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What the fuck did I do now?
* * * * *
It takes a couple of hours, a handful of aspirin, several cups of coffee, a shower, and — okay, I admit it — a long pull from the bottle of Jameson I found in Ben’s — seriously, Ben? How did this happen? — liquor cabinet before I think I qualify as human. I still haven’t had the courage to open up my phone and take a look at the carnage I’ve left behind in LA. Nor have I worked up the courage to find Ben. I can’t imagine what I’ll say to him, especially since I don’t have the first idea how or why I ended up here.
I wander through Ben’s house, putting together pieces about the man he is now. I’ve worked out that here in general is northern California. I’ve also worked out that here in specific is somewhere in the Russian River valley thanks to the maps Ben has in what seems to be his library.
In addition to the books about wine making and viticulture, the history of Sonoma County, and business textbooks, the room is decorated with artwork for the bottles of the Cruce del Río vineyards, which makes me smile. Cruce del Río. River crossing. Bridges. As in Joey Bridges. Ben always was the clever one, but it’s a reminder of our past, and not one I’m sure I want to let myself feel. Ben walking away from Bridges and Bard might have hurt a lot, but Ben walking away from me was devastating.
Deciding to take the easy way out, I hunt down my own clothes and find them in the dryer. I also find my keys and wallet on top of the washing machine, surprised to find I drove the McLaren up north. That makes things much easier. I change clothes, amused when I can’t find my shoes anywhere in the house. Did Ben take them so I couldn’t leave? Possibly, but the state of my feet, when I finally saw them in the shower, suggests I might have left home without wearing any.
Fortunately, Ben and I wear the same size, so I raid his closet and find a pair of boat shoes I can wear without socks. It feels strange to slide my feet into them, though, like I can almost sense him, sense that I’m standing where he’s stood, walking where he’s walked.
I shake my head —instantly regret doing that — and head for the door.
My car’s in sight — a gleaming thing of low-slung wicked beauty in acid green — parked at the end of a row of pedestrian Teslas, Priuses, and a couple of Hondas. There’s a Corvette in the space next to mine, trying too hard to look like it could keep up with my baby. Zero to sixty in two-point-five seconds. I don’t think so.
My fingers fold over the key in my pocket, but my feet falter as Ben comes around the corner of what I assume is the winery’s tasting room. I’ve got just enough time to register that he’s still sexy as sin — long legs, tapered waist, a chest that’s broadened in the past couple of years, and a gorgeous face I still see in my dreams — before he comes to a stop. His rich brown eyes take me in, and I see the moment he realizes I’m leaving. That I’d been planning on leaving without saying good-bye, or even hello for that matter.
The defeated look on his face, the slump of his shoulders, it’s gone in a flash, replaced by a stubborn set to his jaw and a squaring of those broad shoulders. Then he turns on the heel of his boots and goes back in the direction he came from.
I don’t even think, just take off in pursuit of him. The paved parking lot in front of the tasting room gives way to gravel, and the stupid boat shoes slip on the small stones. They’re shit for running in, so I kick them off and continue after Ben who’s making fast for the backside of the building. Where the front is all for the public, the back is pure industrial with gleaming stainless steel and garage doors big enough for tractors to move through.
Ben, of course, knows his way around and is making a bee line for somewhere that isn’t near me, but I’m not giving up. I call his name, but he doesn’t slow down. Ditching the shoes was a bad idea because the gravel hurts like hell on my bare feet, and I need to slow down. Then I step on a sharp stone, stumble, and when I look up, Ben’s gone.
Ben
Seeing Dillon again shouldn’t be affecting me like this, but I can’t help it. When I saw him walking towards his car, I knew he was going to leave without saying a word to me. Even after I took care of him, cleaned him up, put him to bed — God, what that did to me, seeing him laid out in my guestroom totally vulnerable, totally wasted — he was still going to take off like he hadn’t been the one to show up at my home. Like he hadn’t come to me.
I don’t even know why I took off except that, in the moment of realizing he was going to leave, something in me broke. It was the piece of my heart that had been holding on to that kiss, the one we’d had in the club in San Francisco, and believing it meant as much to Dillon as it did to me. I can’t even describe what I felt when I realized it was Dillon in that monster of a car, how incredible it had been to touch him after a couple of my guys had helped me get him back to my house, how unreal it had been just to be in the same room with him and watch him sleep. As much as I tried not to love Dillon Bard, it wasn’t in me to walk away from him and still feel whole.
Obviously, the inverse of that statement was not true.
So, I ran. And — improbably — Dillon followed. Though not well. I heard him slip on the gravel, curse, then stumble as he kicked the shoes off his feet, but I didn’t slow down. Now I seem to have lost him, and though I know it’s for the best, I’m glad. If Dillon doesn’t want to talk to me, I won’t be around to be talked to.
There’s an old house on the edge of my property that probably dates back to the Russian immigrants who settled here in the early 1800s. It’s little more than a shack, really, but it’s sturdy enough we use it for equipment storage. It’s surrounded by live oaks, and it’s got a little porch that looks out on a stream that feeds into the Russian River. That’s where I’m heading, and that’s where I’m going to stay until I’m sure Dillon is well and on his way back to the city of angels.
The only problem with my plan is that everyone who works for me knows how much I love this spot. And anyone who saw me pretty much running from Dillon knows I’m either heading here or taking Spaghetti out for another ride. So, I’m not surprised when I hear a golf cart making its way toward the shack. Frustrated and contemplating making another run for it, but not surprised.
I cross my arms, and watch Gina, my assistant winemaker, pull to a stop in front of me. She’s grinning like a fool, and I know, by the time I get back, every one of my employees is going to know about Dillion Bard being at our winery.
As Dillon clamors out of the passenger seat, I glare at Gina. “Let everyone know I will fire anyone who posts about this on social media. I don’t even want a single mention to friends or family.”
She nods at Dillon and grins. “You might want to tell him that.” With that, she floors the accelerator on the golf cart and takes off in a cloud of dust.
“What did you do?” I ask as Dillon ambles up onto the porch, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders rounded in that ‘shucks, ain’t I cute?’ pose I remember so well. I keep my gaze stony as he pauses. He’s still standing too far away to touch, which is fine by me. Even out of reach, he’s too close. I don’t know if I could stop myself from reaching for him if he moved closer.
He shrugs, ducking his chin down to his chest, then looking up at me through his dark eye lashes with those expressive baby blue eyes. “I might have promised a few of your people some selfies with me to get them to tell me where you are.”
The sides of his mouth quirk up in a self-deprecating grin like he’s trying to tell me he can’t help it if people love him. That grin falters when I don’t reciprocate and continue to stare at him.
“Why are you here, Dillon?”
With a sigh, he turns toward the river. He’s silent so long, I start to doubt he’s going to answer, but then he shakes his head. “Damned if I know. Last I remember, I was getting hot and heavy with this blonde in my bedroom.” He shrugs again. “One of my bedrooms.”
“That explains the lacy panties,” I say.
“What?” He spins, his eyes so wide I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face. “Fucker.”
