“No, it’s...” Oh. Doesn’t he want me here? He did say that our arrangement is just that. He’s helping me de-stress and get silent, orgasmic revenge on Stanford and January. His interest in me doesn’t go beyond that. “Okay. Sure. Thanks again.”
“Do you want to stay?”
“I’ve got other things to do.”
“We all do. But you already put in the time and effort to set this up. You don’t have to keep working.” He tugs out a chair with the toe of his boot. “Sit.”
Since I don’t want to go home and hear my parents chat about wedding logistics and the ranch operations—if they’re even home—I do as he says.
“What do you want to drink? Another limeade?”
The tasting room serves vodka mojitos, but I almost prefer the mock version. I get in less trouble that way. “I’ve had a lot of sugar. I need something more solid.”
“Like a good steak?” he asks as he rounds the counter with an armload of glasses.
My stomach rumbles. Elodie’s baked goods are to die for, and the load of bread I bought from her is on my passenger seat, but a well-seasoned steak would hit the spot. “I could grill one when I get home, but Daddy hates it when someone else uses his grill.”
“I’ll cook you one.” He pauses while filling the drawer dishwasher like he can’t believe he offered.
I can’t either. “That’s not necessary.”
“You got other plans?”
“Avoiding anything related to the wedding.”
He smirks. “Let me finish this, and you can follow me to my place.”
“Your place?” I ask, feigning ignorance to hide my racing heart. “You live around here?”
Humor fills his eyes. “It comes in handy when I bring drunk girls home.”
“Mm. It’s a rampant problem.”
He shoves the door closed. “It’s only happened once, but she was polite enough not to vomit at my house.”
I wince and he starts chuckling. An evening that should’ve been my most humiliating, and we’re laughing about it. I’m not proud of myself, but looking back, I can’t think of a better way it could’ve turned out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Durban
We decide to eat on my porch. The cozy setting evokes a lot of expectations I had for this house, and it’s tying my insides into a pretzel.
It’s only a meal, I remind myself for the hundredth time. As I grill us some rib eyes, she sips on ice water and I nurse a whiskey neat while we chat about the crochet club, my house, and the origins of the gold mine and how it landed in Hennessy hands.
“Your family has deep ties to the land,” she says as I set down our plates of steaming meat.
I nod. “Dad was really proud his family was able to buy it from the mining company. He always said our roots don’t run deep; they make up the earth.”
“The whole town is glad it stayed in Hennessy hands.”
“That’s good to hear.” Smiling, I tuck into my food.We finish our meal in companionable silence. Two hungry people who seem to enjoy each other’s company.
My throat thickens each time I think about how much I’m enjoying myself. How often I wish it would happen again and again.
I push my plate away and keep my attention focused on the trees making up my backyard.
“Everything okay?” she asks quietly. She’s just finished her meal, and I haven’t said a word for several minutes.
