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“Traveling light isn’t a bad thing.” He sat next to me on the couch and rubbed a comforting circle on my back.
His totally benign touch sent sparks flashing over my skin, and I wanted to crawl into his lap. Let him wrap his arms around me and sink into the euphoria his embrace offered. But I didn’t, I stayed on my couch cushion.
“Traveling, no it’s been waiting—a half-life. I lived in his place. I used his stuff. We never got married. We talked about it way back when I first moved in and how we’d replace all his stuff with wedding gifts. But…” I shrugged. “We never got around to getting married. It was just easier to stay like we were. Until it wasn’t.”
“The status quo is a nice road; you know all the twists and turns.”
I stifled a groan. Sympathy and platitudes were a little better than annoyance but a far cry from last night’s passion.
“It was easy. Until he up and left me for a woman half my age. Well, fuck him. I am here and we,” I looked at Atley with a big smile, “are going to turn Blue Star Wines into the next big thing in Texas.”
He pulled away, cold air replacing his hand on my back.
“Big thing?” He crossed his sinuous arms over his middle. The impenetrable veneer that had hardened his features made me want to backpedal, to say never mind about the winery or the tasting room. Tell him I’d delete the forty-page marketing plan and the mockup for a new website saved on my computer.
But I wasn’t doing the half-life thing anymore.
“Yes. I might be jumping the gun a little, but Wilson will understand. He’s busy hosting the BBQ thing. I have twenty years’ experience in marketing and advertising. And I’m going to help grow the Blue Star brand. I can’t freeload out here until I figure out my next step, live in my brother’s guest house and wallow in self-pity. It’s not my way. I’m a doer, an achiever. You know?”
“I do.” Glacial didn’t convey the coldness of his tone. I forged on. He would see my point. I was good at convincing people.
“I’m thrilled to branch out into the wine industry. It’s such a dynamic market. Plus, events are powerful. They drive sales and make buyers passionate about favorite brands.” Anticipation for a new challenge coursed through me, and I took hold of his forearm and squeezed. “It’s not the kind of excitement you get selling most non-distinguishable consumer products like toilet paper, trust me.” My creative juices were flowing. I was psyched; selling this beautiful ranch and its wine would be heaven. Nomore glass cleaner or paper towels for me. The potential was intoxicating, and he should be excited with me.
“What’s in it for you?”
Ouch. I pulled my hand from his arm and smoothed my dress over my knees to avoid looking at him.
“A new career direction. A new life. First Blue Star, then Napa or, who knows, France or Australia. Anywhere that’s not Chicago and has wine.” Unlike him, I tried to sound happy and optimistic. These were my dreams. He didn’t need to squish them like a bug.
“It’s temporary and all about publicity. Got it.”
He stood, stopping to pet my dog and murmur something sweet to him. I got nothing, zero, zilch—not a glance or a wave. Only the sight of his drool-worthy denim-clad ass as he walked away. He grabbed his hat off a rack in the entryway and walked out the front door, closing it swiftly behind him.
I sat alone in stunned silence. That went really badly. I replayed the conversation in my head, not sure what had turned things so ugly. But I felt like I’d kicked a puppy. Or I was a kicked puppy.
“Georgie, what did I say?”
My dog lifted his head, then curled into a small white ball and closed his eyes. Not helpful in the least, but adorable.
No use sitting and trying to figure out Atley. Or men in general— they all sucked. I could work and brood at the same time. Taking the handle of the black Samsonite, I walked toward a partly open door that must be the main bedroom. My bag bounced over the scarred hardwood floors in my wake.
Shouldering the door fully open, I stopped in shock. Hello, New Mexico. This was next-level commitment to the popular but tragic 1990s Southwestern decorating aesthetic.
The room was more like a gift shop at a Southwest theme park run by Disney than a bedroom. There was so much stuff. A hugemural of a native American pueblo in the desert dominated one wall. Dreamcatchers hung from the exposed white pine beams overhead, and a woven tribal rug covered the floor. And every horizontal surface held trinkets and statues.
I flopped face-first on top of the denim comforter and screamed into the pillows. I wasn’t at my breaking point, but it was on the horizon and I was galloping toward the setting sun on a metaphorical horse at top speed.
The décor, Atley, Texas. All of it was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. But I was alive, tingling with awareness where I’d been numb before. My life had become an adventure.
A giggle I couldn’t suppress tumbled from my lips. The chuckle grew until I curled into a ball on the bed, laughing uncontrollably, holding my stomach, and praying my middle-aged bladder could withstand the onslaught.
When the hysterical spasms passed, I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. A dreamcatcher swayed in the breeze from the air conditioning. Random facts about New Mexico shifted through my consciousness. Santa Fe is the nation’s highest state capital. The roadrunner is the state bird. It was the 47th state accepted into the union.
And Atley hates me.
Ugh, not a proven fact. I’d change his mind.
I sat up and looked around with a critical eye. There was so much to do to get this livable.
