Some people said that love and hate couldn’t coexist.
That such deeply passionate, yet radically opposing emotions could never be assigned to a singular thing at the same time. That much like roller coasters or Brussels sprouts, you either felt love or you felt hate, but never both. Common ground was nowhere to be found, forcing a person to pick a side.
Olivia Quinn would tell those people that they’d never met Asher Coleson.
Never met him. Never touched him. Never loved him.
And never hated him.
“Hate. You use that word often during our sessions, Olivia.” Marie’s voice was textbook clinical as she peered over her black-rimmed bifocals. “What does it mean to you?”
Olivia laughed without humor, glancing around the small office. “You’re the expert. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Jesus, wasn’t somebody who had a psychology degree and charged three hundred bucks an hour supposed to provide the answers, not the questions? Olivia had been sitting on this sofa once a week for the last four years waiting for them, too. Waiting for a little enlightenment. Just her and a fistful of Kleenex.
“That’s not how therapy works.” Pushing the glasses to her head, Marie settled back in the chair, folding her hands. “What is your definition of the word hate?”
Swallowing back a sarcastic response, Olivia played along. Her gracious southern manners were genetic. She’d been a California girl for almost a decade, but her Savannah roots ran deep, both in her accent and amicable nature.
“The same as everyone else’s,” she said, wondering how her vocabulary had anything to do with this. “A strong dislike for something or someone.” Him. “And a strong dislike for something someone’s done.” Like what he did to me.
A clock ticked in the heavy silence that followed, Marie’s prodding stare forcing Olivia to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Reluctantly, she did. “Fine. A strong dislike when bad things happen to good people.” Like what happened to us.
And in the case of a former Army Special Ops Delta Operator named Ash, Olivia’s hate was followed by a bittersweet chaser of love, despite her distaste. Four years cold turkey from the man should have cured her addiction, but it hadn’t.
Not the slightest.
Marie tilted her head, eyes softening. “Dig deeper. Let’s get really honest with ourselves today.”
“You want me to get really honest? Dig deep and tell you what I really hate?” Her voice rose an octave as old resentments flared to life. “I hate that it happened to me and not to somebody else. I hate that the people who know look at me with pity. I hate that I look at myself that way. I hate that I’m a statistic. I hate that she came between us.” Guilt-induced tears sprang to her eyes, and she bit the inside of her lip.
The acrid taste of metal filled her mouth as she whispered her deepest shame. “And I hate that I hated her because of it.”
Silence settled around them, punctuating Olivia’s confession.
“That’s a normal emotion. It’s human nature to focus on the source of the fracture.”
Olivia nodded, as if Marie’s disclaimer made everything okay. As if absolution came that easily.
“Your hate is a symptom of anger. Anger is safe. Our subconscious guides us toward the easiest route when primal emotions caused by trauma threaten to overwhelm us. Destroy our functioning selves. Hate is a safety net for the mind, if you will, until the time comes when we’re best able to deal with the intensity of our experience.” She paused, shifting in her seat. “It’s my belief that you’ve adequately dealt with these primal emotions and come to terms with your situation. You’re a highly functioning woman in nearly every area of your life. You have a thriving career, along with your select circle of family. Because of your strength and resiliency, you’ve come out the other side.”
Choking on a watery laugh, Olivia rolled her eyes. “No offense, but if that’s your professional diagnosis, then why am I sitting on this couch every week?”
“I have a theory, but I’ll ask you the answer to that question first.”
“Because this is the only place I go where I can shut my phone off?”
Marie smiled at her deflection but didn’t drop the pressure. “Because no more counseling means you’re moving on with your life. And that isn’t something you want to do, is it? Moving on means letting go. Do you really want to let go of him?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” It sounded convincing, even to her.
“Great. Then let him go. Let him off the hook. Tell him goodbye and good luck, once and for all.”
“Well, since I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in four years, that’s not gonna happen. Not so much as a text asking if I’m alive or dead. That doesn’t leave me with many opportunities to say goodbye. And I’m okay with that. I really am. But I’m telling you right now,” she added, hitching a thumb over her shoulder with authority, “good luck can go fuck itself.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, Marie pressed on. “Are you? Deep down in your belly, are you really okay? Or do you think the reason you haven’t been able to move on without him is because you don’t want to? That maybe he’s meant to be in your life, just as she was meant to be in your life?”
“Jesus Christ, Marie! Stop with all the fucking questions.” Olivia flashed an apologetic grin in the electric hush that followed her outburst, softening the bluntness of her words. The F word, no matter that it was spoken in the honeyed accent she’d never been able to kick, was still the F word. “I hate these questions.”
Her play on words fell flat. Marie was all business.
“You don’t hate the questions, Olivia. You hate the answers. And for the record, moving on from him doesn’t mean moving on from her. They are two separate issues.”
Balling up the tissue, she tossed it on the cushion next to her. “It doesn’t really matter what I want. Life goes on.” But for some, it didn’t. It was over before it started. “And I hate that, too.”
“It goes on whether we’re living it or not. It’s time for you to participate again.”
Focused on the acrylic reproduction of a sailboat hanging on the wall, Olivia absently rubbed the ring on her left hand, twisting the emerald-cut diamond around and around. Back and forth. Love and hate.
“And given your history”—Marie dipped her head in agreement—“I might throw that word around, too. But it’s become your cloak. Your emotional shield. Begin to practice conscious thinking. Each time the word hate crosses your mind, replace it with the word hurt. And when you do, repeat the sentence out loud. Examine it. Break it down. Get real with it. Then replace the word hurt with the word heal.”
Marie issued the homework assignment and glanced at the clock, her hint time was up.
Olivia was halfway to her car, navigating the parking lot in heels and a pencil skirt since she’d come straight from a mid-morning presentation, consciously thinking that she hated when Marie dug too deep. No, she hurt when Marie dug too deep. And while it didn’t ebb her anger, she healed when Marie dug too deep. Even at a snail’s pace, it was progress.
Sure, she put on a happy face every day, but the four-year-old wound still festered, invisible to the rest of the world. It was time to rip off the band-aid, stem the bleeding, and truly move on. God knew, he had.
Ignoring the sweeping rage that thought brought on, she focused on her biggest problem at the moment: Coleson Creek Winery’s national distribution. Or lack thereof. A scroll through her phone showed no missed calls from Trey Gillis in the last hour, but five from the vineyard—three from Marshall Coleson’s direct line. No doubt anxious to know if she’d sealed the deal with Trey this morning.
Operating at a smaller scale than a commercial vineyard, Coleson Creek produced enough wine to put them on the map regionally, but not nationally. Moving a respectable five thousand cases a year and turning a decent profit, the real money came from having your product on the shelves of every store across the country. Thanks to antiquated laws still on the books from Prohibition days, a liquor producer could only sell their product to a wholesale distributor, who in turn, sold it to retailers. And while the vineyard had a rock-solid contract with a local distributor in the greater San Diego area, Olivia wanted to go big. All across America, big.
Gillis Wine Group, the leading national liquor distributor in the industry, was big. They placed wine on store shelves from sea to shining sea. With no pipeline to sell directly to the drinking public, they were the equivalent of a drug dealer, and Olivia had spent the morning pushing Coleson Creek product. She’d given the hard sell to Trey and his board of directors via a stellar power point presentation, touting quality boutique wines backed by a thriving vineyard and a passionate winemaker.
She’d needed that winemaker with her today, presenting a unified front to a fellow family-owned business. Moral support aside, Marshall’s presence would have reinforced his power position at the helm of the winery. But in normal, stubborn male Coleson fashion, he’d refused, leaving her to handle it alone. And as vice president of sales for Coleson Creek Winery and second runner-up for Marshall’s title as president, it was her job anyway.
She said a silent prayer, knowing her fate resided with the conservative distributor. If she could bag this deal, it would be the biggest win of her career, and Olivia needed the accolade like a ravenous tiger needed red meat. She was practically salivating with it. If Trey Gillis declined, then her reputation in the industry—and with some of her staff—wouldn’t be about sixty-hour work weeks, endless efficiency reports on maximizing profits, and devastating personal sacrifice.
It’d be that she’d teased and tempted the lion, manipulating her way into the third in command position. Little did they know, that was one king of the jungle she’d tangled with and lost, limping away the loser.
Hate. Hurt. Heal.
Pressing the unlock button on her key fob a little too hard, she mumbled her own word. “Horseshit,” then jumped when Marie’s voice sounded behind her.
“Olivia? One more thing,” she called out, catching up to her.
Thinking she’d left something behind, her grateful smile fell when she saw the older woman’s face.
Scanning the lot, she dropped the doctor-patient persona. “It happened to me, too. I was just out of college, only married a year, living my ideal life. I had it and I lost it, and it almost killed me, too.” In the beat of silence that followed, a thousand words were spoken. Two vastly different women with something tragic in common. “There’s no shame in it. There’s no room for blame, either. That will only zap any happiness you might find. I’m not suggesting you forget, just that you forgive, and that includes yourself. You’re young, you have a full life ahead of you, you can find love again. Trust me,” she added, placing a hand over her heart. “The hate is holding you prisoner. Set yourself free, any way you can, even if that means confronting it.”
By it, she meant him.
Probably the worst professional advice on the planet, but if your best girlfriend recommended it during a night of two-for-one margaritas, then it wasn’t half bad.
Olivia spent the hour-long drive from metro San Diego back to the vineyard debating the genius of Marie’s words. Her tires ate up miles of narrow highway, snaking along rolling countryside past several rural communities, Lady Gaga blasting from the speakers and competing for space in her mind.
Love—the crazy, lust-fueled kind that swept a girl off her feet and onto the nearest horizontal surface within hours of the nice-to-meet-yous—had gotten her to this point. How the hell was it supposed to get her out? Especially since she’d sworn off true love and the one man she’d associate with it forever.
It might take a lifetime on Marie’s sofa to find that particular answer.
The scenery grew more forested the farther she got from the Pacific Ocean, ranch properties and family estates sprawling across this exclusive part of San Diego county. Rundown shacks and old cabins still peppered the valuable landscape, longtime owners who valued open space, refusing to sell out to rabid developers. Marshall had been approached by the deep-pocketed corporations, as well, eager to bulldoze the hundred-acre vineyard to build cookie-cutter houses.
He’d flat out refused, of course. He’d forsaken his own blood for the vineyard. For his wine. He loved it with such passion, no person could ever compete.
When it came down to it, Olivia supposed she loved it much the same way.
Turning onto a smooth blacktopped road, she zoomed through iron gates featuring the Coleson Creek Winery logo, passing a mile of neatly groomed landscape before cresting a hill to see the enormous valley laid out below.
Rows of lush grapevines clung to regimented wood and wire, growing in marching band uniformity in the fields lining each side of the winding road. Bathed in California sun and rooted in mineral-rich soil, the drought tolerant vines were cultivated to create wines widely known as the finest in the region. A skeleton crew of workers roamed the rows, their white shirts stark amongst the greenery. A fork in the road led to a modernized barn where the manufacturing process took place, but Olivia headed straight toward the house, which served as both the family home and the winery’s office.
The Mediterranean-style villa sat high on the hillside, its tall arching windows providing a panoramic view of the vineyard beyond. A weathered yellow stucco with a terracotta tile roof, it was plucked straight out of Tuscany, with fuchsia bougainvillea and green ivy climbing the corners, adding to the vintage feel.
Coleson Creek was a majestic property. Surprising in size, breathtaking in beauty.
The first time Olivia laid eyes on it, she’d almost peed her pants. A decade ago and her second week in San Diego, she’d driven her dented Honda down this road, answering an employment ad for an administrative assistant. Managing the office for a small vineyard wasn’t rocket science, but her experience keeping books at her father’s hardware store in Savannah hardly qualified her. Down to her last tank of gas, desperation rode her like a rented mule, but if Marshall Coleson noticed, he didn’t let on. She’d aced the standard questions he’d lobbed from behind his desk, this interview the tenth she’d had in as many days. If growing up watching her single dad peddle flat head screwdrivers and cans of latex paint had taught her anything, it was how to schmooze her way through a sale. And in this case, it was her ability to implement a filing system a monkey could understand on the auction block.
Thinking the distinguished man thirty-some years her senior would call her bluff and send her packing, he’d surprised her.
“Well, you’re not exactly qualified,” he’d said, his astute blue gaze assessing her, “but I like you. What do you know about wine?”
Bullshitting her way through an interview if it meant she could pay her father’s past-due funeral expenses and still have money left for rent was one thing. All-out lying was another.
“Only that I doubt there’s a difference between a five-hundred-dollar bottle and a ten-dollar box.”
Instead of kicking her out, he’d laughed. “It’ll be my pleasure to teach you the difference then. But I do have one last question. As I’ve mentioned, I expect loyalty from all my employees, but as my personal assistant, I must demand your full devotion to me, above all others. In this company and in this family. Can you do that?”
It seemed an oddly random trick question. “Of course.”
“That means your allegiance will be solely to me while employed at Coleson Creek.”
“Yes, absolutely.” This was a family owned and operated business, yet he was speaking as if a hostile takeover was imminent.
“Very well. How soon can you start?”
Climbing the ladder had been easy. Dedication and good faith went far with Marshall, and she’d settled into a management position within months, supplementing her on-the-job training with a degree in manufacturing. Her boss wasn’t a stickler for education—he was more about the school of hard knocks—but it was the fulfillment of a deathbed promise she’d made to her dad, and as such, Marshall accommodated her.
The workers spared a wave as she drove by, pulling to a stop under the portico of the main house. The soaring mahogany front doors opened as she climbed out of her car, Benny pausing on the stone-covered steps.
“Mrs. Coleson.” He greeted her with a nod. “Sorry to catch you on the run, but I’ve got bad news. The motor’s shot on the destemmer. Gave way when I fired it up this morning. I can replace it myself, but the parts are six weeks out. Add another week for shipping and we’re down seven weeks. It’s not a cheap fix, either.” Motioning toward the empty doorway behind him, he ran two fingers along the brim of his sweat-stained Dodgers cap. “Marshall said to speak to you about it.”
“Benny…” Her drawl took the sting out of the admonishment, but she grinned at the farm manager just in case. “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Olivia.”
Polite to a fault, he’d been addressing her formally since the day she’d been hired. His manners had remained the same, even when her last name changed.
“Mr. Coleson might not like that.”
Still tender from her session with Marie, she looked around them, raising her arms to point out the obvious. “Well, Mr. Coleson isn’t standing here right now, is he?”
“No, ma’am, he’s not. You’re right about that.” Glancing back at the doorway, he opened his mouth to tack on another comment but quickly suppressed the words.
Employed by Coleson Creek since its inception, he was an integral part of the company, but smartly steered clear of the family dynamic.
She smiled past the awkward moment. “Don’t worry about the motor, Benny. I’ll take care of it.”
Luckily harvest was still months away, and the vital piece of machinery could remain idle until the grapes were crushed. If Olivia had it her way, they wouldn’t be using the aging equipment anyway. The grapes would be made into wine, but not with a Coleson Creek label on the bottle. Instead, they’d sell the fruit to another winery for capital. It wasn’t a bad business move. Vineyards often sold cash crops to subsidize operations when profit margins ran low. Getting Marshall on board would be her biggest battle. He allowed her only so much power, clipping her wings on paramount decisions.
Cool air and the perfume of fresh flowers assailed her as she walked through the two-story entry, twin staircases circling each side to meet a catwalk above. The rustic farm table in the foyer always showcased Rosa’s favored Casablanca lilies, but not today. Instead, sky blue hydrangea filled the vase, the clustered blooms a fusion of springtime color.
Olivia raised a brow and Rosa shrugged in response, a bottle of glass cleaner dangling from her gloved hands.
“I’m feeling nostalgic today and the market had them on sale.” Wiping down an already spotless table, the beloved housekeeper peeled off her yellow rubber gloves with a snap. “You were such a beautiful bride, mija.” My little girl. “So full of love. And your handsome husband, too,” she added, in heavily accented English. “It was a happy day. The happiest.”
Olivia didn’t need a vase of flowers to remind her. There were certain things a girl never forgot. The day she got her first period. The song on the radio when she lost her virginity. The name of the restaurant serving carrot cake pancakes with cream cheese drizzle for brunch.
The flowers in her wedding bouquet.
Heels clicking on the thick Saltillo tile, she passed by Marshall’s empty study, walking into her own office next door. He stood at the window, staring out at the rose garden beyond, waiting for her to report.
“Beautiful doesn’t come close,” he said, overhearing Rosa’s one-sided conversation. “As I recall, you were stunning. Simply ravishing. The happiest of days indeed, and one I hold very close to my heart.”
“Damn it, Marshall.” There was no heat in her voice, despite the chastising words. “I needed you today.”
Turning away from the colorful view out the window, he smiled, allowing her the change in subject. “I somehow doubt that, Olivia. Music to my ears though. How was Trey?”
Leaning in for a quick hug, she squeezed his arm. “The only one who gave me the credit I deserve. Those other stuffed suits were judging me the whole time. I wanted to include a resume and my college transcripts when I handed them our bottling reports. Chauvinistic bastards.” Slipping off her heels, she dropped down in her desk chair and twirled her index finger around the room. “I earned this position with hard work and determination, not by sleeping my way to the top. Or by dropping to my knees.”
“An inappropriate statement, but a true one at that, my dear.”
“I caught one of them staring at my ass as I walked into the meeting. Practically craned his neck to get the best angle. Never looked higher than my chest the whole time. I should report him to the police.” She opened the lid on her laptop. “Or his wife.”
Marshall laughed, the sound a dry, hollow wheeze followed by a hacking cough—cause for concern to everyone but him. “Give the dirty old man a break. It’s a fine ass, after all. We senior citizens have to get our jollies from someone. It’s hell getting old.”
“Now who’s being inappropriate? And don’t call me dear, Marshall. It undermines my authority within the company. I may not need the respect of a horny old pervert, but I do need it from our employees.”
“I shall call you whatever I want while in my home—our home,” he corrected, “which just so happens to be our place of business. And if those idiots at Gillis won’t take Coleson Creek’s distribution national in this competitive market, you might very well be on those knees, dear. Trey called me an hour ago.”
“What?” Her phone showed no missed calls from him. “Why did he call you and not me?”
His head tilted. “That, I don’t know. But he’s mostly on board, as is his father. His uncle, however, is hesitating.”
“His uncle is the pervert.”
“You said it yourself, he’s still a member of the good ol’ boys club—chauvinistic, sexist. All those words.” He paused. “Trey asked about your situation. About Ash.”
She blinked in stunned silence, the meaning behind his words sinking in.
“He has nothing to do with this!” Outraged, Olivia stood, tossing her phone on the vintage writing desk with a clatter. “My situation, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean,” she sputtered, “has nothing to do with the vineyard’s distribution or my ability to live up to our end of the deal.”
“They know each other from way back. Trey respects him on a personal level, as well as a professional one. He’s an upstanding guy. Doesn’t wanna make an enemy.”
Upstanding wasn’t the word Olivia would use. Sure, Trey was a nice guy. And she was banking on him being professional, considering she’d tactfully declined his invitation to engage in activities that were decidedly unprofessional.
But Marshall didn’t need to know that.
“I don’t care if they’re brothers from another mother, or if they participated in a circle jerk together when they were thirteen! Or… or some other stupid bullshit reason!”
Marshall laughed, fighting the cough that followed as Olivia sat back down.
“I know you’re determined to run this vineyard on your own, Olivia, and that’s admirable, but a phone call is in your near future. A personal visit would be even better. My boy’s as hardheaded as they come, but you know that more than any.”
Her stomach bottomed out at his inference.
First Marie, with her goodwill-toward-all-men attitude. Then Rosa and her sentimental flowers. Now Marshall, suggesting the unthinkable.
“No. No way.”
His shrewd eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you’re unable to put your personal feelings aside to fulfill your duties as an employee of this company?”
Softening her tone, she looked at the man who signed her paychecks. “Of course, I can, Marshall. I’ve proven my loyalty to this company and to you, specifically, multiple times. To the exclusion of all others, I might add. At great personal sacrifice,” she pressed. “I just don’t understand what difference you think he can make.”
“He’ll build confidence in the Coleson Creek brand. Having him back in the fold will provide a fresh perspective on our practices while creating some positive PR in the industry.”
“You can’t have somebody back who was technically never here to begin with. He’s made his choices.” Logging into her computer by rote, she clicked on the manufacturing calendar. “Wine wasn’t one of them.”
She wasn’t, either.
“It’s time, dear. This is his destiny. He won’t come easily, but he’ll come. Not for me, but for you.” He spread his arms, encompassing more than just her office. “And for the vineyard.”
“No, he won’t, especially not for me. But I can handle it, okay? I got this. I’ll call Trey right now and ease his concerns. This deal is as good as done.”
Again and again, she’d watched Ash’s taillights disappear. The final time, almost four years ago, had broken her. She still wasn’t put back together again.
“He’s my only son, Olivia. We both knew this would happen eventually. I’m getting older, and as it turns out, I’m not gonna live forever.” His mind was whip sharp, belying that fact. “I built this winery from the ground up for myself and my heirs. It’s meant to have a Coleson running it.”
“There is a Coleson running it,” she scoffed, irritated her efforts were overlooked. “Two, if we’re counting you.”
Pointing out the obvious did little good. He waved her off with a negligent shrug, and she held a palm up to stop him, knowing what was next. The pain twisted inside her before his words split the air.
“There needs to be another generation of Coleson’s raised in this house. Ash should be living here, operating this vineyard alongside me and raising his family. I need naughty grandchildren running around, picking my prized fruit with their grubby fingers.”
Without permission, Olivia’s mind went there. A small girl with a grape-stained mouth, her bright blue eyes and devilish grin an exact replica of her father’s.
As quickly as it came, the image turned watery and dissolved. Out of reach.
“I hate to break it to you, Marshall, but what this vineyard really needs is to be sitting on store shelves from Boise to Boston. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to do, including pricing out a new motor for the destemmer.” Tapping across the keyboard, she shook off the melancholy, ignoring the ache. “Did Benny tell you it bit the dust?”
Much more of this and she’d be sprawled on Marie’s sofa every day.
“Go to him, Olivia. Talk him into coming back. My legacy could very well depend on it.” Marshall moved woodenly toward the door, stopping to issue one last demand, sending a clear message about who was in charge. “So could your job.”