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“Your ranch is so beautiful,” I say, as we retrace the trip we took last night. “I couldn’t appreciate it as much last night, but now, with the sun shining overhead… It’s amazing.”
“It’s Colorado. You California kids can keep your beaches. Give me the Rockies any day.”
“Don’t knock beaches. They’re just as beautiful.”
“They’re polluted,” he says.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. “Some parts are, but in others, the ocean is as blue as—”
“Your eyes?” he says.
My skin tingles. Did he just give me a backhanded compliment? “Well, I’ve never actually heard the ocean described that way.”
“You shouldn’t color your hair,” he says.
Where did that come from? “My natural color looks like a dishrag.”
He laughs. Actually laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound dripping with the color of Syrah. “I find that hard to believe.”
My natural color isn’t too bad, but it’s what’s commonly known as dishwater blond. Meaning, I was a cute little towhead as a kid, but my hair darkened with each passing year, the way it does for most blonds.
“Most blonds in Cali color their hair.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to.”
He’s got me there. “My hair isn’t as beautiful as yours is. Your natural color is—”
“Mine’s lighter. I get it. My brother has that dishwater color, and he looks great. You’ve probably seen photos.”
“It’s different for men.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed? How am I supposed to answer that? “It just is.”
He doesn’t reply, but his lips tremble a bit. He wants to laugh again, but he’s stopping himself.
“You should laugh more often,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because laughing is good for the soul.”
No reply.
“And I’m not going to stop coloring my hair. I like my hair the way it is.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
“Absolutely.”
At least he’s talking sense, now.
Chapter Eighteen
Dale
Ashley’s hair is beautiful. Hell, my mother colors her hair to cover the gray. So do my aunts, and my cousin Ava dyes her hair pink, for God’s sake. It works for her.
I have no idea why I’m being such an asshole. Ashley’s hair is perfectly lovely just like it is. It looks like flaxen silk. A few strands that have come loose from her ponytail sway in the wind from the open passenger window. She’s not wearing makeup, and in the sunshine, a small spray of freckles is apparent across both her cheeks.
A definite girl-next-door trait, but Ashley isn’t the girl next door. She’s not cute. She’s beautiful. Lovely. Spectacular. Not the kind of woman I ever thought I’d be attracted to, but spectacular nonetheless.
I knew long ago I’m not cut out for a relationship. I’ll watch Donny, Diana, and Brianna marry and have kids, and I’ll be a doting uncle, but that’s it. Children of my own are out of the question. I’m not father material, and I’m certainly not husband material. Not even boyfriend material.
I’ve had a few women in my day, mostly one-nighters, a couple of one-weekers. I have needs like any other guy, but I’ve never been serious with a woman, and I don’t plan to start now.
No matter how attracted I am to Ashley White.
She’s not for me.
I’d just ruin her. Take away her loveliness.
I can’t do that to her. I can’t do that to anyone, but especially her.
I pull into the parking lot next to the Steel building. It’s pretty big, for a building in the middle of a ranch. We do all our business here except when we need to go to Grand Junction or Denver to sign documents and whatnot. My dad and all my uncles have offices here as well as in their homes. Truth be told, though, they’re all more comfortable outside, doing the real work.
They always have been, and so am I.
Today, though, I’ll show Ashley where she’ll be doing her busy work.
“Why aren’t we at the winery?” she asks.
“We’ll go there next, but this is first and foremost a business. This part of it is important.”
“Says the guy who sleeps with his vines.”
“I do my share here as well.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“That’s exactly how you meant it.”
She doesn’t try to contradict me. If I had it my way, I’d live in the vineyards and do all my work from there. She knows this. Already, she knows me. Which is disconcerting. How did she get in so quickly?
She only knows part of me, anyway. No one truly knows the real me. Not even my father, though he gets me better than anyone else ever has.
We walk into the building and take the elevator to the third floor. I take her past the first corner office. “This is Uncle Ryan’s. Mine’s on the next corner.”
“Corner office, huh? Nice.”
Is she being facetious? I can’t quite tell. Of course I have a corner office. I’m an heir to this ranch, and I’m the assistant winemaker, soon to take over as master winemaker.
I open the door to my office and gesture for her to precede me. No degrees on the walls. I don’t have any.
