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No lie there.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me we can be friends.”
“I’d like that.”
He laughs. “I’ll take what I can get. It was fun getting to know you, Ashley.”
“You too.” I stand. “I suppose I should be going.” I actually want to stay, to try to get more information about Dale, but that’s not fair to Brendan.
He stands as well. “I’ll walk you down to your car.”
“Thanks. And thanks so much for sharing the Latour with me. It was lovely.”
“I only share good wine with people who appreciate it,” he says, “and you’re certainly in that category.”
I smile. In that moment, Brendan Murphy is very attractive, and I wonder what kissing him might be like.
But the thought drifts away when Dale’s image surfaces in my mind.
And I know I don’t want to kiss anyone but him. Ever.
Chapter Twenty
Dale
Maryanne is tending bar tonight. She’s a local girl, barely twenty-one, and Brock is in womanizing mode. I’m used to his behavior—hell, my little brother does the same thing—but I’m a little pissed, since merely a week or so ago, Brock was pulling his games on Ashley.
Better Maryanne than Ashley, though. Why the hell am I pissed on Ashley’s behalf? I don’t want her with Brock any more than I want her with Brendan Murphy or anyone else.
I want her with me.
Except I don’t.
I don’t want to want her.
I have no business dragging her into my chaos.
Maryanne slides my glass of wine in front of me, laughing. “Ruby for you. You and your uncle crack me up, coming in here and ordering your own wine.”
“Why not drink the best?” I say.
She giggles at me. “You’re so funny, Dale.”
I wasn’t being funny, but whatever.
Brock chimes in then. “Dale and Uncle Ry are like two peas in a pod, except for their personalities.”
This gets a laugh from everyone at the bar, which is mostly my family. Dad and me—he said an accident in the orchard caused his black eye—Uncle Joe and Brock, and Uncle Bryce, Henry, and Dave. No women chose to join us. Usually Mom or Aunt Ruby will bite, but apparently not tonight.
My body tingles in a strange way that I’ve come to know.
Ashley is near.
At least I hope she is. Brendan Murphy lives above the bar in the studio apartment. I’ve been there a few times.
There’s a bed.
A bed right out in the open.
Where he may be, right at this moment, with Ashley.
The thought consumes me, and I absently curl my fingers into fists.
The rest of my family converses and laughs, but it’s all white noise to me. I’m clutching my glass of wine with a white-knuckled grip.
Ashley.
Ashley is here.
Ashley is upstairs in bed with Brendan.
Ashley.
My Ashley.
“Dale.” My father grasps my arm. “You okay here?”
“Fine,” I say gruffly.
“Good.” He moves his eyes toward the stairway leading to Brendan’s place.
Ashley is descending, looking as beautiful as ever in a light-blue camisole and skinny jeans, her hair piled on her head in a messy bun. A silver chain hangs around her neck, luminous against her tanned skin.
Our gazes meet, but she doesn’t react.
Brendan walks behind her.
At least she’s not in his bed.
But was she? I grip the stem of my goblet this time. I could break it so easily, watch the shards of glass hit the wooden bar.
“Ashley!” Brock calls. “Come join us at the bar!”
“Thanks,” she says, “but Brendan was just going to walk me to my car.”
My car. It’s not her car. It belongs to my mom and dad. She’s borrowing it.
Why do her words irk me so?
Why does everything irk me?
Brendan Murphy irks me more than anything else. Is that a smug grin on his face? Did he bed the woman I’m in love with?
Brendan’s no womanizer, but who can resist Ashley White?
“Just one drink,” Brock urges.
Ashley laughs.
What a joyful sound!
Makes me want to retch. Not the laugh, itself. No. The fact that I find it joyful. That it makes me want to smile. To take her in my arms and declare my love for her.
That’s what makes me want to retch.
“Brendan and I just shared a bottle of Château Latour,” she says. “No more drinking for me this evening.”
Château Latour. She names the wine for my benefit. No one else here knows a Latour from a Gallo. Okay, my family knows a little more than that, but Ashley doesn’t know that.
Yeah, she mentioned the Bordeaux name for my benefit.
“There’s such a thing as a nonalcoholic drink, babe,” Brock chides.
She smiles at him. Smiles at him! And then walks toward the bar. “Why not? The night is young.”
But you have work tomorrow.
Of course, so do the rest of us.
It’s not even that late. Only nine thirty.
She looks toward me. What does she want? My approval? I look away…and meet Dad’s gaze.
Dad’s disapproving gaze.
An empty barstool sits at my right. Am I supposed to offer it to Ashley? The problem is…Brock sits on the other side of that stool.
