I inhale and exhale quickly before rolling my eyes. “I guess it makes sense.” I rather ungraciously thrust the plate of pastries at him. “These are for you.”

  His eyes light up and he immediately grabs a donut, shoving nearly the whole thing into his mouth. The look on his face is enough to cause my knees to tremble. When he releases a groan of pure pleasure, they almost buckle.

  Apparently, James appreciates the flavors of fall as much as I do. I involuntarily step closer to him, wondering what the cinnamon sugar would taste like on his lips. But as soon as that thought pops into my head I leap back like grease on a hot griddle. “So, what questions do you have for me about the garden?” I force myself to think about dirt and not his annoyingly gorgeous mouth.

  “I don’t have any questions for you. I didn’t know you’d be here.” In what I’m assuming is a response to my confused expression, he explains, “I already met with Geoffrey, I thought my mom and I were going to finalize everything ourselves.”

  “Well, I have a few ideas,” I tell him.

  “No doubt.” His tone is downright insulting.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I have no doubt you have a multitude of opinions. You’re very proficient at sharing them.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  He raises his eyebrow in response but doesn’t comment further.

  I am not happy to be standing here with James Cavanaugh. I look around to see if his mother is anywhere nearby before hissing, “I don’t care if you are Ruby’s son. Don’t expect me to bow down to you like you’re special.”

  “God forbid, you try to be nice. Although, I’m guessing being ‘nice’”—he does the whole air quotes thing—“isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse.” I should punch him in the eye.

  “Why should I be nice to you?” I demand with my chin tilted upwards and my hand on my hip. I feel like the caricature of a bossy school marm. If I were holding a ruler, I’d be more than tempted to hit him with it.

  “Because, Miss Heinz, when attacked, I bite.”

  I want to smack the remains of the donut out of his hands. I want to kick him in the shins. I don’t do either because I get sidetracked by the thought of him biting me. You know a little nibble here and there. The image positively sucks the air out of my lungs. I don’t consciously take a breath until I hear the words, “There you two are. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Chapter Four

  Ruby

  Ruby stops at the front desk to chat with the general manager of the lodge, Chris, to give James and Tara some alone time at the garden site. “There is only one lesson my boys have never fully learned,” she tells her friend. “Mother knows best.”

  “Tell me about it. You’d think we grew up under rocks and didn’t have any real-life experience for all the respect we get. As soon as our kids find out something is our idea, they fight back,” Chris replies in a huff of motherly indignation.

  “That’s why we have to be sneaky. For instance, I left James and Tara out in the garden together. I’m sure my son is absolutely livid with me right now, but you know what? Too bad. Life is all about balance and James hasn’t learned that yet.”

  “Imagine, Tara Heinz working here at the lodge!”

  Ruby does a quick scan of the area while whispering, “That’s a secret. No one can know.”

  Chris puts her fingers to her lips. “Sorry about that. I haven’t said a word to anyone, and I won’t. I just got a little excited. Why do you think she left Los Angeles anyway?”

  “I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the tabloids. As soon as I found out who she was, I Googled her. Lord, you would not believe the kind of media circus that girl has been involved in.” The quirk of Chris’s eyebrow has her adding, “She broke up with her rock star fiancé and the tabloids are saying it’s because she got fat.”

  “Fat?” Chris yells before catching herself. “That girl could gain thirty pounds and not be fat.”

  Ruby shrugs her shoulders. “I guess Hollywood sees people through a different lens than the rest of the world. I’d better get going though. I’m worried those two might kill each other if left alone for too long.”

  “Good luck and keep me posted.” Chris shakes her fists in the air like she’s waving pom poms.

  Ruby returns the gesture before turning around and scurrying out the nearest exit.

  James

  I would have sooner believed the aliens Brogan and I used to hunt as kids would come to earth to make me their leader than I’d be standing three feet away from Tara Heinz talking about gardening. I fantasized about doing a LOT of things with Tara while staring at the posters of her that used to hang on my walls, but this was never one of them. Unfortunately, all we ever seem to do is fight when we’re near each other, so there’s little chance of more pleasant fantasies coming to fruition.

  As soon as my mom arrives, I none-too-pleasantly declare, “I didn’t realize Tara was going to be joining us this morning.” I say her name as though I’m talking about corn smut, that aggravating fungus that can grow on ears of corn.

  The supermodel sends me a withering glare before adding, “I didn’t realize James would be here, either.” I can only imagine the word she’s thinking of when she says my name.

  My mom smiles like neither one of us is upset. “Well, dears,” she looks at me first and then at Tara, “you both play important roles in this garden and I want to make sure everything gets off to a good start in the spring when planting begins.”

  Tara turns to me. “I want a lot of cabbage, carrots, and zucchini.”

  Before I can comment, my mom interjects, “We also need to talk about the herb garden. What kind of herbs do you want James to plant, Tara?”

  “Obviously mint, but I’d prefer chocolate mint to peppermint. I’ll need lavender, thyme, rosemary, and basil. And of course, a variety of edible flowers.”

  “You do realize your desires aren’t the only ones we’re trying to satisfy here.” I can’t help it if I sound annoyed, I am. Bossy Tara makes me bristle.

  Glaring at me, she says, “Your mother asked what I wanted. I’m just telling you.”

  Mom smiles brightly as though we’re having a nice time and there isn’t an elephant-size ball of tension crowding the space. “A lot of the garden will work well for both savory and sweet.”

  “I want sweet corn, too,” Tara adds to her list of demands like a kidnapper upping a ransom.

  “What do you want sweet corn for?” I swear the woman is trying to be maddening.

  “I use it in vegan ice cream. It blends beautifully with the coconut milk base my recipe calls for.”

  “Let’s talk fruit!” My mom claps her hands together like she’s giving the garden a standing ovation. After twenty solid minutes of ideas, I finally raise my hand to get a word in edgewise.

  “What about the deer?” Deer in the Willamette Valley will eat your garden, fruit trees, and flowers right down to the ground if you’re located anywhere near the woods. The lodge is surrounded by forest.

  “Good point,” my mom says. “What do you suggest?”

  “You’re going to have to erect a fence around the perimeter. That might not be very cost effective, especially if you’re looking to plant an entire acre like you’ve been talking about.”

  “How tall does the fence have to be?” Tara wants to know.

  “A minimum of six feet, but seven would be safer,” I tell her.

  “Why don’t you plant the things deer don’t like closest to the fence to deter them from trying to get in?” Tara suggests.

  “What a wonderful idea!” my mom gushes. “I knew the two of you would be the perfect pair to ensure this garden will be a success.”

  Tara’s idea is not as wonderful as my mom seems to think it is; it’s obvious. “I don’t need help,” I tell my mom.

  “Nonetheless,” she says, “I’d like you to consult with Tara on what you decide to do. I’m too busy with the holidays coming up to take that on.”

  “I’m pretty busy too,” Tara says with some force.

  “Of course, you are.” My mom pats her arm. “But don’t you worry, after you two decide what you want, James will take care of the design. All you need to do is agree with his plan.”

  “I have to get her approval?” I demand. What the heck does a supermodel turned pastry chef know about gardening?

  “You will if you want to be my garden designer,” my mom states plainly.

  I’d walk right now if I didn’t need the money. But I have plans for expanding my farm that I can only implement with a solid influx of cash. “When do you want me to consult with her?” I ask grumpily.

  “I’m sure you two can agree upon a schedule. While it might take a few weeks, or months even, I’d like regular updates.”

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Tara interrupts.

  “Ruby,” my mom corrects her.

  “Ruby. I don’t really know anything about gardening. Other than caring for a few orchids here and there, I’ve never taken care of plants.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. If James can do it, so can you.” Wow, that’s kind of insulting and I’m about to say as much when she looks at her watch and announces, “I have another meeting. Why don’t the two of you sit down and discuss your initial thoughts and get back to me later today?” Tara and I stand there seemingly unsure of what to do next. What in the world is my mom thinking making this a joint project?

  “I have to get back to the kitchen and work on tonight’s desserts,” Tara finally says.

  “James will join you,” my mom replies. “That way you can talk while you work.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s input,” I pointlessly declare again.

  “Nonetheless,” my mom replies, “you’re going to have it.”

  Why is she doing this to me? I turn and look at Tara who seems equally as befuddled as I am. When she catches me staring, she says, “Well, come on then. I don’t have all day.”

  I follow behind her like a faithful dog. And while I hate the analogy, I don’t at all mind the view. Tara Heinz has a perfect face, but believe me when I tell you, her backside comes in a very close second.

  Chapter Five

  Gwen

  Gwen unsuccessfully tries to slam her front door in the stranger’s face. “Mrs. Heinz!” The woman sticks her boot into the gap before she’s successful. “I just have a couple questions.”

  “You people are barnacles on the butt of society, do you know that?” Gwen shouts before giving up the fight over the door. The darn woman has inserted her knee into the space as well.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she says, “but truly, I’m not interested in tabloid journalism or muckraking. I’m writing an article on body positivity. I was hoping to interview your daughter for it.”

  With her arms folded in front of her, Gwen responds, “I’m sorry, Tara isn’t staying here.” She briefly considers going to the kitchen to get the remaining eggs.

  “Do you know where she is?” the journalist wants to know.

  “Of course, I do, but I’m not going to tell you. Why don’t you give me your business card? I’ll pass it on if you promise to get off my property. Tara will call you if she’s interested in talking.”

  The journalist wearing ripped jeans and an oversized gray sweater backs out of the door frame and hurries to pull a card out of her purse. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Chances are you’ll never hear from my daughter.”

  “She’s pretty broken up over her breakup with Romaine, huh?”

  Gwen eyes the young woman cautiously before answering, “I’d say she’s more relieved than upset.”

  “But it had to have been really hard to get dumped because she gained weight. That’s just so wrong.”

  “I’m not sure where you got your information, but Tara was the dumper, not the dumpee.”

  “That’s not the word on the street. I’d really like to tell your daughter’s side of the story,” the reporter says hurriedly while typing something into her phone.

  Gwen looks suspiciously at the woman and contrives to shut the door again, all the while saying, “That’s up to Tara. If you’ll excuse me ...”

  “Well, thanks again for your help, and I’m sorry to ambush you. I just want to get the truth out and support women of all shapes and sizes ...” The slam of the door interrupts the rest of her sentence.

  Gwen looks down at the card in her hands and learns the reporter isn’t legit like she was led to believe. Right there in black and white it says, Rachel Perry, The Tattler. As she tears up the business card, Gwen wonders, Why won’t these people just leave Tara alone? It’s not like she’s modeling anymore.

  Tara

  James is dawdling behind me on the way back to the lodge from the garden site. He’s moving as quickly as if he were on his way to have his legs amputated. “Hurry up, I have tons of stuff to do today,” I snap at him.

  “I think I’ll just head home,” he says, veering his trajectory toward the parking lot.

  “Get back here,” I order. “For some reason, your mom wants me involved in this garden. Being that she’s my boss, I’m going to do what she’s asked. Unless you want me to tell her you can’t be bothered consulting me, that is.”

  “Are you seven years old? You’re going to tell my mom on me?”

  He’s got a point. James definitely brings out the child in me, and not in a good way.

  “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can part ways,” I tell him. I don’t think I’ve ever annoyed a man as much as I do this one. Okay, there was that makeup artist who told me his makeup brush wasn’t a wand when I complained about how he applied my blush, but other than him, I usually get on pretty well with men.

  “What kind of flowers do you want in the garden?” James asks like it’s causing him physical pain to do so.

  “Obviously nasturtiums and roses, but I’d like dahlias, pansies, and violets, too.”

  “Obviously …” he mumbles under his breath before asking louder, “What about hops?”

  “I make a mean, stout brownie. I could use hops in it to add a sort of sedative effect.” Desserts tend to use a lot of things that are meant to soothe the palate after a big meal. Mint and lavender are two of the more common herbs, but hops would be a nice addition.

  James interrupts my thoughts by asking, “Why did you come to Oregon?” He sounds perturbed again, or should I say, still.

  “Clearly, because I somehow knew it would irritate you and I couldn’t help myself,” I fire back.

  “Seriously,” his tone evens out to an almost conversational level. “You don’t seem the type to live someplace outside of the fast lane.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know plenty. For instance, I know you were on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition four times by the time you were twenty-five, I know you were engaged to Romaine Choate, and I know you can swear in French.”

  “Caught that episode of Jimmy Fallon, did you?”

  “I think the whole world watched that one.” His eyes twinkle with amusement.

  “Part of the fun of being interviewed on late night television is the ability to be a bit salty. I simply took advantage of the situation.” Not to mention, Jimmy Fallon has a decent sense of humor about himself and he likes when people don’t fawn all over him. Although, I’m sure he would have forgiven me almost anything thanks to the dress I was wearing. Men seem to have a hard time concentrating when an attractive woman is practically painted into her clothes.

  A whisper of a smile crosses James’s face before he says, “It takes talent to call someone an effing gasbag and have them laugh at it.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a fan.”

  He rears up and stops moving as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Fan? No. I may have appreciated your physical attributes from time to time, but I was never a fan. Please disabuse yourself of that notion immediately.”

  “Yet I recall your mom telling me that you hung my posters on your wall when you were in high school.” I can’t help myself; I have to tease him about that.

  “Just because I liked the way you look on the outside doesn’t mean I like you.”

  “That’s very superficial,” I tell him.

  “Seems to me the whole modeling business is superficial. You’d think you’d know that being part of it for so long.”

  There is no getting along with this guy, so I stop trying. We make the rest of the trek back to the lodge in total silence, which is far preferable to the conversation we had been having.

  I take my sweater off as soon as we walk into the kitchen and immediately head toward my corner workstation. There’s a gallon-size plastic bucket full of gorgeous Italian plums waiting for me.

  “What are you making with all the plums?” James asks, finally breaking the quiet between us.

  “Plum upside-down cakes, and cinnamon and cardamom poached plums. I’m serving them with homemade vanilla bean ice cream and brandy whipped cream, respectively.”

  “Yum. I don’t suppose you need a taste tester to make sure everything is edible?”

  I can easily imagine what a young James Cavanaugh looked like by the eager expression on his face. It’s unnervingly endearing. “If you’re still here when everything is ready, you can try them,” I concede.

  “In that case, why don’t I go? We can continue our meeting over plummy desserts later this afternoon. What time should I come back?”

  The only reason I’m agreeing to this is because I work faster when no one is talking to me and I really do need to get tonight’s specials ready. “Come back at three,” I tell him before walking away.

  The cool blast of air from the walk-in refrigerator is exactly what I need to bring me back to the task at hand. I’m about to enter when I see Geoffrey standing in front of me, staring at a box of eggplant. He’s not moving a muscle.

  “Are you waiting for them to talk to you?” I ask good-naturedly.