With her bakery on the brink and three days until the farm-to-table festival, Emma’s last hope lies in a gruff farmer whose vegetables—and heated stares—could save her business and unravel her defenses.
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The September morning air in Vermont carried the scent of maple and woodsmoke, but inside Emma's bakery kitchen, the atmosphere was thick with flour dust and barely controlled panic. She pulled another tray of burnt croissants from the oven, her fourth failed batch this week, and felt the familiar weight of impending failure settle on her shoulders.
Three months. That's how long she had before the bank foreclosed on Sweet Dreams Bakery. The farm-to-table festival this weekend was supposed to be her salvation—if she could stop burning everything she touched.
The bell above her front door chimed, and Emma quickly shoved the ruined pastries into the trash. Her breath caught when she saw who was standing there.
Will Thorne looked exactly like what he was—a man who worked the land with his hands. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-streaked brown hair and forearms that spoke of countless hours hauling hay. His green eyes held a wariness she recognized, the careful distance of someone who'd been hurt before.
"I'm here about the festival," Will said, his voice carrying a slight Vermont drawl that made something flutter in Emma's chest. "Heard you might need local produce for your booth."
Will owned the largest organic farm in the valley, and his vegetables were legendary. Getting him to supply her booth would be a coup—if she could convince him she wasn't a complete disaster.
"I'm planning a seasonal menu," Emma said, trying to project confidence. "Apple turnovers, pumpkin scones, savory tarts with local vegetables."
Will's gaze moved over her face with an intensity that made her suddenly aware of how she must look—flour in her hair, sweat dampening her chef's coat, the faint smell of smoke that followed her everywhere lately.
"You're not from around here," Will observed.
"Boston," Emma confirmed. "I moved here two years ago to open the bakery."
Something shifted in Will's expression, a subtle hardening. "City girl playing farm-to-table," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made Emma's spine stiffen.
"I'm not playing at anything," Emma replied, her chin lifting defensively. "I believe in what I'm doing. Local ingredients, sustainable practices—"
"Right," Will cut her off, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he'd heard these promises before. "And when it gets hard? You'll pack up and head back to the city like all the rest."
The accusation hit harder than it should have. She had romanticized this life, but she hadn't given up. Wouldn't give up.
"I'm still here, aren't I?" Emma said quietly. "Two years later, still here."
Will studied her for a long moment, his green eyes searching her face. Emma felt heat creep up her neck under his scrutiny, hyperaware of the way his gaze lingered on her mouth before returning to her eyes.
"My produce isn't cheap," Will said finally. "I don't give discounts to city girls trying to find themselves."
The condescension sparked anger in Emma's chest. "I wouldn't expect you to," she replied coolly. "I'm running a business, not a therapy session."
Will's eyebrows rose slightly, as if her fire had surprised him. "Fair enough." He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the counter. "Email me what you need. If your order's serious, we can talk."
Emma picked up the card, her fingers brushing his briefly. The contact sent an unexpected jolt of electricity through her system, and she saw Will's eyes darken in response.
"I'll send you a list tonight," Emma said, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the way her pulse was racing.
Will nodded and turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Word of advice," he said without turning around. "The festival crowd can smell desperation. Whatever's got you rattled, figure it out before Saturday."
After he left, Emma stood alone, Will's business card warm in her palm. There was something about the way Will had looked at her that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the sudden awareness that she was a woman and he was very much a man.
She had three days to perfect her festival menu, convince Will Thorne to supply her with produce, and somehow save her bakery from foreclosure. The last thing she needed was to get distracted by broad shoulders and knowing looks.
But as Emma headed back to her kitchen, she couldn't stop thinking about the heat she'd seen in Will's eyes, or the way her skin had burned where he'd touched her.
Which might have been why she didn't notice the man in the expensive suit standing outside her bakery windows, watching her with calculating eyes and a smile that held nothing good.