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Someone blond and beautiful, at that.
Ashley is so not my type.
In all honesty, I don’t really have a type. I like to look, but I hardly ever touch. My little brother has the opposite issue. All he does is touch. He doesn’t even bother to look first half the time.
Sometimes I wish I were more like him. Not his womanizing, of course, but his personality. People are drawn to him, always have been. He has charisma, and boy, does he use it on the ladies. I’m not sure he’ll ever settle down.
I won’t either, but for a much different reason.
I need my solitude. I can’t imagine letting another person get that close to me. I let my parents in, my sisters, my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
But still, I keep a part of me locked away—that part that I don’t let myself dwell on. That part I can never share with anyone.
Not even myself.
“You must be Ashley.” Mom holds out her hand. “I’m Jade Steel. We’re so happy to have you.”
My mother is fifty years old, but she doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. She’s always been gorgeous, but the woman seems to improve with age.
“Hi, honey.” She kisses me on the cheek.
I love my mother. I do. But we’re not close. Not like Dad and I are, and not like she and Donny are. He bonded with her as soon as we came here twenty-five years ago, but I took longer. I eventually became really close to Dad. Like I said, he understands me. But Mom? It just never clicked. Maybe because I have more memories of my natural mother than Donny does.
It used to bother her. She even dragged me to a few therapy sessions with her to try to break through, but I held back. I’ve always held back with her. She eventually accepted it.
She’s a great mom, and I’m lucky to have her.
But I know she still wishes things were different between us. Maybe someday, but after twenty-five years, it’s not likely. Aunt Mel and I have talked about it a lot over the years. I’m closer to her than I am to my mother. As brilliant as Aunt Mel is, even she couldn’t fix the issues between Mom and me—and she fixed a lot of other problems I had. Well, she and I together. It was a damned lot of work, but well worth it.
What neither of them ever understood is that it wasn’t Mom’s fault. I missed my natural mother so much during those early years, and I never let Jade take her place.
Still, I kept a few things from Aunt Mel—those things buried too deep in my soul to ever let loose.
“Now that you’re home,” Dad says to Mom, “let’s get out on the deck. I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Brianna pipes in.
Bree is always starving. She eats like a teenage boy and doesn’t gain an ounce. It bugs Diana, who watches her weight. Bree is tall and thin with the build of our grandmother, Brooke Bailey, who was a supermodel in her day. That helps, but the biggest part of Bree’s amazing metabolism is that she runs ten miles a day, rain or shine. Diana, on the other hand, hates exercise. She’d rather have her nose in a book.
We head to the deck, where Darla has set up our dinner. Steel beef, as usual. Filets tonight, in honor of our guest. I like a filet as much as the next person, but I prefer a rib eye. It’s so much more flavorful.
Somehow, I end up sitting next to Ashley.
“You two should get acquainted,” Diana says, “since you’ll be working together.”
My sister knows me. She knows I hate making small talk. Isn’t it enough that I have to spend the next three months with this woman? I’ll do my job. I’ll teach her everything I know about winemaking, but I have to be social on top of that?
Ashley smiles.
Pearly white teeth surrounded by natural pink lips. And that oh-so-California blond hair.
She gestures to the bottle of wine in front of me that Darla has opened and left on the table. “Tell me about this wine.”
I pick up the bottle and pour a tasting portion into her glass. “This is a simple table red. My uncle’s been making it for decades, but I made a few subtle changes.”
She swirls the red liquid in her glass and then inhales. “Mmm. Berries and red fruit.”
I nod. Elementary, really. Most basic red wines have aromas of berries and red fruit. Tell me something I don’t know, Doctor. “What else?” I ask. Let’s see what that fancy wine degree really taught you.
She sniffs the wine again, closing her eyes. “Give me a minute. I have to filter out the sounds.”
Huh? Last time I checked, wine doesn’t make a sound.
“Ashley has synesthesia,” Diana pipes in.
