Page 56 of The Sweetness of Life

“What are you doing up here?” I ask her.

“Thinking,” she answers quietly.

A breeze blows and her hair swirls around her head. I should ask her what she’s thinking about, but something holds me back. Sitting next to her is an empty sauvignon blanc bottle and an empty glass, and I know this is my fault.

“About what?” I ask tentatively.

“About how I broke my rules and I’m trying to reconcile with myself.”

I’m not sure what she means by rules, but I’m pretty certain they pertain to me.

“How much have you had to drink?”

Her eyes shift down to the bottle. “Not too much, but it was really good.”

“‘Was’ being the operative word there,” I tease, but she frowns at the insinuation and turns to look at me.

“Do you regret what happened last night?” she asks, getting straight to the point.

“Of course not,” I answer honestly. Regret definitely wouldn’t be the word I’d use. Hell, it doesn’t even come close to making the list, but what do make the list are confusion, guilt, and adoration. “I’m sorry you left feeling like I did.”

Biting the bottom of her lip, she wrinkles her forehead in thought. I’m not sure if she believes me or not, and I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, but I think she wants to.

“I don’t understand you . . . at all.” She exhales, sounding defeated.

When she spots the bottle of cabernet I’m holding, she takes it from my hands, pulls the cork, pours herself a very full glass, and hands the bottle back.

“I know you don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry—just tell me what your problem is.” She pauses to take a sip of wine then continues without looking at me. “I don’t understand what I did to make you not like me.”

“Come on, you’re being ridiculous. You know I like you.”

“Do you?” The expression on her face is sad, and she looks so disappointed.

“Shelby, I said this before, and I’ll say it again.” Using my finger, I guide her chin so she sees me, the real me. “It’s on me, not you.” I nod my head once, hoping she’ll agree with me.

“It isn’t okay. Just make up your mind already. Either we’re friends or we’re not. Either you want me or you don’t. This back and forth with your split personalities is giving me whiplash, and it makes me not trust you.”

“You shouldn’t trust me,” I whisper.

She looks at me funnily, pulls her chin away, and then takes another sip of wine. “But why not? I keep asking myself this. You haven’t lied to me. In fact, I think you’ve been pretty up front about how you feel about me.”

I shake my head at her, wishing I could change the subject.

“I thought you were a player, and maybe you are, which is fine. I’m a big girl and I can handle it. Just tell me: are you playing me, Zach? Is this a game to you? Am I a game?”

Isn’t that the million-dollar question? Part of me wonders if this has anything to do with me, but I can’t look past my own feelings to even ask her about hers. Her words have shot arrows into me, and a heavily weighted guilt slips in. No, I haven’t flat-out lied to her. I did, however, start this whole “relationship” with her on a ruse. Have I been playing her? In a way, I have, but that game ended the second I pushed her up against the cottage door. Now, even more so after last night, it’s all very real to me.

“No, Shelby. This is not a game to me. Nothing about what’s happened between you and me is a game.” I may have set up the plan strategically like a game, but when it comes to this winery and the success of it, I take everything seriously. My plan was for her to like the winery and write a good review. Not once did tricking her into sleeping with me come into play.

“Good, because I would hate to leave here hating you, Zach, especially when I just started liking you.” She peeks over and gives me a small smile.

She likes me.

I never thought she didn’t, but hearing her say it loosens a knot that’s been twisting tighter and tighter inside my chest all day.

Pushing away our career choices, pushing away the insecurities and guilt, pushing away our differences and the plan, it’s here and now with her by my side that I decide I’m in.