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What had happened afterward?
Still unclear. He’d been thrown the hell off, he knew that much. Normally, with a woman, there was an orderly physical progression from kissing to more. With Hallie, he’d operated on blind instinct, his body in total control, not his mind. Yeah, he’d been off-kilter when the fever cooled, trying to put his head back together. By the time he’d succeeded, she was halfway to the door.
Which was for the best, right? He’d been trying to convince himself of that for two days.
Obviously she was a danger to his control. Control he relied upon so he wouldn’t aggravate his anxiety. With Hallie, he’d lost any sense of self-preservation and . . . took. Gave. Got lost. With her breath on his mouth and her green-thumb scent infiltrating his brain, he’d moved without conscious thought. If he’d wanted to keep touching her, if he’d wanted release, he’d had no choice. But coming down had been like crashing into a wall. His mind wasn’t supposed to go offline like that. His impulses were meant to be . . .
Subdued.
Funny, he’d never thought of them that way.
Julian jerked his chin to the side, setting loose a series of cracks in his neck. Tension that continued to build with the passage of time since Hallie’s hasty departure. Now Saturday night had arrived, and his mood was not the kind he should be unleashing on the general population, especially when representing Vos Vineyard, but what choice did he have? At least he could get away from the blank page taunting him in the office for a few hours.
Natalie trudged into the kitchen in stoic silence, dressed in all black, oversized mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes. One might think they were on their way to a funeral, instead of an outdoor wine event on a fine summer evening in Napa. And Natalie could easily be the grieving widow, considering she’d only gotten out of bed for the day an hour earlier.
What was going on with his sister? Despite a rebellious phase in her youth, Natalie had turned into a Grade A overachiever once she’d gotten it out of her system. Once, after not hearing from her for a while, he’d checked her Facebook page and found she’d posted a Forbes article in which she’d been touted as a rising star in the world of investing. Add in her missing engagement ring and things had obviously taken a turn. But the Vos family operated on a need-to-know basis. They didn’t exactly shoot the shit. Information was given out as needed and, more often than not, kept to oneself.
Why was that?
Growing up, he’d more or less assumed that sucking it up and handling a crisis alone, so as not to disappoint or inconvenience anyone, was normal. In college, he’d been shocked by his roommate’s semiweekly phone call to his parents, during which he told them every piece of information under the sun, from his cafeteria meals to the girls he dated. Then, as a history professor, he’d witnessed the close relationships his students had with their parents, as well. On Family Weekend at Stanford, they showed up in droves wearing red sweatshirts and bearing care packages. They . . . gave a shit.
Perhaps not every family was close, sharing trials and triumphs as a matter of course. But based on the real-world data he’d witnessed with his very own eyes, families that cared about one another were more commonplace—and healthier—than his.
I would tell her you’re glad she’s here with you. But before you say it, make sure you mean it. She’ll be able to tell the difference.
He cut Natalie a speculative glance, hearing Hallie’s words in his head—far from the first time today. In fact, since she’d left Thursday night, braving a storm to get away from him, he’d been hearing the gardener’s voice in his fucking sleep.
Natalie removed a flask from her purse, unscrewed the cap lazily, and tipped it to her lips. After a second gulp, she offered him the metal container.
“No, thank you,” he said automatically. Why, though? Didn’t he want a belt of whatever was in that flask? Yes. Obviously. He hadn’t slept since Thursday night due to his brain’s insistence on replaying every second of his interaction with Hallie on a torturous loop. “Actually . . . yes, I’ll have some.”
Natalie’s eyebrows shot up behind her sunglasses, but she passed him the flask without comment. “Rough going on the book, big brother?”
He studied the opening of the container for a moment, trying not to make a mental list of all the reasons he shouldn’t imbibe hard liquor at five o’clock. For one, he’d have to interact with the public on behalf of the family business—which might be in more trouble than anyone realized. And two, he desperately needed to get back to his book at some point. But if he had a drink this early, he would almost certainly have two, which would lead to lethargic thoughts tomorrow.
