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One he hoped to forget about after tonight.
He just needed this one little loose end knotted, and he’d get back to sleeping and working and concentrating as usual.
According to his mother, as a child, he’d suffered from anxiety. Nervous episodes, Corinne had called them, the one and only time they’d had a discussion on the topic. No one had a clue if his anxiety was precipitated by a certain event or if he’d just been born with dread in his bones, but at age six he’d started seeing a therapist.
Doctor Patel gave Julian the gift of schedules. To this day, an organized list of times and activities was the tool he used to control his anxiety. Simply put, it worked.
Right up until the vineyard fire four years ago, anyway. For the first time since childhood, he’d lost his grip on structure, because time meant nothing in a fire. Since that weekend, he’d kept the schedules even tighter than before, refusing to have another slipup. Another leak through the cracks. Garth’s mental break was a wake-up call, the impetus to take a rare step back and reassess.
Prior to the fire, Julian had returned to St. Helena every August at the outset of grape harvesting season, staying at the vineyard for a month and making sure the annual process ran smoothly, after which he’d return to Stanford in the fall to teach. Even from a distance, he consulted on matters pertaining to the winery. But no longer. Maybe if Julian had taken a breather at some point, he could have avoided what happened after the damage was wrought by the flames. His father might have continued to trust him to help run the vineyard, instead of dropping it all on his mother and hightailing it to Italy.
A bone seemed to grow sideways in his throat.
Focus on the problem at hand.
This young woman whom he’d apparently met at some point in the past was poking at the careful net he’d constructed around himself. He probably shouldn’t have called her back here. It had been a risk. He’d weighed the threat to his sanity against the reward of knowledge—and fine, the damn urge to see her again—and surprisingly, the risk column had lost.
He was paying the price now.
The howling dogs were distracting enough, but nowhere near as sidetracking as her. Even though early evening had arrived, the sun was still going strong in the Napa sky. Orange rays settled on her like loving spotlights, giving her cheeks a youthful glow. Did she ever stop smiling? Her lips always seemed curved, as if she were holding on to a secret—and she was, he reminded himself. That’s primarily why he’d called her over, instead of just making the homemade gopher-repelling mixture himself (really, the information was one quick internet search away). Not to lust over the silhouette of Hallie’s curves.
“Jesus Christ, pull it together,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face and pushing away from his desk. He tucked in his chair and straightened the wireless keyboard before turning and striding for the front of the house. Yes, he’d lost sleep last night for more than one reason. Trying to unearth a forgotten memory was how it started. But all that thinking about the bubbly blonde and her tight T-shirt had led to something very different. Twice.
When was the last time he’d masturbated twice in one night? Had to be in high school. And even back then, he couldn’t remember being so . . . vigorous about it. While lying facedown on his stomach, no less. He’d been forced to throw the sheets into the washing machine in the middle of the night and move to one of the other bedrooms. A humiliating turn of events if he’d ever heard one. Really, calling her back here was incredibly stupid.
What if this visit didn’t give him closure? Would he try to see her again?
Back in Palo Alto, he purposefully dated women who didn’t occupy too much headspace. Women who kept tight schedules and didn’t have a problem coordinating them for things like dinner or sex or a work function. Hallie wouldn’t even ballpark her ETA. If they spent significant time together, they’d be fitting him for a straitjacket within a week. So yes, get the closure and go back to work. The plan was firm.
A lot like he’d been last night.
Disgusted with himself, Julian pried open the front door, closed it behind him, and descended the steps onto the driveway. Then he hooked a right to the yard, where Hallie sat cross-legged in front of the freshest gopher hole, shaking up something in a large plastic bottle. “Hello there, Professor,” she called, her voice echoing slightly through the vineyard.
The dogs ran over to greet him, yipping and snarfing at the air. He patted their heads, one by one, watching helplessly as they slobbered all over his pant leg. “Hello, Hallie.” One of the dogs nudged Julian’s hand until he scratched him properly. “What are their names?”
