That one, I manage to keep down. “You’ve had a bad week. Don’t want to crush your ego along with it.”
She hums. Disappointed, maybe. Or just being the smarter of us two and not chasing the conversation any further.
Again, I find my focus off the road and on her. The woman who’s cooked me dinner and packed me lunch two days in a row, who’s suddenly got me looking forward to something other than sleep at the end of the workday.
Which is just as well, because Ican’tfucking sleep. Not with her just down the hall. In my grasp, playing house, giving my imagination too much material to run away and dig my grave with.
Offering her my place to stay was the most self-sabotaging, asinine thing I could have done. And the fact that I don’t regret it yet goes to show just how thoroughly fucked I am.
Because the regret will come.
When she’s gone, and my place is empty, and her fiery quips and proud little chin and intelligent eyes are just a sorry memory that I jerk off to because I can’t let go.
I force my eyes back to the road, because the street’s about to open up, and learning what wonder looks like on her face will dig my grave deep enough to touch hell.
As it is, her little gasp makes my chest swell with satisfaction.
“Holy crap. The photos do not do this place justice,” she breathes.
I can confirm they don’t.
Framed by the tall trees of Garnet Shores’ signature woods, Anson’s vineyard is like stepping into a little oasis straight out of the Italian countryside. Perfect lines of grapevines frame the long drive leading to a recently updated stone villa, the property’s crown jewel, where tours and tastings are held and small batch wines are made. We hang a right, circling around to the house located a healthy stretch behind it, its façade similar to the main building, only smaller.
The vineyard is tiny, relatively speaking, but Anson has used the scarcity principle to turn it into a coveted, shining jewel. Separated from the main road, enclosed in trees, you can’t help but feel like you’re stumbling upon some little treasure.
“What’s that?” Eliza asks, nodding to a ramshackle structure tucked against the trees in the distance.
“The bane of my brother’s existence.” Also known as the one thing he hasn’t been able to mold to his will. “It’s this old woman’s house.”
“On your brother’s property?”
“Yes and no.” The truck creaks as I park in Anson’s driveway. His pickup is so shiny, I can see every scratch and chip on my truck’s hood in its reflection. “Tell me what you know about this property’s history.”
We both know she researched it before she came here.
“Years before your brother purchased it, it was a working vineyard. The previous owner struggled to compete with other local vineyards and the imported stuff, so he went bankrupt. The property went on the market for a few years until your brother picked it up and turned it around.”
“That’s right. But before the previous owner bought this land, it was a farm. That abomination used to be part of that farm, and the old owner kept it for his sister. For whatever reason, he made that house and the little plot of land around it legally hers, so when he sold the vineyard, the house wasn’t included.”
“Does she still live there?”
“Nope. Nursing home.”
She squints at the dilapidated house. “The house is a wreck. Why wouldn’t his sister just sell it to Anson with the vineyard?”
“Don’t know. But Anson’s ready to throw the state’s most expensive lawyer at it.”
While I don’t support him waging war on a grandma, the structure will probably collapse if anyone steps foot in it. Buying it might save a life.
To our left, the front door bursts open, and a maelstrom of action tumbles out—Lala, dressed in soccer gear, a ball in hand, and Runner, my brother’s German Shepherd, right on her heels like the perfectly trained dog she is.
“Get out of the truck!” Her voice bounces with her feet, moving at an impressively fast clip for an eight-year-old. “Anson said I can’t play after the tasting, so it needs to be?—”
Lala skids to a stop, braids flying over her shoulders, when she sees my passenger through the open window.
“Who isshe?”
Sharing a humored glance with Eliza, we exit the truck. “La, this is Eliza,” I introduce as she comes around the front. “She works on the farm with me.”
