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“Guess I picked a bad time to come.” I realize that I’ve only been thinking of my own problems, and it can’t be easy for Archer to see his dad’s memory deteriorating.
I’m at a loss. “Wow. I really wish you didn’t have to go through that. Anything I can do?” I know there isn’t, and Archerconfirms it with a shake of his head. “I probably wouldn’t have said anything if Jax hadn’t opened his big mouth.
“Well…I’m here if you feel like getting into it,” I tell him. After sipping a bit more of his wine and popping another bite of breadstick into his mouth, Archer shakes his head. “It’ll be fine. Just…complicated financial shit. I don’t need to tell you, right?”
He doesn’t. And that’s the beauty of this age-old friendship. There’s no need for pleasantries or wasted words. If he feels like talking about whatever’s going on at the winery, he will. Otherwise, I won’t press. The less conversation, the better.
For now, I’ll eat some steak, walk the pretty winery grounds, and try to clear my head. The real world will intrude soon enough.
And by the time we’ve finished our steaks and topped the meal off with more wine and a slice of chocolate cheesecake, I’m convinced that for once I’ll be able to sleep through the night.
Chapter
Five
PJ
“What the hell is that sound?”
I have no problem talking to myself, and I don’t think it’s weird. If anything, I think it’s strange that people don’t do it more often.
After all, I can be both a keen observer and a good audience, so why wouldn’t I voice both of those out loud?
Unfortunately, my audience of one has no idea of the source of the metal cracking against metal sound that seems to be coming from outside my front door.
Looking down at my plaid flannel pajama shorts and tank top, I debate throwing on a sweatshirt. But this is Buttercup Hill. It’s gated at night with high walls around the property and security cameras. No one is here other than my family and a few seasonal workers who live on-site for a few months a year.
Hence, nothing to be afraid of at ten at night when I fling my front door wide open.
And now I wish I’d just put in earplugs.
It’s Colin. Of course it is. I just can’t seem to lose that guy.
Struggling with the deadbolt on the cottage directly across the pathway from my front door. The small one-bedroom cottage was supposed to be a detached garage, but I had the bright idea of turning it into an extra living space several years ago. At the time, I’d just finished college and thought it would be great fun to have a revolving series of friends pass through and stay on the property.
Itwasgreat fun when the first few came to visit. Less fun when all they wanted to do was drink wine all day and invite other friends from the Bay Area to do the same. Eventually, I nixed the open door to my college friends. Since then, the cottage has hosted newlyweds, friends of the family, employees—whoever needed a place for a night or two.
I check the time even though I already know it’s late. He’s probably drunk. Maybe he’s been out at a bar and hustled up a hookup for tonight.
The thought turns my stomach because it’s just so perfect—the fancy-ass dude rolling in from Silicon Valley for a night of small-town fun. Then he’ll go back to being fancy-ass and keeping a low profile, or whatever the heck he does with molecules and telescopes.
Only now, it appears he’s spending the night. Or trying to. Man can’t even work a simple lock.
Leave it to my brother to invite his friend to crash here without bothering to mention it to me, his immediate neighbor.
“Are you kidding me with this?” I don’t even try to stifle my annoyance.
Colin looks over his shoulder as though he’s not sure he heard me correctly. At least the damn key in the deadbolt goes silent for a minute. He turns around slowly like a suspicious chipmunk caught with half a sandwich in his mouth.
I wish the sight of him didn’t turn my insides to what feels like flaming maple syrup, flooding my senses and telling me they want more. Much more. Of him. Up close.
Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s been too long since I’ve had any fun with a man. Well, the universe would be correct, but that’s because I’m tired of lame hookups that don’t lead to anything. Well, anything except a reputation as someone who flirts but doesn’t follow through with a relationship.
Sounds about right for my high school and college years. Even I’ve started to believe that’s all I’ll ever have with a man.
Flirting is like slipping into an old, worn pair of sweatpants. Comfortable and familiar. Easy.
And heck, if he’s going to disrupt my peace in my own house, I’m going to appreciate the sight of his broad shoulders. They push the limits of his Henley and force my eyes to trace the shape of his pecs and abs, which I can see right through his damn shirt. With very little effort. In the near-darkness.
