Page 65 of Wild Abandon

Nate does not.

Brent is an open book. He’s Googleable.

Nate doesn’t even have Facebook.

I hardly think about Brent.

All I can do is think about Nate.

I’m going to go out with Brent again.

To get my head on straight, I have been working nonstop at Russet Ranch.

I borrowed Jeremy’s truck to bring the chandelier here, and Jeremy helped me hang it. I set the bar up with the new glassware and decorative items, placed the new pillows on the couch, and cut roses and placed them in a vase on a console table near the door. The room still looked unfinished.

I brought a bottle of Ellie Creek home, and Naomi and I drank it while we mapped out the design I had in my head. Another trip to the paint store and another day of Ed gone all day, Naomi painted a spectacular wall-to-wall mural behind the bar.

I moved the painting of Ellie to the wall above the console table by the entrance, a vase of her mother’s roses in front. Maybe when she finally comes and visits, she’ll be honored with such a beautiful placement of her portrait instead of being in the back corner.

When I was cleaning out the stock room, I found photo albums of the vineyard from the early 1900s, showing women crushing grapes with their bare feet and churning by hand and men hand-picking in the field along with horse-drawn wagons collecting the bushels. I brought the albums to a framing shop in St. Helena and had thirty of them framed and matted.

It’s safe to say I am very close to spending the entire five thousand dollars.

That’s probably because I threw out the metal folding chairs and went to the vintage shop where I found ten wooden folding chairs and had them painted. And, when I was snooping around the garage, I found an old farmhouse table, loaded that in the pickup, and brought it to a restoration specialist. Then, I bought supplies to sand and paint the pergola, and I bought vines to grow and train around the wooden beams. Since the pergola looked incredible, I had to clean up the floors, so I had someone come in and polish the veranda. And then I bought native plants and put them in the planters around the veranda.

And, now, I am standing on a ladder on the veranda, hanging string lights around the pergola.

Ed has been gone the last few days. I’m used to him being gone for a day at a time but not this long. Here I am, breaking my ass, cleaning up his winery, while he’s off doing whatever it is he does.

He said once that he was visiting his daughter in San Francisco. Spoiled brat. Doesn’t even have the decency to come up and help her old man when his livelihood is falling apart. I’m all for families getting together. But three days? And on someone who doesn’t come see you? This is ridiculous.

And I just got a splinter. Damn it.

With so much going on inside my head, I’m grateful to have the ranch to put my frustrations into. As long as it doesn’t take its frustrations out on me.

Freaking splinter.

And freaking Nate.

See? I can’t stop thinking about him.

“What’s got you all wound up?”

I look down at Ed from the ladder I’m standing on. He’s just walked onto the veranda, and he looks exactly as he did when I last saw him. The man doesn’t vary much in the wardrobe department.

“Where have you been?” My voice is clipped. My finger goes in my mouth, teeth clenching at the small piece of wood lodged under the skin.

“What business is it to you?” He’s wearing a newsboy cap, and it looks ridiculous.

My teeth biting into my skin, I bite back at him, “What if something happened to you? I’d have no way of getting in touch with you. What if you were hurt and no one knew you were missing?”

He crinkles his mouth, as if considering my questions. “If you were so worried, why didn’t you call the cops?”

I knit my brows together, not liking his question. “Because I was happier to have you gone. It allowed me time to get some things done around here and surprise you.”

Ed grumbles, “If you wanted me gone, then why are you mad?”

“A call would have been nice,” I bark. “And, now, I have a damn splinter.” I go back to wrapping the lights around the wood beams of the pergola, keeping my injured finger pointed up.