I sighed as I dropped the spoon in the dishwasher. Average. Okay. Fine. None of them were words I used for my jam, and I didn’t want anybody else to use them either.

  I could always put this jam in jars and then sell it to Bianca Jordan at cost. Bianca could probably figure out something to use it for in her bakery. Maybe jelly doughnuts or kolaches. Something where the jelly wasn’t the main player.

  But I wouldn’t be putting it into jars with my label on it. This jam wasn’t up to the standards of Luscious Delights.

  Because okay would never be enough for the jam queen of Shavano. I’d hold out for good, and hope for extraordinary.

  Chapter 2

  The Shavano farmers market is set up in River Park along the biking and jogging trail. It’s a great location since tourists love strolling by the river so they can watch the kayakers and white water rafters making their way through the course that runs under the main bridge. A lot of those strollers make their way to the market, too.

  But that’s later in the season when the tourists begin to flood the mountains and fill Shavano’s hotels and cabins and campgrounds. In mid-May the customers are mostly locals. Picky locals. Fortunately for me, these same picky locals like to buy my jam—most of it, anyway.

  I try to get to the market early so I can get everything set up before the customers start to arrive. Uncle Mike designed my booth: nylon fabric with a metal frame and wooden counter. It’s deep enough to give me some storage at the back so I can stow cases of jam and boxes of crackers for my samples. And it’s got a roof overhead. Later in the season that roof provides shade from the killer mountain sunshine, but in mid-May the main worry is rain. And possibly snow. When you live at altitude, you get used to weird weather shifts.

  It took me fifteen minutes or so to get the booth set up, and then I got going on the sample bowls. Some market vendors really hate samplers, the customers who breeze through to sample your stuff and move on. They don’t bother me that much. I figure anyone who tastes my jam is going to want to buy some, if not this week then next week or the week after. I’ve met people who don’t like pickles or mustard or hot sauce or jerky. But I have never met anyone who doesn’t like jam. Maybe not mine in particular, but jam in general is always a winner.

  I got ready to open, pouring a limited amount of each of my jams into the plastic bowls I had ranged along the front of the booth. I also had several bowls of crackers placed strategically alongside the jam. Good sturdy suckers, too. Believe me, there is nothing less appetizing than a bowl of jelly filled with cracker shards.

  This Saturday I had my best sellers—raspberry and peach preserves—along with strawberry and apricot jam. Later in the year, I’d try some more exotics like lavender peach and tarragon apricot. But right now I was sticking with the basics. Along with pepper peach, which I was going to sell out if it killed me.

  Other vendors walked by as I got everything arranged, calling out greetings and commenting on the brilliant blue sky and bright sunshine (which could become pouring rain or snow flurries in the blink of an eye—we weren’t kidding ourselves). Bianca Jordan, who baked terrific bread and breakfast pastries, stopped long enough to pick up the jars of okay raspberry jam that I’d sold her wholesale.

  She held one of the jars up to the sun, then shrugged. “Looks good to me, kid.”

  “They’re good,” I said, a little defensively. “They’re fine. They’re just not…”

  “Great.” Bianca sighed. “Yeah, I know how that is. They’ll be good for danishes and maybe filling some kolaches.” She dipped a cracker into the apricot and winked at me. “Luscious as always. See you later.”

  When I first decided to call my jam company Luscious Delights, I was a little embarrassed. It seemed like bragging, and I could picture some guy from New York taking a taste and sneering, “You call that Luscious?”

  But in fact I do call it Luscious. That seemed to be the word I heard most frequently when I was taste-testing my early batches. There were also a lot of “Oh my Gods” and “Wows,” but they didn’t seem to lend themselves to a company name. So Luscious Delights it was.

  Normally, I had an assistant at the market, Carmen and Donnie’s daughter, Dolce. But Dolce was off doing something 4-H related this weekend, and I was on my own. No problem. I’d done the farmers market by myself before.

  Annabelle Dorsey walked by, followed by her daughter, Dorothy. Annabelle does pickles and other fermented stuff as the Shavano Pickler. It’s not a name I would have chosen myself, but it does tell you what she’s up to. Her stuff isn’t bad, provided you like ferments. Dorothy helps out in the summer, sort of. She’s fifteen, and she’s clearly not delighted to be spending her Saturdays pushing sauerkraut and pickled garlic. On the other hand, keeping her at the market means Annabelle doesn’t need to worry about what else she could be up to. Dorothy’s currently deeply into Goth and she looks more like twenty than fifteen, but I remember her when she was a sweet-faced toddler and I know how old she is.

  I was just watching the first customers of the day stroll along the path when I heard muttering from the booth next door. Loud muttering.

  The booth to my left was Martha Benavidez’s salsa. To my right was the demo booth where the local restaurants put out samples and tried to attract customers. The muttering was definitely coming from the restaurant side.

  I stepped out of my booth and peeked around the edge of the demo space. A man was standing at the rear of the booth, trying to set up his hotplate. His back was to me, and the words he was muttering outdid my cursing performance with the raspberry jam by a mile.

  I took a breath. Might as well be neighborly. “Having problems?”

  He turned around then, and I got my first good look. Reddish brown hair, brown eyes, strong jaw, currently dropped. He stared at me, looking a little dazed.

  I get that a lot, so I’m used to it. There aren’t too many women my size around Shavano. I hit six feet when I was seventeen, and the rest of me is pretty much in proportion. Plus I usually pull my hair up into a topknot to keep it out of the way, which adds a couple of inches on top where I probably don’t need them. Since I’m half Greek-American, I get a lot of references to Amazons. But I figure any man who’s intimidated by my size isn’t worth my time.

  “Problems?” I repeated, trying not to grit my teeth.

  The restaurant guy managed a grin. “Oh. Yeah, a little. Do you know if there’s an outlet around here where I can plug in my hotplate?”

  “Back there,” I said, pointing to the heavy-duty outlet on a pole about four feet away from the booth.

  Restaurant guy stared where I was pointing, then grimaced. “Damn. I didn’t bring an extension cord. Nobody mentioned I’d need one.”

  “I’ll lend you mine. I’m not using it.” Electrical connections are always kind of iffy at the market. Fortunately, I don’t do much cooking in my booth. I located my orange extension cord. When I straightened he’d stepped beside me.

  We were almost eye to eye. Given that I was wearing hiking boots with thick soles, that made him a couple of inches taller than me, give or take. And a very handsome two inches they were. I swallowed and handed him the cord.

  He grinned as he took it. “Thanks. I’ll bring it back as soon as my demo’s over.”

  “Take your time.” I stepped away slightly. “I won’t be using it today.”

  “Great.” He extended his hand. “I’m Nate Robicheaux. From Robicheaux’s Café.”

  I gave his hand a quick shake. “Pleased to meet you, Nate. I’m Roxy Constantine. Luscious Delights.”

  His eyes widened slightly, and his ears turned pink.

  “That’s my jam,” I added quickly. “Luscious Delights jam.”

  “Oh.” He glanced at the counter where I had my samples laid out. “May I?”

  “Sure. That’s what they’re for.”

  He took a cracker and scooped up a little apricot. It was left over from last summer, but jam doesn’t go bad, and it would be a few more weeks before the first apricots of the season came in. He popped the cracker into his mouth and paused, chewing. After a moment, his lips spread in a blissful grin. “Holy crap, that’s good.”

  I could feel my own ears getting warm. “Thanks.”

  He took another cracker and scooped up a little strawberry. “Oh, man. That’s delicious.”

  “Glad you like it. When are you supposed to be doing your demo?” I’d have to come try his stuff. I really hoped it was good so I could say something nice about his food, too.

  He glanced at his watch. “Hell, I’m on in ten minutes. I’d better get set up. I’ll bring your extension cord when my half hour’s up. Your jam’s stupendous.” He gave me another smile and trotted to the demo booth.

  I blew out a long breath. Nate Robicheaux was a very good-looking guy. And he was my height, more or less. Most women would leap at the chance of getting something going with someone like that.

  I sort of did, too, but I also sort of didn’t. That was my problem, and I needed to work on it.

  Once the real customers started showing up, things got a lot busier. I had the inevitable groups of kids who wanted to load up on free samples. With them I had a strictly enforced one sample per customer policy. But once the adults started crowding around too, the kids had a hard time working their way to the front.

  There was a brief lull after fifteen minutes or so, and I slipped next door to grab one of Nate Robicheaux’s samples. He was doing grilled cheese, cutting the sandwiches into quarters and setting them out for people to grab. It was tasty—super crunchy on the outside with a little kick to the cheese. Nate Robicheaux seemed to know what he was doing.

  I lost track of time after that since I had a steady rush of customers. I’d forgotten just how tough it was to keep an eye on the samples, answer questions, and ring up sales on my own. I swore to myself I’d make sure Dolce was richly rewarded for showing up as my assistant from now on. I might even hire another assistant, given the number of people we were dealing with. Maybe Dolce had a friend who’d be willing to spend a couple of hours at the market on Saturday mornings.

  I glanced up to see Dorothy Dorsey scooping up a sample from the ample bowl of pepper peach. It still wasn’t selling as well as it should have been, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. “Dorothy,” I called. “Do you have some free time right now?”

  Dorothy narrowed her eyes. “Maybe. Why do you want to know?”

  “My assistant’s off this weekend and I’m swamped. You want to make a quick twenty bucks?”

  Her eyes stayed narrow. “Make it thirty.”

  “Thirty it is. If you can stay until the rush dies down.”

  “I can stay.” She stepped around the end of the booth. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Make sure the bowls stay filled and try to keep the kids from stealing all the crackers. I’ll ring up the sales.”

  “I can do that.”

  We worked together for another hour or so. I felt a little guilty about stealing Dorothy away from Annabelle’s booth, but I figured if Annabelle really needed her, she wouldn’t have been free to wander around the market.

  Once the crowds began to die down again, I took a minute to grab a bottle of water from my cooler. “Would you like some water?” I asked Dorothy.

  She shook her head. “Nah, I’m good. You get a lot of customers.”

  “It’s been a good day. How’s your booth doing?”

  “Okay. Not as busy as this, though.” Dorothy shrugged. “It’s pickles.”

  “Good pickles,” I said quickly. I’m not a big pickle fan, but Annabelle’s were tasty.

  Dorothy shrugged again. “If you say so.”

  “Dorothy, there you are.” Annabelle stood a few feet away, her hands on her hips. “Come back to the booth. You’re supposed to be working for me.”

  Dorothy grimaced, then started to follow her mother.

  I grabbed my purse. “Hang on a minute. I owe you thirty bucks.”

  Dorothy waited while I fished out my billfold, then jammed the bills into her pocket. “Thanks.”

  Annabelle gave me a fixed smile. “Poaching my assistant?”

  “Dorothy helped me out when I was swamped. My own assistant’s out of town this weekend.” I tried looking apologetic. “Sorry if I ran you short.”

  Her fixed smile didn’t waver. “Glad she was helpful. It’s good practice. Come on, Dorothy. Martha’s watching the booth right now.”

  Dorothy muttered something that sounded like “no loss,” but she followed her mother down the path.

  I refilled all the jam bowls and put out a few more crackers. The noon rush was over, and it was close to our two o’clock closing time, but I always try to have samples available. You never know who might show up, even late in the day.

  And actually, somebody did show up—Nate Robicheaux. “Oh good,” he said, as he rounded the corner next to my booth, “you’re still here. I was afraid you’d have gone home by now.” He looked like he was panting. Maybe he’d run up from the parking lot.

  “I’m always here until closing, unless I sell out.” I actually had sold out on peach and strawberry. And I was close to it on raspberry and apricot. Unfortunately, I still had a healthy supply of pepper peach.

  “I didn’t even know when the market closed.” He gave me a sheepish smile. “I’m a total beginner. I had to go to the café and cook lunch after my demo, but I forgot to give you back your extension cord.” He held it out.

  “Thanks, but you could have given it to me next week. I’m always here on Saturdays.”

  “Will there be more vendors next week? This week seemed a little thin.” He turned to survey the reduced line of remaining booths.

  “Most of the produce guys have packed up and left—they sell out fast this early in the season. Once the summer crops start coming in, we’ll have a lot more vendors and a lot more customers.” I paused. I’d just been assuming he’d be around, but there were several Robicheaux kids, as I recalled. There was no guarantee he’d be the one doing the cooking next week. “Will you be doing demos every week?”

  He nodded slowly. “I think so. We haven’t worked out my schedule yet. I just came to Shavano a couple of months ago.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “Las Vegas.” His expression sort of shut down, and I didn’t ask him what he’d been doing there. I’d heard something about one of the Robicheauxs, but I couldn’t remember the details right then. Maybe I’d ask Uncle Mike.

  “Well, welcome to Shavano.” I gave him my best hometown booster smile.

  “Thanks.” He smiled back.

  He had amazing eyes, now that I got a good look. The color of chocolate sauce, with some hints of gold around the edge. The dark eyes were a nice contrast with his auburn hair.

  I very carefully did not look at his hands. Men’s hands are a major turn-on for me, particularly with a man like Nate who did interesting things with those hands. I very much did not want to be turned on by Nate Robicheaux. Keep it friendly. Keep it remote. That was my current motto.

  “Well,” he said, “thanks again for the extension cord. Next time I’ll bring my own. I guess I’ll see you next week.”

  “Right. We’ll probably be side by side all summer.” Which sounded a lot more like a come-on than I’d meant. “I mean our booths will be in the same place every week.”

  “Great, I’ll look forward to that.” His grin flashed white against his tan, and I felt a quick flicker of something I hadn’t felt for quite a while. “See you, Roxy.” He turned up the path.

  “See you, Nate,” I mumbled, although he was already too far to hear me. I turned to my jams and pretended they were fascinating.

  Oh, watch it, Roxy. Just watch it. I needed to ignore any and all feelings that might be inspired by a flashing grin. I wasn’t in the market for somebody like Nate Robicheaux, even assuming he was in the market for somebody like me.

  Which, now that I thought about it, seemed unlikely. Why was I agonizing over possible relationships with good-looking strangers who hadn’t indicated any particular interest in me? He was probably just a nice guy who was trying to be friendly with the booth-holder next door.

  I checked my watch, and found it was two o’clock. Time to close down and load up my truck. And then to think about lunch.

  Which most definitely would not be eaten at Robicheaux’s Café. I needed to get some distance from that killer smile.

  Chapter 3

  After I packed everything into my truck, I did a quick survey of the line of restaurants on Second Street. I was always ravenous by two, and if I ate a late lunch, it could count as dinner, too. After weighing my options, I decided on Dirty Pete’s. Their enchiladas were terrific, and I was in the mood for spicy. Plus I’m friends with the bartender.

  Said bartender grinned when I came in. I’m not really a regular, but I do show up there now and then. And Lord knows I’m memorable. Actually, the bartender at Dirty Pete’s is pretty memorable himself. His name’s Harry Potter. Yes, really. He’s around six five and weighs maybe two eighty. Nobody screws around at Dirty Pete’s.

  I found a table toward the windows in front where I could watch people walk by then gave the waitress my order. There weren’t too many people in the restaurant at that time of day, but my friend Susa Sondergaard waved from a distant table where she was having lunch with some guy. Susa is always having lunch with some guy. She has a constant rotating group, all devoted.

  A sudden image of Nate Robicheaux slipped into my brain, all yummy muscle and bashful grin. He might even have had a dimple, although I really hadn’t looked close enough to check.

  The waitress brought my plate of cheese enchiladas with rice and beans, along with a king-size iced tea. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cumin and paprika. Heaven. I used to make a mean plate of enchiladas myself back in the day. Now my culinary adventures were pretty much limited to jam, but sometimes I missed experimenting with other stuff.

  As I took my first bite, the door to the bar swung open with a swish and I made the mistake of looking up. Brett Holmes gazed back, the corners of his mouth edging into a faintly predatory grin.