Part 5 (1/2)
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-s.h.i.+rt 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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.