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I make it to the shop’s front door first, but he leans forward and opens it for me. Before I walk inside, I tell him, “Oh, you never get sick of lamingtons.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says ever so softly as he follows me into the store.
Nine
THE JOKE IS ON ME
Tucker
It’s Sunday, and Shamus has had enough of my moodiness. Hamlet has gotten under my skin, and I can’t stop thinking about her and wondering if she is okay, so he gave me the keys to his Harley and told me to go for a ride around the Temecula wine country to clear my mind, which is what I am doing now.
But I need to back this chapter up a little and explain how I came to be still staying with Shamus’s family in Temecula.
It all has to do with a tracker and a sassy spitfire.
I’ve got excellent gut instinct. It has kept me alive more times than I can count in the military and the freelance security jobs I have done in the past for those in need of specialized assistance. Ladies carry purses full of unnecessary items; I am always packing a tracker or two—no biggie.
I messaged Shamus when I got out of the car at the rest stop on Friday to put gas in Manny to let him know my concerns for Hamlet taking off. He discreetly attached a tracker underneath her vintage Mini Cooper from the bag I had in the back of his Pontiac before getting in to sit with her while I attended to her shopping list.
Score one to the cocky guy.
Aanndthen she did a runner on me, so fair is fair; she gets a half-point.
Imagine our surprise when we followed the tracker to the Fainting Goat Ranch an Airbnb “OPENING 26thDECEMBER.”
The universe must be trying to tell me something because Hamlet’s property is next to Shamus’s family’s winery and vineyard estate.
Right. Next. Door.
What are the odds?
I know! What a hell of a coinkidink.
The only thing stopping me from getting Shamus to drive me to her front door then and there was knowing Hamlet had her cousin and his family staying with her this weekend. She was in good hands. There was no reason for me to barge on in and earn the creepy stalker award.
Shamus drove us back to San Diego to our hotel, where we got dressed and headed off to the charity event and had a great night and Hudson raised a lot of money for his project: The Center for Hope.
Good deed accomplished, but how could I now return to my home and carry on with my life without knowing if Hamlet was okay?
I’ve been staying with Shamus and his family since Saturday afternoon and doing an excellent job of going stir-crazy, knowing she lives a stone’s throw from the MacDougall Winery Estate.
I’ve already ridden past her driveway four times on my four-mile loop, thinking of any objective reason to not turn into her driveway and surprise the woman I can’t seem to get out of my head.
It’s been forty-eight hours since I last saw the little spitfire, and I’m craving the damn woman. Nothing seems to douse the flame.
My rehearsed opening excuse for dropping by unannounced is to claim back my leather jacket, and it doesn’t hurt to meet the family and hopefully impress them, but here I am still riding my country circuit. Around and around.
And you know what? I’ve exhausted any debates I’ve been playing out on why doing a friendly drop-in is a bad idea.
I’m not a stalker; I am a concerned citizen.
The big enough hint she ran from me should put a stop to my nonsense, but I can’t seem to let her go.
Fuck it!
Fortune favors the brave.
I wait until it is clear and turn the bike around, heading directly toward the Fainting Goat Ranch.
