14
MITCHELL
Sweat builds on the back of my neck as the wall clock ticks down to go time. I scoop two helpings of green olives onto the wooden board, the final touch to the charcuterie and cheese.
I take stock of what I have out: hard salami, sweet sausage, smoked ham, a nutty smoked cheddar, local sheep’s cheese. Three types of crackers on the side. Two wineglasses and a bottle of Dunford’s 2005 vintage Riesling, chilling in a stainless steel bucket filled with ice. The big guns. It has hints of citrus and cinnamon, refreshing and bold. It’s a wine for a light dinner, though it can pass for a dessert wine. Since Riesling was my mother’s favorite, I hope it’s the right vibe for Bryn.
I try not to think of my father rolling in his grave at my taking this bottle out of the cellar. He bottled this vintage in memory of my mother, and it’s sat in the cellar all these years, untouched. But she’d understand. The value of Bryn’s agreement today will be worth more than this bottle. It could possibly save our entire cellar.
We have to talk, in private. Sunday, 4 p.m. is what I wrote on the note I passed her yesterday afternoon, the intention up front and center. It won’t be like the first time we got together, where we started our meeting with a freewheeling verbal wrestling match and drink fest, ending with the two of us sloshed and a morning-after kiss I can’t get out of my head.
Nope. Our meeting tonight will be all business, a proposition, and hopefully a negotiation.
King Lear watches me with his usual intensity.
“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who started all this mess. It’s me who’s trying to do the right thing here.”
His tail whips and curls with attitude, calling me on my BS.
Breathing out a sigh, I wrap my fingers around the back of my neck. “I’m not fooling myself either.”
After spending a week hanging out at Lavenderhill, inserting myself, finding reasons to stay so I can bring out “the spark” on camera, only one thing became clear. Not having Bryn’s consent is wrong.
If Bryn had remained unrelenting and righteous, if we hadn’t spent the night together, hadn’t kissed. If she hadn’t seen those pills, if I wasn’t so intent on seeing if she was the key to my sleep-filled night, I might have approached Levi’s plan with a soldier’s attitude. I might have pushed through with the mission.
But she was different this week. She made me coffee and lunches—I mean, real, hot lunches—and there was a softness to her voice, a bigger smile with her requests.
The more I spend time with her, the more at ease with myself I’ve become. Though it doesn’t always mean I’m sleeping through the night, I’m less anxious. What has replaced it is a need to be near her, to talk to her even if it’s about the most mundane things. She listens, and in her presence, I’m myself again.
She’s about as good therapy as Doc Sullivan.
At the utmost minimum, she deserves the truth.
The doorbell rings at our prearranged time, sending King Lear to the entryway. I sweep a final glance at the food before throwing the door open.
And wow.
Bryn’s gorgeous, all ease and relaxation. Her black locks hang low and free, reaching the middle of her back. No makeup, except for gloss on her lips. She’s wearing a one-piece dress that reaches just below her knees. When I look down, I grin. On her feet are her bright red clogs.
She holds up a plate covered with aluminum foil. “I bring food.”
“Hey. Come in. You didn’t have to.” I step aside. She sways past me, smelling like a fresh shower and a hint of citrus. The back of her dress is damp from her hair. I imagine what she looks like naked and wet lathering up with bubbles and later slick with lotion.
A start of an erection strains against my pants. Ease up, asshole. My body’s visceral reaction to Bryn isn’t a surprise, but c’mon, this isn’t the time. Whether or not she agrees to what I soon will propose, I have a feeling she’s going to be so pissed she won’t want to be anywhere in my vicinity.
“This is the least I could do. You’ve been doing a ton of work for free and . . . uh . . . wine? Didn’t we learn our lesson last time?” A smirk sneaks onto her face as she approaches the kitchen counter.
“This is different. Riesling. And this time, there’s food.”
“You and I were on the same wavelength.” She peels off the foil. “This is called lechon kawali. Fried pork belly. Chef Ellie made it for us before she headed back to Dallas.”
The aroma has me crossing the room and reaching for a chunk of meat. I bite down against the thick and crispy skin, and it melts on my tongue. “Your oven’s not in, is it?”
“Not in Paraiso. But the ancient stove in the little house out back is still going strong.”
“This is damn good. And way better than bacon.”
“Hell yes, it is.” She laughs. “Let’s get this straight. The last time I came over, you served me red wine with the intent to stop the filming, and now the white is for us to . . .” Her voice trails as an eyebrow arches up.
“Come to an agreement.”
“If you put it that way.” She uncorks the bottle and pours us each a full glass. She hands me one. We raise our glasses to our lips, but while I take a long sip, she has just a small taste. “But before you say anything else, I want to thank you. For signing the permission to film and for helping me out this week.”
“You’re welcome.” I take stock of the woman in front of me, the ease on her face a surprise. My stomach hollows out. She’s going to think I’m a real asshole after I reveal my proposal.
I pull the pin and throw the grenade before I lose my nerve. “Would you date me for money?”
Fuck. That didn’t come out right at all.
Her face is devoid of emotion, and her fingers still on the stem of her wineglass.
“Not like a prostitute. Not like that. Dammit.” I take another swig and begin pacing. “Last week, your producer, Laurel, approached me—”
“She what?”
“Apparently the audience loves it when we’re together. And when we’re together the viewers and the comments skyrocket. And whenever there’s an increase in views, they earn a hell of a lot more money.” I halt, and look back to see if she’s making sense of my garbled explanation. She hasn’t moved from her spot, though her hands are clasped on her lap. Her glass is still full—not a good sign—so I rush to the bottom line. “Laurel offered to share some of that profit with Dunford if I got myself on the screen, if I spent more time with you. But I can’t keep lying to you. I’ve asked you here because I want you in on it.”
“I see.” Bryn shakes her head, as if in disbelief. “And Laurel didn’t think she should tell me?”
“She said you valued authenticity, that you wouldn’t have agreed.”
“She was right. I wouldn’t have.” A pause. “But you did.”
“I did.” It’s only then I realize the predicament I put her in. With or without her knowledge, I violated her privacy by agreeing to my brother’s idea. My gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry. It was an asshole move, but I didn’t have a choice. This has the potential to make Dunford a hell of a lot of money, and we need it. We have bills, and if we don’t pay them, not only will I be out on the street, but you will be, too, Bryn.”
She throws her head back, hands flying to her tummy as if to contain herself, while she rocks into a maniacal laughter. King Lear pads backward into the living room.
Yeah, buddy. Wish you could take me with you.
Bryn rubs her temples, her giggles settling into a solemn silence. When she looks up, her eyes are glazed over with pure anger. “That would have probably been a good thing to tell me when I signed the lease. You should have disclosed there was a possibility of the property not being available at some point. I mean, the renovations. The work I’ve done up to this point. I’d have to shut down.”
I nod, out of excuses. If I had thought through my actions, run them by my brothers first, this might have been avoided. Perhaps I wouldn’t have agreed to her renovations. I might have only approved a residential lease. Or maybe I wouldn’t have leased out the property at all.
Regret fills me as the facts add up. I brought her into this situation, first by offering our property as a commercial lease, and then by making the deal with Laurel behind her back. She trusted me much as my soldiers trusted me, with their lives. And like my soldiers, Bryn assumed transparency between us.
But I’ve failed.
“I’ve got no excuse, but I can fix this. You and I can fix this.” I take the barstool next to Bryn and pull her hands into mine. A stupid move, maybe, but it’s the only thing I can think of to do. Make contact. Look into her eyes. Tell her the truth. “Help me fix this. You and I perform for the camera. We give them what they want—nothing more than a sweet romance on air. Nothing beyond working hours. Dunford gets paid, and I will find a way to kick back some of that money to you. It ends when the show stops. We can even stage a breakup.” Squeezing her fingers, I channel the sincerity and respect I feel for her, even if my words show I’m using her. “We part amicably. No hard feelings.”
“You’ve spent an entire week me with me, and damn . . . I thought . . .”
“You thought what?” My grip on her hand grows tighter in anticipation as I think maybe she’s read my mind, where all that’s written is her name.
Bryn’s face reflects her emotions. They move from confusion to anger, to sadness, then to clarity. She takes her hands from mine, brings them with palms together up to her lips. My heart hammers in my chest as she takes one large breath, then a second, before setting her hands down on her lap. “How much money?”
The gravity of the question throws me.
She repeats herself. “How much will you give me? Percentage wise.”
“I . . . I . . .” Honestly, the nuances of this deal didn’t cross my mind when I was preparing my speech. I expected to beg, to lay out the pros and cons in creative ways. But numbers? “Fifty-fifty.”
Bryn’s expression hardens. “Fifty-five, forty-five. You put me in a tough spot. A tough, shitty spot. If I do this with you, my business will always be rolled up with Dunford. I always knew it would be because it’s on this vineyard, but our contrived romance will always be on people’s minds. People will come for the curiosity of us, rather than for the retreat. But while I have a lot to lose, you have more at stake. You can’t do this without me.”
Her words are lightning. They strike, blowing up the ground around us. She’s turned the advantage toward her. I might have made the first move, but she’s the counterinsurgence.
Damn. She’s good.
I nod and offer her my hand. When she returns my handshake with a firm grip and sobering, steadfast gaze, it becomes exceedingly apparent—I completely underestimated this woman.