I lift a brow. “I’m not a townie.”
He grins. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m not!”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t. You looked far too comfortable in your ballgown and your suit to convince me you’re a local yokel.”
“Like you’re a country boy,” I scoff. “You’ve already told me you hate camping.”
“I like my creature comforts, true. But I grew up in the country.”
“So did I.”
“I’m not sure our versions of growing up in the country would be the same. I’m guessing your days were taken up with horse riding and playing tennis.”
“Whereas you spent your spare time chewing straws and country dancing.”
We eye each other frostily.
“This isn’t a competition,” I point out. “I don’t quite understand why you think I’m a fake.”
“Experience.”
My face flushes. “I know you think I’m some kind of siren who tried to lure you onto the rocks. But that’s not what happened. Yes, I was economical with the truth at the ball—”
“A nice way to say you lied,” he interrupts. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t know that Tom had approached my father expressing his interest in an acquisition?” I hesitate, and he says, “I knew it,” and snaps his fingers as if I’ve somehow perjured myself.
I’ve met unpleasant people in my time. People who’ve been mean, rude, and spiteful. Sometimes their comments have lingered, but mostly I’m able to brush them off, believing their words reflect their own issues.
But it’s harder with Caesar. He’s a nice guy, and I’ve been intimate with him, and his meanness strikes harder because of it.
“Obviously, you can think what you want,” I say quietly. “This was always going to be awkward. I understand that you don’t like me. And I don’t mind a bit of teasing banter. But I’d appreciate it if you could keep your accusations and aggressive comments to yourself.” I blink away the stinging in my eyes and look out of the window.
He’s quiet for about thirty seconds. Then, eventually, he says, “I apologize.” I look back at him. He’s watching me, frown lines between his eyes. “Your grandfather is a very sore subject with me,” he admits. “I first met him across another boardroom table about ten years ago.”
My eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know that.”
“We were up against one another during an auction for a farm near Lake Taupo. It was the first time my father had sent me to close a deal on my own. Dad and I both thought it was in the bag and would be an easy task. But Tom turned up and chose to teach me a lesson. He ripped me apart, outbid me, and made me look a fool. He didn’t have to do that, and I admit, I still bear a grudge.”
Well, at least he’s honest. “Do you think he did it because you were an Ashford? Or was it personal?”
“Probably a bit of both.”
“He doesn’t like arrogant young men who think they know better than him,” I say. “He tends to dress my brothers down like that. They deserve it, though.”
He gives a short laugh, then lets out a long sigh. “I probably did as well. But he could have taken me aside and had a quiet word. Instead, he chose to embarrass me in front of people I respected. It was a hard lesson to learn.”
“I don’t think the sun shines out of his ass,” I tell him. “I know what he’s like. But he’s my grandfather, and he’s always been good to me and Brielle.”
The taxi driver signals and slows as he reaches the turnoff to the farm, and I look out of the window again. “We’re here. Willowmere is run by Bill Harrison—he’s Rutherford Group’s Regional Manager for Central Otago. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”
The driver slows the car and pulls up outside the large farmhouse. I push Caesar’s credit card away. “You’re my guest this weekend,” I insist, and tap my card to the reader. He doesn’t argue, although I don’t think it comes naturally for him to let the girl pay.
We thank the driver, get out, and retrieve our cases from the back. As he pulls away, the front door of the farmhouse opens, and Bill Harrison comes out. He’s in his late fifties, about five-ten, lithe, and muscular, with skin the color of polished wood, and graying curly hair.
