Angry and some other emotion I’d rather not focus on at the moment . . .

“He didn’t know who you were? Who is this imbecile?” My aunt is outraged on my behalf. Gotta love her. “Everyone knows the Molinas!”

“First of all, I’m a Knight—” I start.

“And a Molina,” she adds.

“Right.” I nod. Proud Italians are the worst, as in the most stubborn people of all the land. At least my family is. “And he’s not from the area.”

My entire family tends to forget there’s a whole other world outside of their Napa Valley glass bubble. As I child, I found it very secure. As an adult, I view them as narrow-minded and self-important. Sometimes.

Didn’t you act a little self-important with a certain someone a few nights ago?

I frown. Really didn’t need that reminder.

“Where’s he from?” she huffs.

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But I knew he was a stranger. I’ve never seen him before.” I’m lying. Yes, he’s a stranger, as in not local. But I know where he’s from. I can’t tell Gina I did a background check on him though. Then she’d ask why, and I’d have to tell her, and I’m sorry, I don’t have time to answer questions right now.

I need to work. It’s all I do lately. I definitely don’t get out much; the event where I saw Gage had been a social-working thing, so that doesn’t count.

Otherwise, I’m so busy I’m either here at the bakery, helping out my parents, or having long meetings at the bank trying to straighten out our financial mess with an advisor who’s worked for my dad since before I was born.

Then I go home late at night and collapse into bed, only to start all over again the next morning.

Talk about living in a sheltered little bubble. I’m the complete embodiment of it.

“Well. He sounds horrid.” Gina sniffs.

I hold back from rolling my eyes. My mother’s younger sister loves to rush to judgment. It’s one of her finer qualities, my mom always says. Her steadfast loyalty is always appreciated. And we work well together, despite her occasional moodiness and uneven temperament.

Of course, she could probably say the same about me, so . . .

“He wasn’t that bad.” Major understatement. No, Gage Emerson definitely isn’t horrid. Handsome, yes. Sexy, indeed he is. Confident to the point of smug, oh yeah.

I’ve always found confidence in a man attractive. I blame my father. He embodies all of those traits in a most handsome package.

“Do you forgive him?”

Blinking, I turn to find Gina studying me, her gaze shrewd. “What did you say?” I ask.

“What with the flowers and the card he sent you, do you now forgive this man who insulted our family? And why would he go so far and apologize like this? How long did you two talk?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Ten minutes?”

Her lips tighten to the point of almost completely disappearing from her face. How does she do that? “So a man you spoke to for ten minutes and treated you rudely sends you flowers that probably cost hundreds of dollars? I smell a rat.”

“You always do,” I joke with her, trying to lighten the moment, but she won’t have it.

Shaking her head, she rounds the counter and stands on the other side, sticking her face into the bouquet and breathing deep. “This is by far the most beautiful arrangement I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.” That was the truth, considering Gina used to create beautiful cakes for wedding receptions. We gave that up when I took over. I’d streamlined the business completely, something my aunt was very grateful for. She’d been working herself to the bone.

Now I guess it’s my turn.

“He’s just trying to impress me with his money,” I joke, making her smile. “Probably hoping I’ll fall to my knees and praise him for his lavish gifts.”

“Now that sounds like an interesting scenario,” a man’s voice said from behind her.

Gasping at the sound of the faintly familiar, velvety deep voice, I glance up to find Gage Emerson himself standing in the middle of the bakery, looking disgustingly gorgeous, clad in another one of those perfect suits he owns. The man dresses to perfection. And why didn’t I hear the bell ring over the door? “Oh my God,” I whisper, absolutely mortified. His suggestive tone said he found my words . . . titillating. Great.

And while we’re standing in the presence of my very overprotective and slightly angry aunt.

“I take it this is the rat?” she asks, making me groan inwardly.

“At your service, ma’am.” Gage goes to her, his hand outstretched. Gina eyes it warily, as if it was a snake that might strike her at any moment. “Gage Emerson, aka The Rat.”

She laughs and takes his hand, charmed. Just like that. It might not last, knowing my aunt, but come on . . . everyone seems to fall for him.

Why does her positive reaction rub me the wrong way? Why does Gage rub me the wrong way?

If I’m being honest with myself, I could get on board with him rubbing me the right way. And I don’t normally fall for smug a**holes. I’m attracted to confident men, but there’s something about Gage I don’t like. His arrogance is over the top. He seems like he’d be bad for me. And I’ve never had a bad-boy fetish.

Not that he’s a bad boy, per se. But he’s definitely trouble. Trouble I don’t want.

Yeah, you do.

I’m arguing with my own self inside my head. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. I don’t get it. I don’t get my reaction to him.

Correction. I don’t want to react to him, and I can’t seem to help myself.

Chapter Three

Gage

THE TWO WOMEN eye me carefully, the older woman—who I assume is Marina’s aunt—relaxing somewhat.

At least someone has a sense of humor around here. You could cut the tension in this cute little European-style bakery with a cake knife.

“How are you, Marina?” I walk toward the counter, noting how she grips the edge so tight she’s white-knuckling it. Do I make her that angry? Or maybe . . . that nervous?

I know she makes me nervous. She’s all I think about, which can’t be healthy.

For once, I really don’t give a damn.

“Good.” She lifts her chin, her expression neutral. Only her eyes give her away, a hint of nervousness fluttering in their depths. This woman standing before me is completely different from the one I first met a few nights ago. This version looks younger, sweeter. More like the woman in the photo on the Autumn Harvest website. Not quite as poised as the elegant siren luring me in with her dangerous smile and sweet voice. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“My conscience wouldn’t let me stay away. I had to seek you out and apologize for how I offended you.” I gesture toward the flowers that cost me a shit-ton of money. Cost doesn’t matter though, since I believe she’s worth it. Getting me an in with her father, her entire family?

Even more worth it. Plus, I can eventually write off the expense.

Christ, you’re a jackass.

I can’t even admit to myself that I really wanted to buy her those flowers. That the bright, colorful arrangement made me think of her. Hiding behind it in the hopes of getting an in with her father is only part of the reason I’m here.

Marina Knight. She’s the true reason I’m standing here worried I’m going to make a complete ass of myself.

“How did you find me?” she asks warily.

Now she probably thinks I’m a stalker. I can’t give away my source. Yet. Archer’s the guy I want to hook her with eventually. If I can’t charm her, I need to find another way to make her see me again. “I figured out who you were and put it all together.”

“Hmmm.” That’s her reply. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.

Great. I wouldn’t believe me either.

“Do you like the flowers?” I ask when she still doesn’t say anything else.

“They’re beautiful,” she admits grudgingly, making me smile. She doesn’t return it, screws her lush mouth into a little scowl instead. “Thank you,” she mumbles.

“So.” I offer her my best, most humble smile in return. “Am I forgiven?”

“You think it’s that easy, Rat Boy? That you can just waltz in here and have yourself declared forgiven all because you threw your credit card at the most expensive flower shop on this street and bought the biggest arrangement they’ve got?” Her aunt snorts and shakes her head. “I don’t think so, young man.”

Raising my brows, my gaze meets Marina’s. Guess the aunt has no problem letting her opinion be known. “It was an honest mistake,” I say. “And well, you sort of jumped to conclusions, you have to admit.”

Marina’s expression hardens in an instant. Jesus, what is with me constantly saying the wrong thing to this woman? I’m usually a smooth-talking motherfucker—direct quote from Archer—and if anyone is an expert at that subject, it’s him. I put women at ease, I make them laugh, and if I’m lucky—on certain, especially rare occasions, at least lately—I get them to agree to come home with me.

“You’re two seconds from getting kicked out of here,” she whispers fiercely, her eyes shooting fire. Aimed right at me.

“Sorry! Shit.” I throw my hands up in front of me defensively, her aunt’s mutterings of “stupid Rat Boy” coming from somewhere behind not going unnoticed. “I just . . . I’m sorry.”

Marina crosses her arms in front of her chest, the movement plumping up her br**sts, drawing my attention. I can’t help it, I’m a guy and she has nice ones. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with AUTUMN HARVEST written across the front in elegant gold script, her long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, minimal if any makeup. She looks tired. There are dark smudges under her eyes and her mouth is tight. “Go on,” she prompts.

Hell. I have to say more? Breaking out in a light sweat, I forge on. “I was rude. And I didn’t mean to offend you. I had no idea who you were—”

The aunt makes a harrumph noise, but I ignore her.

“—and my friend had to point out who exactly you were a few days later.” Stuffing my hands in my front pockets, I shuffle my feet, feeling all of about ten years old and having to confess everything I’d done wrong to my dad. Waiting for the inevitable punishment that was sure to come.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks, her voice curious.

What? No ‘you’re forgiven,’ or ‘thanks for the apology’? I’m boggled. And I may as well reveal my secret source. I have the distinct feeling she’s ready to tell me to get the hell out.

“Uh . . . Archer Bancroft.”

Her arms drop to her sides, curiosity written all over her pretty face. “I know Archer. Vaguely. He owns the Hush and Crave hotels, right?”

Slowly I nod, wondering at the sudden gleam in her eyes.

“So how do you know him?” she asks.

“Where you going with this, girly?” her aunt pipes up.