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Olive trees flank the front of the house, with more lavender growing beneath them, giving the place a Mediterranean vibe beneath the wine country sun. The crunch of the gravel beneath my tires. A creek lazing down from a nearby hill. No detail left to chance. The place is perfect.
Except for the man standing here with his arms crossed and a look of disdain on his pretty face. I try to ignore the way his roped forearms flex as he drums his fingers on his bicep, which swells under the fabric of a worn t-shirt.
He’s tall, well over six feet, and his looming presence is giving me pause, not to mention the suspicious look on his face as lines crease his forehead and his lips press together like he doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing. It would be charming if it wasn’t me he was glaring at.
It’s not that I need a welcome wagon, but this guy looks like he’s about to tell me to turn my car around and get off his property. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a pitchfork stowed somewhere on that porch that he uses to frighten off strangers.
Only I’m not a stranger. I’m here for a reason. If his muscled forearms would stop distracting me, I’d tell him as much.
Instead, he points toward the exit with a thumb. “We open to the public at nine.”
Despite my better instincts, I move toward him, my body overriding my brain. I take another step, now close enough that I can feel his coiled, restrained energy. Close enough to see a line of gray rimming his pale blue eyes. Little hints of salt sprinkled through his dark, tousled hair. Tiny creases at the corners of his eyes, either from glaring or smiling—hard to be sure.
He just told me to leave, but every fiber of my being is urging me closer to this farmhouse, closer to a dream job that isn’t even on the table. I don’t care.
He misunderstood, probably because I’m dressed for day drinking or touring the vineyards. That’s a whole other story, and I’m kind of hoping he’ll ignore my clothes if I do.
“No, no, I’m here for the other job. I was here at six sharp, like you said.”
“Like I said?” He rubs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his arrestingly attractive face before rogue pieces fall over his forehead like a stylist arranged them. “Nah. Wrong guy.”
His stony stare is unnerving and a little rude, but I hold my ground, staring back.
“Aren’t you Dashiell?”
“Nope.” I expect him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
O-kay…
Finally, he seems to pull himself out of whatever trance has taken over, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry…who are you?”
“I’m Ruby.” We’ve been over this…
He says nothing.
“This is where you’re supposed to extend your hand and say ‘Nice to meet you’ or something friendly that also sets proper work boundaries. And then you go and get Dashiell because I drove an hour to be here. Are you new to this?”
“New to what?”
“Peopling.”
Now his lips quirk into a grin, and he begins nodding. “Oh, here we go.”
I begin wondering if he’s of sound mind. I know wine country people probably spend a lot of time in the sun, especially in the summer months. Maybe his brain is fried. Or he has a wine bottle shoved up his ass.
“Come on. You’re not exactly a welcome wagon. That can’t come as news.”
He crosses his arms. “Sorry you drove all the way out.”
“Sorry you’re an unfriendly jerk.” My hand goes to my mouth, but I fail at shoving the words back in. I watch as this man’s eyes flicker in shock at my bold rudeness. I can see I’ve lost this job before I’ve even had a chance to interview for it.
Then I hear the low chuckle of laughter.
“You’re laughing at me?”
He nods. “You better believe I am, Ginger. You come blazing up the lane to see my brother, whom you’ve clearly never met because if you had, you’d know I ain’t him. Then you proceed to insult me.”
He grins, and I tell myself not to notice how straight and white his teeth are. I tell myself to ignore the dimple that pops in his cheek beneath the layer of scruff that—dammit—looks way too good on him.
