Matt glances up, his dark gaze meeting mine. Lines of exhaustion are around his eyes, his normally lush mouth turned into a slight frown. His dark brown hair is in complete, sexy disarray and his shirtsleeves are shoved up almost past his elbows, as if he’d done it impatiently.
Which he probably had, knowing him.
For the past two days, he’s been working constantly preparing for the grand reopening. Considering it’s already Wednesday, and we only have two days left to prepare, I’ve been here right along with him helping wherever I can.
He’s beautiful despite the air of tired frustration that hangs over him, and I realize in that moment that I’d love nothing more than to grab him. Slip in between his chair and the desk, settle on the edge and pull him into me by his tie. Kiss him until he forgot all about the winery and the grand reopening and the party and everything else.
Until all he could focus on was me, a more than willing woman with her tongue in his mouth and her hand in his hair, her other hand gripping his tie so he can’t get away. And he wouldn’t want to get away. He’d kiss me harder, grip my waist, push my skirt up and . . .
Yes. I want to kiss his troubles away. And he’d probably think I lost my mind if I even attempted it.
“I have to work hard,” he says with this rueful smile that doesn’t look real. No, it looks as tired as the rest of him. “Trying to make sure this all comes together properly, you know? We only have a few days left and it’s crunch time.”
That’s his new favorite phrase—crunch time. He’s been saying it since Monday, when he had a staff meeting and told everyone we needed to basically get our asses in gear and get this place in tip-top shape.
I’ve worked past six the last two evenings and tonight it’s almost seven. I’m starving but trying to ignore my growling stomach. I’m also wishing for my drab uniform of old because hey, dressing like you don’t care also means you dress comfortably.
Today I’m wearing a new black pencil skirt that makes it hard to take wide steps and a pretty, delicate white shirt that makes my boobs look huge, not that boss man has noticed. Oh, and I’m wearing the new damn shoes I’ve worn all week that I’ve somehow gotten used to—sort of.
My toes scream with joy every night when I slip the shoes off, and I might have Band-Aids on the back of my ankles, but I’m making them work. Matt’s appreciative looks every time his gaze drops to my feet for even the briefest moment make all the pain worth it.
Despite parading the new wardrobe in front of him for the last three days, it’s like he’s hardly noticed. I know Matt’s distracted, his brain completely preoccupied with this grand reopening party. It’s so important to him, for the winery to be successful, for him to do something other than play baseball. I think he’s afraid no one takes him seriously, and I totally get that.
But I’m dying for him to notice me. Really, really notice me. I’ve done just about everything I can to get him to see me, but it’s like he looks right past me.
Rather frustrating.
And I want him to like me for more than my looks too. I know he appreciates the work I do for him and admires “the way I handle things so efficiently”—this is a direct quote, one he said to me only yesterday. But what about me? Bryn James, the woman? I may be just some hick from Texas at the mere age of twenty-two who’s hardly lived, and I’m definitely not sophisticated like the women he probably prefers to date or screw or whatever, but damn it, I want a chance.
If I were bold and brave, I’d demand a chance.
I take care of the man, and he doesn’t even realize it. I make sure he eats. I make sure he goes home. I handle his schedule, knowing where he needs to be or what he needs to be doing at all times. I make sure all the little details that he might’ve missed are handled. I’m here for him always. Always.
And he doesn’t really care.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, my stomach grumbling yet again and reminding me that yes, indeed I certainly am.
He shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders. They look even broader when encased in starched white cotton. He’s still wearing a tie though it’s loosened around his neck, the first button undone, tempting me to unbutton his shirt even more and see what he’s hiding beneath the fabric.
Like I don’t know. I might’ve spent a few hours Googling Matt DeLuca. It was easy—the man has a ton of photos out there. Some of those pictures are mouthwateringly good because holy hell, the man’s body is perfection. He’s posed for a few magazines over the years wearing little, and I said a little prayer of thanks when I stumbled across those after I first started working for him.
I might’ve gone in search of those photos again last night. Staring and drooling and wondering what the heck I can do to garner this man’s attention. How much more obvious do I need to be?
He’d dressed to impress today because he met with reporters from a local news station for a video interview about the winery earlier this afternoon.
Matt most definitely impressed me. I love it when he wears suits or at least a dress shirt and tie, which is not often enough in my humble opinion.
“I’m kind of hungry, I guess,” he finally answers, his gaze locked on the computer screen as he taps away at the keyboard with his typical index-finger pecking. I have no idea what he’s working on, but it’s definitely holding his interest better than I am. “But I don’t have time to eat.”
“Want me to bring you something then?”
He looks at me once more, peering over the top of his monitor, his gaze narrowed, his expression skeptical. I’m sitting across from his desk, feeling a little rumpled, a lot tired and wishing I looked as perfectly sexy as he does. “You don’t need to do that,” he says carefully. “Maybe you should go on home, Miss James. It’s late. You’ve put in a long day.”
What, go home to an empty apartment and more Lean Cuisine? I don’t think so. “I don’t mind picking you up something to eat, Matt . . . er, Mr. DeLuca.” I try to keep it formal between us, and he does the same, but we both slip on occasion. There’s something a little fun about addressing him so properly. Makes my wicked thoughts of him all the more lurid. “I could call in an order from somewhere you like and have it here for you within thirty minutes.”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’d want.” He rubs his hand along his jaw. I can hear the rasp of stubble against his palm, and my knees literally go weak. I would love to know what that slightly rough face would feel like against mine, or even better—how it would feel between my thighs.
Thank goodness I’m sitting down, or I swear I’d collapse because my legs are so wobbly.
“I’ll take care of everything,” I say, my mind scrambling as I stand. “I’ll order some food and deliver it to you before I leave for the night.” I start to leave the office, wondering if he prefers Italian or Chinese when he says my name in that deep, delicious voice of his.
I stop and slowly turn to find him looking at me, his expression one of pure gratitude. “Thanks a lot for taking care of me these last few days. I know I’ve kept you far busier than you should be.”
Smiling, I try to ignore the mass of butterflies fluttering in my stomach at his words. “You’re welcome. And it’s my job, right? I’m just doing what I’m supposed to.”
“Not necessarily a part of your formal job description, but I suppose.” He smiles. “You should join me.” At my confused look he explains further. “For dinner.”
“Oh, I-I couldn’t.” I shake my head at the same exact moment my stomach decides to grumble loudly, and I rest my hand over my front, horribly embarrassed. I can feel my cheeks heat, and I’m tempted to duck and run.
But I stand my ground instead, trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
Soft laughter escapes him as he quirks an eyebrow at me. “Not hungry, huh?”
“Fine. I’m starving.” I roll my eyes. Are we flirting? It feels like it but . . . not. Ugh, he’s so confusing. “But I’m sure you don’t want to eat with me. We spend enough time tog
ether, don’t you think?”
“Do you want to eat with me?” he asks, his dying laughter replaced with this foreign gleam in his eyes. “I don’t mind if you don’t. Come on, Bryn. Let’s have dinner together at my desk. It’ll be exciting.” He laughs. “We can go over the caterer menu one more time. Exciting right?”
“All right,” I agree, trying my best to stomp down the giddy sensation that wants to take over but it’s so hard. It’s bubbling to the surface ready to burst out all over Matt. “Let me find a restaurant. What do you prefer, Italian or Chinese?”
“Italian, of course,” he says, and I’m thankful.
I prefer Italian too—especially the DeLuca variety.
“DAMN, THIS IS good,” Matt says as he eats another forkful of lobster ravioli. “And you said the restaurant is nearby?”
Enraptured with watching him eat, I nod silently, but realize he’s not even paying attention to me, so I answer, “Yes, they’re not too far from here. Little place that doesn’t look like much but is packed inside.”
So packed, I drew quite a few stares as I went to the register and purchased the food, waiting for the bag to be brought out. I could tell they weren’t tourists. They were probably wondering who the heck I was and not like I could announce it to everyone. I stood there, smiling shyly at everyone who was blatant enough to check me out.
This city, the entire area, has a very small town feel. I understood. Whenever a stranger showed up in Cactus, everyone went crazy wondering who they were. It set the gossips buzzing for days.
That’s what I’ve turned into. I’m the girl who sparks gossip and makes people wonder who the heck I am. Even when I was trying my best not to get any attention whatsoever, it still happened.
“What did you get?” Matt points his black plastic fork at me. His eyes are alight with interest.
We’re sitting at his desk just as he said, eating quietly and occasionally making conversation. These low sounds of complete male satisfaction leave him every once in a while, setting my blood on fire, but I try to ignore them. My dinner is delicious too, something I rarely indulge in because Italian food goes straight to my hips but who cares?
Tonight—not me.
“Mushroom ravioli,” I answer just before I take another bite of crusty, warm bread.
“Are you a vegetarian?” he asks.
“Please, I’m from Texas.” Oh crap. That was sort of a sarcastic and shitty thing to say. I need to watch my mouth.
“Really? I had no idea.” He looks at me, his gaze intense. “Tell me more.”
I shrug, wishing I’d never opened this can of worms. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Now I doubt that, Miss James,” he drawls softly. “We’re sharing a meal together so at the very least you could make polite conversation.”
He’s not going to let this go, I can tell. “Well, you asked for my boring life story so here it is. I grew up in Cactus, Texas, a small town with one stoplight. Wait, there’s another, so make it two.” I tap my fingers against my lips, trying to decide what I can and can’t tell him. Not the bad stuff, which there’s a lot of. No-good daddy, and a too-young mama who never stuck around much or seemed to care. Gruff, but lovable grandma who gave me lots of words of wisdom but wasn’t the best at showering me with affection.
This is probably why I seek out love in all the wrong places. My head is just flat-out screwed up.
“I was raised by my grandma,” I finally say. “My mom was real young and not around much.”
“That’s . . . too bad.” He looks a little uncomfortable, like he doesn’t quite know how to react.
Probably shouldn’t have told him that, damn it.
I make a face. “Don’t feel bad. My grandma is awesome. A real sweet old lady who makes the best church cake you’ve ever had.” Sort of. Kind of mean, actually. She’s the type that sits on her front porch with a shotgun and threatens strangers who come on her property that she’ll shoot their asses off if they take one step farther. No joke.
My life in Cactus is a cartoon cliché of epic proportions, I swear.
Matt frowns. “Church cake?”
“Oh, you know. A big ol’ made-from-scratch chocolate sheet cake that everyone at the church social can have a piece of. With some of the best, rich chocolate frosting you’ve ever tasted.” I sigh, missing Grandma’s chocolate church cake something fierce. Grabbing at a mint the restaurant provided, I tear off the wrapper and pop it into my mouth but it’s a poor substitute for chocolate cake.
“Ah, now I see it.” When I look at him oddly, he smiles. “Your accent. I heard it when you were talking.”
I clamp my lips shut. I start talking about home and out comes the Texan like I can’t help myself. “I left Cactus when I was nineteen, and I’ve never been back.” And I don’t really miss it either. I talk to my grandma when I can, but it’s not like our relationship was super close. I had no friends. And I had a wife out to hang me by my hair for messing around with her husband though she thought we’d been up to much worse. She’d found out about me pretty quickly after I found out about her, and it had been such a nightmare dealing with her.
Thank God I never slept with him. I heard he got some other poor girl who worked for him knocked up, his wife promptly left him, and he ended up marrying the mistress.
That would’ve been me if I’d continued with him. My life stuck married to some loser insurance salesman who can’t keep his tongue in his mouth or his dick in his pants, fooling around with every dumb young girl who works for him.
A shudder moves through me at the thought.
“So how about you?” I ask, desperate to change the conversation. I push my empty plate away from me, the bread sitting in my stomach like a lead weight. Sure had been good though. “Tell me your life story.”
He smiles, stabs his fork in the last lobster ravioli standing. “Raised by my father after my mother died when I was four. Always loved baseball because he was a former pro, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps. So I did, got injured, was forced into early retirement, came to Napa on my friend’s recommendation and bought the winery. That’s it.”
Well, didn’t he simplify that completely? I need to take lessons from him for the next time I get nosy questions. “You summed that up pretty well.”
“I figured you Googled me anyway, so you probably already know everything.” His cheeks turn ruddy, and I wonder if he’s actually blushing. “I sounded like a complete ass right then.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I did Google you,” I admit, my own cheeks heating. There’d been all the photos from his underwear ad campaign. Those had been rather . . . enlightening. “A while ago, after you took over the winery. I wanted to find out more about my new boss.”
“You hadn’t heard of me before, when I played baseball?”
“No, not really. I don’t pay much attention to sports, and if I do, the only one I care about is football.” At his raised brows, I shrug. “I am from Texas after all.”
Matt
“WELL, I GUESS I can forgive you for your football love, considering you’re from Texas and all,” I say, smiling at her.
She returns the smile, a brilliant, toothy flash, and then it disappears as fast it came. Disappointment fills me but I ignore it.
The more I talk to Bryn, the more I like her. I’m fascinated with her being from Texas only because that’s the last place I figured she’d be from, for some reason. I assumed she was a local, just like everyone else who worked for the DeLuca Winery.
The more she spoke of Texas, the thicker her accent got. It was cute, hearing her talk about grandmas and chocolate cake. She didn’t drop too many other details though. Made me think there’s a lot more going on behind the scenes.
I wonder if she’s hiding something. I know I wish I could—my past, my entire life history is out there for all the world to read and see, thanks to Vinnie DeLuca and his escapades.
She’s actually a little feisty which I didn’t expect. But I
’ve only known the other Bryn. The beige-wearing, never-looking-at-me version. This new Bryn, with the sophisticated yet sexy clothes, the gorgeous hair, and the mildly sassy attitude is a pleasant surprise.
I like that she actually ate a meal too. I’ve dated women before who pick at their plates or only order a piece of lettuce and a glass of water. Not only did Bryn down almost her entire meal, she also scarfed down on bread, just like I did.
Had no idea a woman with a healthy appetite was so arousing.
“Sounds like your career was cut super short, huh.” She winces. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sure you don’t like talking about it.”
“It’s all right. Just a fact of life, you know?” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t bother me that I lost my baseball career, but it does. It hurts tremendously. “I miss it, but life goes on and brings you new challenges.”
She raises a delicate brow. “And I’m sure the winery is a challenge.”
“Absolutely it is—an interesting one though. Lots of hard work, but I believe it’s going to reward us in the end.” I said us, like she’s an integral part of this winery, which she is to me.
I wonder if she knows exactly how much I value her. And I’m not talking about her salary or how much I’m making off this venture or anything like that. I’m referring to how much I need her help. How stuck I’d be without her.
Of course, it’s not all about finances and how much money you make, right? I have enough money to last me ten lifetimes. My dad may be a loudmouthed jerk who loves to make his troubles public, but he’s a rich loudmouthed jerk. I think that’s what allowed him to be so crazy through the years. When you’re rich, you’re eccentric. When you’re poor, you’re flat out strange.
Either way, growing up with my father was quite the experience. He expected me to be just like him. So I tried my best to emulate him as much as I could, but I did it with my pro baseball career.
Until the unfortunate injury that took me out of the game permanently. Dad just about lost it. I swear he was ready to disown me and it hadn’t even been my fault. Though it was already on shaky ground, our relationship hasn’t been the same since.