not saying we should skip out entirely, but come on, dude. If I plan on kicking Greyson Whittaker's a.s.s from here to the moon in Clementine Parker's pie-eating contest-and trust me, that is so in my game plan for today-I've gotta build my appet.i.te."

Hunter squinted at the sky, measuring the time by the sunlight and shadows. "I guess there won't be too much left to do after we get these crates unloaded," he said, cracking a grin that sent his pulse back into business-as-usual territory. "Okay, why not?"

"Excellent." Eli slapped his hands together, but Hunter pointed the clipboard at him in a not so fast motion.

"We still have to get the greens done. And don't forget about the heirloom tomatoes, either. We ended up with a ton, so I figured we'd put 'em up front so Owen can brag like a proud papa."

"Greens and tomatoes. You got it, Boss Man."

This time, Hunter did give Eli the finger, although his laughter probably made it a tough sell. Really, he should be happier than a pig in a puddle that he'd made progress in PT this week, just like he definitely knew he should leave Emerson Montgomery in the past where she belonged. He might've found the way she'd brazenly ditched her just-business demeanor to ask him about the farm kind of s.e.xy, and the way she'd laughed and really listened to his answers? s.e.xier still.

But she'd lied through her pretty pearly whites when she'd said she was fine, and s.h.i.t, wasn't that just one more reason not to trust her? Emerson wasn't just playing her personal life close to the vest. She was hiding something, and her stubborn refusal to not only tell him what was wrong so he could try to return the favor and help her, but to admit that her world was anything other than all systems go was sending him around the f.u.c.king bend.

Even if her expertise as a therapist was helping him heal.

Hunter shook his head, sliding his thoughts back to the sunny stretch of asphalt in front of him. Working with Emerson was his ticket back to business as usual on Cross Creek's front lines, which meant p.i.s.sing her off with nosy pushback was definitely not in his best interest. His bulls.h.i.t detector might've detonated when she'd claimed she was fine, but she'd backed up the claim for the rest of their session. Yeah, he was still certain she was hiding something, but she was nothing if not iron willed. If she didn't want to open up to him, he couldn't make her.