“Good day, ladies.” He tugged his cap low over his face and left the shop.
Before climbing into his truck, he paused to breathe in the sea air and check the rest of his deliveries. Here on Main Street, unimpeded by summer scents of caramel corn, corn dogs, and suntan lotion, the salty tang carried sweet and clear. A stiff wind had blown away yesterday’s cloud cover. It was going to be a beautiful day. Too bad he’d be too busy to enjoy it. A walk on the beach would do him good.
But Casa Francesca had put in an urgent order for basil, thyme, and oregano. Trouble was, he was nearly out of Italian Oregano, so he’d brought Greek. Their flavor was similar, but Francesca was picky about her ingredients. Better call first before making the drive to her restaurant perched on a bluff north of town.
While on hold, his thoughts flicked back to Gemma. Once again, her beauty left him breathless. Dressed today in a long pine-green sweater, skin-tight jeans, and ankle boots, she looked like a forest enchantress from the fantasy books he loved as a kid.
Fixating on her was a waste of time. He had no place in his life for an airy-fairy hippie chick. If he took a chance on dating again, and that was a big if, he’d look for a woman who was down to earth, practical, like him. Too bad, though. Gemma’s graceful movements and silky, deep voice forced an unwanted, primal reaction from his body. Yet another example of his lousy luck, always falling for women whose interest he couldn’t hold.
He closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun until Francesca finally picked up.
Gemma stared through the shop’s window at Jesse brooding beside his battered pickup. Where had she met him before? In a town as small as Trappers Cove, she must’ve run into him at some point. But her memory refused to yield up specifics, only a vague sense of knowing.
For a skeptical farmer, he packed a powerful punch. So damn good-looking, with a deep voice that vibrated her bones. With his brawny build and that curly forelock tumbling over his broad brow, he reminded her of a bull. Bull-headed, too. Experience had taught her it was best to avoid close-minded types like him. But oh, those brown eyes, warm as whiskey held up to firelight. How would that short, trim beard feel against her skin?
Her fingertips drifted to her throat and traced her collar bone.
“Cute, isn’t he?”
She jolted at the sound of Zora’s voice so close behind.Sneaky old bird.
Gemma tilted her chin toward the pretty farmer, resting against his truck with his handsome face turned to the sun. “Why does he work with you if he thinks what we do is some kind of scam?”
“He’s a good man. Let him be who he is.”
“But if he’d open his mind—“
Zora squeezed her arm. “Sometimes, darling, what people need most is to be accepted just as they are.”
Gemma huffed a stray lock from her heated face. “And sometimes, people need a little push.”
Outside, Jesse tucked his phone into his pocket and opened the door to his pickup.
A flash of inspiration brought a smile to her lips. “And I know just the way to do it.” She hurried to intercept him.
“Hey, Jesse.”
He turned toward her with a quizzical scowl.
“You know about the Esoteric Arts Expo in Portland next month?”
“Yeah. Got the extra herbs Zora ordered under a bank of grow-lights.”
“You’ll be there, right?”
His dark brows drew together. “At the expo? No. Why?”
Gemma grasped his arms, relishing the firm muscle through his thick woolen coat. “You’ve got an organic herb farm! You could offer teas, tinctures, potted plants. Give me a list of what you grow, and I’ll write up their magical properties.”
Jesse snorted, which only made him more bull-like. “Listen, I grow culinary herbs, stuff for tea and home remedies, not magic potions.”
Yup, bull-headed to a fault. She forced her lips to unscowl. Being judgmental would get her nowhere with his type. He needed practical proof. “How could you ignore this huge market? The esoteric community is hungry for local products with integrity.”
“My business is none of yours.” With another sexy snort, he stepped closer and spread his stance, looming over her. “You ever actually worked the land, princess? It’s not airy-fairy spirituality. It’s heavy lifting and dirt under your nails.” He held a broad palm before her face and wiggled his fingers. Immediately, her imagination zoomed to how those powerful hands would feel on her bare skin, their rough scrape raising goosebumps of pleasure. Would he be a forceful lover? Brutal, even? Or perhaps surprisingly tender?
She gave her head a little shake, took his hand, and inspected his palm. “Interesting Mount of Venus.” She rubbed the base of his thumb. “Nice and fleshy.”
She had his attention now. People loved being told about themselves. With narrowed eyes, he peered at the spot she was massaging. “Mount of Venus? What does that mean?”
