21
BRYN
It’s desperate times when the Mini Cooper is the car of choice to bring to Home Warehouse, when one can’t leave without a can of paint, random piece of lumber, or a brand-new refrigerator. But Mitchell’s truck is on the fritz—again—and with the camera crew needing to record us, I’m the lucky girl who gets to make the hour-long drive.
But little do I know that Mitchell David Dunford, vine whisperer and war hero, is also a backseat driver.
He has yet to shut up:
“Maybe next time, you should look before you change lanes.”
“I know we’re in California, but it doesn’t mean you have to roll through every stop sign.”
“Blinker, blinker, blinker, put on your blinker.”
“The hand position on the steering wheel is no longer ten and two, but four and eight.”
And he says I talk too much during TV shows. Twenty minutes into the trip, I’m ready to fake break up with him.
“It’s thirty miles an hour on this road for another mile or so,” he says above the radio, which I turned up to a ridiculous volume to block out his chatter.
“Uh-huh. Is that what the three-oh means on that sign?” I fire back, increasing my speed. We’ve crossed the line into unfunny and not cute. My eyes flash to the rearview mirror, and I realize that while the camera is off, we still have an audience. I soften my tone. “I’m a great driver. I’ve never even gotten a ticket.”
“Not one?”
“Nope. I learned to drive in the city with all the hills and traffic. These country roads are no big deal. I promise.” Then in a last-minute decision, I put my hand on this thigh.
His lips turn up, and he lays a hand on mine. Ah, that settled him down at least. Admittedly, I haven’t exactly been my most relaxed self since my birthday either. From Mitchell’s and my indiscretion, to our discussion of it, and now with this requirement of upping our romance game, everything is worrying me.
Like this work date we’re on now—it’s all contrived. It’s coverage of Mitchell and me in the wild disguised as a much-needed trip to Home Warehouse for knobs and ceiling fans and area rugs.
No big deal, right? But it feels wrong, because this is a chore I’m perfectly capable of doing on my own. It’s against my instincts to bring an extra person with me for something I can accomplish by myself. But it’s an opportunity where people can see us in person, so . . .
“You’re . . . you might want to slow down.”
I ignore Mitchell’s redundant warnings. My brain sifts through what could happen once we arrive at the store. Will people want our autographs? Will today be the day he kisses me in front of everyone?
Will I freak my shit when he kisses me because I’ll love it so much?
I’m so screwed. Here I am on the cusp of trying to build a business and all I can think of is our first public kiss.
Mitchell spins in his seat. “Great.”
“What?” A siren blares above the car’s satellite radio and the voices in my head. I look at my side mirror, and damn, it’s the flashing lights of a cop car. “Ugh. Why didn’t you tell me this was a speed trap?”
From behind me, Joel snickers.
Through the rearview mirror, I sneer. “I thought you three were supposed to be invisible.” Slowly, I maneuver the car to the shoulder and slow. A police officer in blue approaches my window. I say a prayer to my guardian angel, a habit my mother taught me, and I take down my hair and twist it over one shoulder. Subtly.
“That isn’t going to work, you know.” Mitchell shakes his head.
“It always works.”
“Ooookay.”
The police officer leans down onto the window. His Oakley sunglasses shield his eyes and act like mirrors, reflecting back my face. He peeks into the backseat, then nods at Mitchell.
What was that about?
I bat my eyelashes anyway. “Hello, Officer. Did we do something wrong?”
“I clocked you doing forty-five in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone.”
“Was I really going that fast?”
“Yes, she was.” Mitchell slings an arm around my seat. “I tried to tell her, Officer.”
Oh no he didn’t! I clear my throat in lieu of wringing Mitchell’s neck. “Please don’t listen to him. My boyfriend has this bad habit of spitting out idiotic things, like horrible bad jokes and outright lies.”
“Ma’am, my speedometer’s quite accurate and always tells the truth. License and registration please.”
I’m not sure what’s worse. Getting a ticket or Mitchell’s cocky glare telling me I told you so. I resist firing back a sarcastic response while the cop walks back to his vehicle with my information to run my plates. But instead of the police officer getting on his computer, he gets on his cell phone.
Really? This day is getting worse by the minute. Mitchell has his phone to his ear, too, and he’s grinning wickedly. He grunts his answers as if he’s answering in code.
“Mm . . . Roger. Out.” Mitchell hangs up finally.
“Who’s Roger?”
More snickering from the backseat. I spin and flash Joel another death stare.
Mitchell barks out a laugh. “It means ‘I concur.’ Or, ‘I understand.’ Army speak.”
“Huh.” The cogs in my brain start turning: Mitchell’s knowledge the cop would be here. That cops and soldiers use acronyms like another language. That they got off the phone at the same time. And that the population of Golden and the surrounding communities within fifty miles is still less than our neighborhood in San Francisco.
“Ugh. You know him?” I slap Mitchell on the shoulder, which does nothing but widen the grin on his face.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Bryn. I’m Cody.” The cop surprises me, back at my window. But instead of shaking my hand, he hands me my ID and registration and a clipboard. He points to highlighted sections of the form. “Please sign here, stating you’re receiving a citation for speeding. The payment information is on the form, unless you decide to contest. This is the number to call for your court date.”
My gaze goes from Mitchell to Cody and back. “Cody Dunford.”
“That’s me. Yes, ma’am.” He tips the large brim of his hat toward me.
“Surely, surely you could look past it, just this once. I learned my lesson, and a warning is enough. Cross my heart.” I literally cross my heart for good measure. This is my supposed boyfriend’s brother, and we spoke on the phone just last night. Where’s the love? The perks? “Please?”
He takes off his Oakleys and that’s when I see the family resemblance: full brows, clear hazel eyes, a defined square jaw. “Ma’am, I’m an officer of the law, and whether or not I’m being watched or taped”—his eyes fly to Joel, Joey, and Hank smooshed together in the backseat behind me, and I realize no matter what I do, I will be getting a ticket—“I don’t let a fifteen-mile-an-hour violation go. This area is full of pedestrians, cyclists, and tourists.”
“I tried to tell her.” Mitchell shook his head.
Jerk.
After signing the form, I hand the clipboard back to Cody.
“Thank you,” he says to me, then nods at Mitchell. “Mitch. Nice to see you on my side of town.”
“I’d love to see you on mine, too.”
My gaze ping-pongs back and forth between the two. Their attitude toward each other is one of fragile sarcasm.
“I’m kind of bogged down with all these shifts,” Cody responds.
“Okay, bro. Just saying. My door’s always open.”
Cody taps the top of Cooper. “Got it. Have a safe trip now.” And he leaves our side without a final glance at us.
I wait for him to pass us before I pull out. Back on the road, I’m still in a daze. I’m over a hundred dollars poorer. Yet another question comes to the surface. “Why doesn’t Cody come to Dunford?”
Mitchell mutters just loud enough for me to hear, lower than the conversation our passengers are now having behind us. “Levi was the first to take care of Dunford when my dad died five years ago. Overnight, my party-boy eldest brother had to change his tune. He was really there for Cody and me, in everything. For advice, for someone to lean on, you know? The vineyard still saw success through those couple of years under Levi. But then he met Ruby and moved away. And I was gone already, stationed elsewhere. Which left Cody at home, and he was running Dunford by the time he was twenty-three. He went to college part-time, though he never finished. But the pressure ended up being too much, and he made a couple of bad deals he couldn’t live up to and feels personally responsible for. As soon as he could, though, he left and went after his real calling, to be a cop. But there was about a year between when he left and when I came home, a year where the vineyard got minimal care, and I know he feels shitty about it.”
“That’s sad. Not the cop part, but the feeling responsible part.”
“We’ve tried telling him it wasn’t his fault. We were all responsible. Levi took it the worst, since he has the most knowledge in the business of the vineyard. I know part of him regrets leaving for DC.”
“But you guys get along, right? On the phone call, you seem like you have a fine enough relationship.”
I see him glance down at his lap. “We do . . . for the most part. Let’s just say when it comes to Dunford, my dad left the will so open to interpretation that sometimes we don’t know who’s in charge. We’ve settled it between us so that the eldest one in town makes the decisions, but sometimes we acquiesce to who knows more about the specific issue in play. And that crosses all the lines. It gets messy, even if we don’t mean for it to be.”
The conversation dwindles into silence, though questions nag at me. Questions of ownership, and who makes final decisions—things that make or break businesses. But I’ve also gotten acquainted with Mitchell’s vibe, and right now is not the time to bring it up. He’s become pensive and doesn’t make a single comment the rest of our drive to Home Warehouse, until we roll into the city of Long Valley. Honestly, I sort of miss the criticism. “It’s over this hill . . . the parking lot to the right,” he finally announces.
Five hundred yards later, the four of us spill out of the Mini Cooper in a heap of laughter, like clowns from a clown car.
“Ready?” Mitchell hands me a water bottle as he comes around the car. We’ve got a huge list to get through, and there’s never anything quick about this place.
“I think so.”
We clip on our microphones and turn them on. As I secure the top button of my shirt, Mitchell shows me his palm. It’s empty, so I give him a questioning look. “Your hand?” he asks.
I groan. I hate those couples—the kind that can’t go anywhere without holding hands. It’s a home improvement store, for heaven’s sake. But I know this is both a functional trip and a marketing ploy, so as I see the crew lug their equipment into the store to set up home base, I concede dramatically. “All right.”
And yet, with him, and holding his hand, it’s more than all right.
It feels right.