She didn’t even know his name.

And that pissed her off more than anything.

Rowan Boewe wasn’t the kind of girl to sit around wondering about some quiet guy who worked the stall across from hers. She had bees to tend to, honey jars to label, locals to charm, and tourists to roll her eyes at. She had enough on her plate without thinking about some farmer’s market fix-it boy with a chipped tooth and stupidly nice forearms.

But there he was. Again. Hauling crates of peaches like it was nothing, his shirt riding up slightly every time he lifted one. His hands were always dirty — not gross-dirty, just…lived-in. Real. And when he stood still, which wasn’t often, he had this stillness that made Rowan’s insides clench. Like he was in his own little orbit and didn’t even notice she existed.

Except she wanted him to. Badly.

She hated how much she thought about the color of his eyes. She wasn’t even sure what color they were — greenish? gray? something unfair like that. He hadn’t gotten close enough for her to really tell. Which was insane, because she watched him constantly.

Subtly. Obviously. Obnoxiously.

Every time he walked past her honey stall, Rowan found a reason to look busy. Fix her braid. Wipe nonexistent honey from a lid. Restack the jars she’d already arranged perfectly an hour ago. She wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all herself.

She’d imagined saying something so many times. A dumb joke. A bold comment. Something classic, like “you always carry fruit like that, or is today just special?” But the words always died in her throat, because what if he just nodded and walked away? Or worse — what if he didn’t even know her name?

Which, yeah. He probably didn’t.

It was humiliating.

Rowan Boewe. Loud. Sharp. Fearless. And yet here she was, practically writing a fictional relationship in her head with a guy who smelled like rosemary and truck grease. A guy who’d never said a single word to her. Who probably thought of her as that girl who always looks like she’s about to fight someone.

Which wasn’t wrong, exactly. But still.

Her twin brother Corbin teased her once. Said she was staring at “market boy” like she was planning a murder. She nearly hit him with a honey dipper.

She wasn’t planning a murder.

She was planning a meet-cute.

She imagined it sometimes, pathetically: he’d drop a peach and she’d catch it midair like a goddess. He’d laugh. She’d say something witty. Their hands would brush. It would all be terribly romantic and dumb. She’d mock him for it forever and fall for him anyway.

Rowan tugged at her braid again and glanced up.

There he was — arms crossed, leaning against the wooden post beside his stall. Looking her way.

Her stomach flipped.

No — past her. He was looking past her. Probably at the fresh strawberries on display or someone’s dog. Not her. Never her.

Still. Her cheeks went warm. She turned away too fast, heart thudding with something that felt like hope and dread all tangled up.

God, she needed a hobby.