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“I have to run the winery, Nick.”
His eyes darken, and not with disappointment but rather awareness I have not yet realized. “At least you didn’t decide your new hard limit includes me leaving and never seeing you again.”
He’s right. I didn’t. This man is unraveling every carefully crafted plan I had, and I can’t seem to care. And I should care. This is trouble. He’s trouble.I’mtrouble. “What are we doing here, Nick? What is this?”
His hands settle on the counter on either side of me, his big body crowding mine without touching me. “I don’t know, Faith,” he says, “but let’s find out.”
“You don’t— We don’t—”
“I could supply a number of phrases to end that statement, but it would be words. Just words. I’m not done with you, and I hope like hell you’re not done with me, Faith.”
“I wish I was,” I say, angry at him for complicating my life. Happy that he has at the same time, because yes, I’m still fucked-up.
“Ditto, sweetheart. We’re here now, though. Agreed?”
“Yes,” I say. “Agreed.”
“Then let’s make a new hard limit. The only hard limit that exists, until we decide together otherwise, is we take this one day at a time.”
Until we decide together.I realize with those words part of Nick’s appeal. He’s this uber alpha male. He’s sexy. He’s demanding. But he has this way of knowing when to back off, when to ask. This is new to me. This is right, not wrong. “One day at a time,” I agree.
“Come to San Francisco with me.”
I want to, I realize. I want to know who he is in his own domain, but want doesn’t equal need. And I need to be here. “I can’t just leave the winery.”
“You have a manager. A good one, you said.”
“Kasey is amazing,” I say, “but I do my best to protect him and the staff from the bill collectors who stalk us during the week. I can’t leave, Nick. I won’t. Not now.”
The doorbell rings. “Holy fuck,” he says. “This isn’t helping my case.” He starts to move away, but I catch his arm.
“Damn it, Nick,” I warn. “Our agreement to take this day by day is not an invitation for you to take over my life. I run my life.”
“I know you run your life, sweetheart. I can’t tell you enough times—I get it. Let me be clear. It makes me hot. It makes me want to bend you over the counter. But let me also be clear. I’m now your attorney, Faith. Unless we’ve deviated from that plan, I’m getting that door.”
I purse my lips and release him, only to have him lean over and kiss me, and then he’s on the move in about two flat seconds. “At least he has his pants zipped this time,” I murmur, taking off after him, overwhelmed by Nick’s desire to protect me, and I tell myself to be smart enough to accept it but strong enough not to count on it, now or ever.
Clearing the hallway, I enter the foyer at the same moment that Josh, dressed in khakis and a button-down, walks in the front door, but he doesn’t seem to notice me. He shuts the door and faces Nick, the two men crackling with opposing male energy. “Nick Rogers was the name, right?” Josh asks, and I’m not sure if he’s being a smart-ass or playing coy, considering he knew Nick’s name immediately at the art gallery.
Nick doesn’t respond. As in, at all. Seconds tick by, and then more, and I can’t take it. I have to break the tension before Josh does and it ends badly for him. “Josh,” I say, hurrying forward, remembering now. “I forgot you were stopping by.”
“Obviously,” he says, his tone acidic. “And clearly this isn’t the time to have a serious business discussion. Call me Monday, and we’ll talk through decisions that need to be made, or perhaps forgotten.” He turns and walks out the door.
Certain this is about Macom—that this is personal, not professional—I’m instantly angry and indignant, and I charge after him, not bothering to shut the door behind me. “Stop,” I call after him, a cold gust of morning wind blasting me, but I’m too hot-tempered to care.
Thankfully, he does as I’ve ordered, halfway down the stairs, turning to face me. “Now is clearly not the time, Faith.”
“Because I dare to have a life again?” I demand, walking to the edge of the porch.
“That man in there is none of my business,” he says. “But you are.”
“My work is your business,” I snap back.
“Exactly,” he agrees. “And when I find out you’ve finally started painting again, that’s a good thing. A distraction is not.” He motions to my shirt. “You’re wearing an art shirt. This gives me hope that we’re back on track. You need to stay focused.”
“I paintedNick,” I snap back before I can stop myself. “He inspired me to paint. Having a life again inspired me to paint.”
He goes very still. “You painted a portrait?”
