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Chapter Twenty-Five
Sam
“Already having your first lover’s spat?”
The words freeze both of us in our tracks. I stand by the kitchen counter, coffee mug halfway to my mouth, while Lexi completely stills in the middle of pouring her cup of tea.
Rosario stands by the doorway, holding a folded throw pillow and a neatly stacked fleece blanket she just retrieved from the bedroom sofa I’ve been sleeping on. A knowing, amused grin dances across her face.
My eyes lock onto Lexi’s. A sharp panic flashes across her pale face before she can mask it. If Rosario starts suspecting we aren’t sleeping in the same bed, it won’t be long before the whispering between her and Walter will begin. Then those rumors could land straight in my mother’s eager ears.
I force a wicked smirk onto my lips and lean back against the marble island, letting my gaze drop down to Lexi’s tight jaw. “Not a spat, Rosario,” I say, my voice dripping with charm. “I’d heard makeup sex is the best kind, so I thought I would test out the theory. And I’m holding out for a top-tier apology.” I waggle my brows at Lexi.
Lexi’s mouth drops open in offended disbelief, a deep crimson traveling instantly from her collarbone straight up to her ears.
Rosario lets out a hearty chuckle behind her palm, shaking her head as she turns to walk back down the hall.
“You’re unbelievable,” Lexi mutters under her breath, glaring at me over the rim of her mug.
“Unbelievably clever. I just saved our cover story, Mrs. Lee,” I whisper back, winking at her. “Besides, after spending all day doing backbreaking work on the vineyard, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could handle sleeping on that couch without consulting a doctor. Oh, wait. Don’t I know a doctor?”
Before Lexi can hit me with a sharp comeback, the heavy brass knocker on the front door rattles through the foyer. I pull open the door to find my mother standing on the porch, wrapped in a trench coat. Her sharp eyes instantly sweep past my shoulders like an intelligence officer inspecting an enemy camp.
Shit. Had I conjured up this witch by merely thinking of her?
“Sam,” Mother greets, stepping right past me without waiting for an invitation. Her gaze darts over the entry table, the coat rack, and down the hall, searching for any telltale signs of a fake marriage. “I was just passing through and thought I’d drop by.”
Passing by? Please. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.
“I must say, the estate looks unchanged from the bachelor pad you and your grandfather enjoyed. I would’ve thought your wife might have introduced some feminine touches by now.” Her scowl is suspicious, to say the least.
“We like it this way, Mother,” I answer, annoyed, stepping into her line of sight to block her view of the living room. Not that there’s anything there to hide. But no need giving her an inch. She’ll take a cross-country trip to speculationville.
Lexi steps out of the kitchen, her handbag slung over her shoulder, looking completely poised. “Good morning, Mrs. Lee. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have rounds at the hospital.”
Mother turns her piercing gaze on Lexi, offering a tight, artificial smile. “A busy schedule for a new bride, Alexis. One would think you’d want to spend your mornings with your husband.”
Yeah, because you were so interested in canoodling with my dad.
“Her patients kind of rely on her, Mother,” I blurt, taking Lexi’s jacket from the rack and handing it to her. I place a firm, protective hand at the small of my wife’s back, gently guiding her toward the door. I deposit a kiss on her cheek and add a flirty wink before turning to usher my mother back onto the porch. “And speaking of busy schedules, I have a mountain of paperwork waiting at the vineyard office. Let me walk you to your car.”
With a combination of practiced tact and subtle force, I manage to guide my mother down the steps and off the property before she can dig her heels in any deeper.
An hour later, I’m at the main processing facility when Shep sidles up next to me, a smirk plastered across his sunbaked face. “Brandy’s in the back office with my dad,” Shep says, elbowing me in the ribs. “She’s been asking for you every five minutes. I’ve been telling you, man. That chick’s hot for teacher.”
I suppress a groan. Brandy is the regional representative for The Naked Grape, a high-volume grape broker who supplies fruit to vineyards dealing with harvest deficits. I’ve dealt with her before. She’s aggressive.
And not just in a sales capacity.
From the day she first arrived at Sutter Creek, it was clear she wanted to pursue something far beyond a grape contract with me. Don’t get me wrong, she wants our business, too. But it’s clear she has a lot more on her agenda.
I’ve always held a strict one-and-done policy when it comes to my personal life. Less chance of leading anyone to thinking our interaction could be more than physical. And, unlike her, I believe not shitting where you eat is a no-brainer when it comes to business. I certainly wouldn’t want to have to endure continued come-ons after what was supposed to be a night of no-strings fun. But it appears I’m having to deal with that all the same.
The Naked Grape is a well-respected broker. They possess a deep knowledge of varietals and soil types. From what I recall, the brokers Pops had dealt with over the years had offered expert guidance in assessing fair market value for the grapes. And by all intents and purposes, their fees are transparent. What’s more, they abide by a strict confidentiality clause, maintaining privacy between buyers, sellers, and the public. This way, the wine drinkers of Hanover don’t realize the wine they’re drinking originated from grapes outside of Sutter Creek.
Obviously, this is not something we consider lightly. But when environmental stresses cause a deficit in grapes, they allow business to continue. I’d hate to have to cut ties with them, but it’s clear I need to proceed carefully where she’s concerned.
I return to the main tasting room thirty minutes later. The door has barely clicked open when Brandy’s eyes connect with mine. The man-eater makes a straight beeline for me. She’s dressed inappropriately for a sales call at a vineyard. Wearing a skin-tight black shift dress that barely reaches her knees, manicured red nails, and five-inch stiletto heels that click loudly against the wood floor, you’d think she was dressed for a night at the club.
