Love You Always (Buttercup Hill #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

A rcher

Sixteen inches high. The stack of growth plans, invoices, and business proposals on my desk is sixteen inches high, and I know this because I measured it. I took valuable time out of my morning to scrounge up a tape measure and measure my goddamn stack of shit rather than tackling any of the things on my to-do list. It’s procrastination taken to its highest form.

Closing my eyes and tilting back in my desk chair, I imagine the stack of papers disappearing, like some kind of Jedi mind trick. When I open them, my desk will be empty, and my mind will be clear.

“Ooh, this looks serious.” My youngest sister, PJ, short for Penelope June, sounds so cheerful that I almost can’t be irritated. But I manage a scowl anyway.

My eyes pop open, and I find her standing in the doorway of my office in the old brown barn at Buttercup Hill, our family winery. I took this office on purpose—so that no one would happen to walk by and feel the urge to stop in and say hello just for the fun of it. The only reason anyone has to come to the end of the hallway is if they need me specifically, and I try to discourage that as much as possible.

I need solitude and focus to manage the wine-making operations, which are the crux of our multimillion-dollar business. My four other siblings are in charge of other areas of business at the winery, but wine making is my domain, which has the power to make or break us financially. Not at all stressful.

“What’s up, Peej?” I try to banish the annoyance from my voice, but I can’t bring myself to offer a smile. Fortunately, PJ is a straight-shooter and doesn’t need me to pretend.

“I like the vibe I just saw. Were you manifesting?”

Running a hand over the scruff on my jaw, I growl at her like a territorial lion. “I don’t even know what that means.”

PJ winds her mass of blond hair into a knot and perches on the arm of the old leather sofa in the corner. I could point out that I didn’t invite her in, but she does what she wants, and as the youngest sibling, she’s survived in our type A family because of her fiery, independent streak. “You know, like putting your hopes and dreams out there and getting a little assist from the universe in making them happen.”

I roll my eyes. “What makes you think the universe gives a shit? Besides, I don’t have hopes or dreams.”

“Everyone has hopes and dreams.”

“Not me.”

“Well, that’s just sad.”

“Whatever. I can’t rely on hoping and dreaming with Dad doing everything he can do to sabotage us.”

I’m not being dramatic. Our father’s terrible business decisions make optimism nearly impossible. In our dad’s defense, he’s battling Alzheimer’s disease and has a hard time recognizing us, let alone making sensible decisions. We had to take over the business from him, and we’re all scrambling to pick up the pieces— Beatrix designing and running the inn and restaurant, Dash handling hiring, Jax balancing the books, and PJ managing publicity—but the monster job of running the day-to-day operations fell to me, the oldest.

I never aspired to take over from my dad, but it is what it is.

“Have you gotten a chance to talk to him about the fire?” PJ asks, studying her sculpted pink nails. She’s talking about the fire that broke out on our property six months ago. The wind blew it toward Autumn Lake, a winery next door owned by Graham Garcia, a half brother we only recently heard about. Twenty-eight years ago, our dad had an affair with Graham’s mother. If our mom knew, she never said anything, but their divorce seems awfully well-timed in hindsight.

The first sign of trouble was five hundred million in missing money from the Buttercup Hill coffers. It turned out that Dad had siphoned money from our business to buy the plot of land next door, which he gave to Graham. It’s sort of forced us together, united against a common clusterfuck.

“Don’t you think if I’d talked to him, I’d tell you all?”

She shrugs. “Not if it didn’t go well.”

“How could it possibly go well? Not bad enough he nearly bankrupted us in order to buy a vineyard for Graham, but now he may have hired someone to torch everything we have left? It makes no sense.”

The fire was just the latest terrible turn for Buttercup Hill, but the vineyards survived. We still aren’t producing enough grapes to meet our sales targets, and my sixteen-inch pile is full of unsigned deals and partnerships that might get us there if I’m lucky. Which is why I have no time for my sister and this conversation.

“And no, I haven’t talked to him. If his nurse says he’s having a lucid hour, I’ll rush over, but it’s been a bad week. Talking to him when he doesn’t recognize me gets us nowhere.”

“This is why you should manifest. Tell the universe you need answers from Dad, and you may get what you want, is all I’m saying.”

I huff out a breath at her insistence. “When did you get so into all this woo woo stuff?”

“Since I manifested myself a billionaire fiancé. Maybe you should manifest yourself a girlfriend. Or a wife, even. Might make you less of a grump.”

“Good one.”

I’m not interested. My family depends on me doing my job. The last thing I need is the distraction of a woman. If being my father’s son has taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t have a wife. Or kids. It’s not in my DNA.

PJ digs into the computer bag dangling from her shoulder and pulls out a spiral notebook with a blue bird on the cover. She taps it with a finger and opens it up to show me a scribbled note at the top of one page. “I’ve been manifesting getting us a spread in Town and Country magazine for months, and I just landed it.” She looks like a pixie, grinning at me with her head tilted to the side. In her red lipstick, short skirt, and cowboy boots, she looks like she’s ready to pose for a photo shoot on a ranch.

“Yeah? What’s the angle?”

Her broad smile reveals a poppy seed in her teeth. I indicate the seed by pointing between my own teeth. “Lemme guess, you had the new lemon poppy seed scone from Sweet Butter?” It’s the café here, which doubles as a breakfast stop for most of my siblings, who live in houses around the two-hundred-acre property.

“Guilty.” PJ scrubs at the seed and flashes her teeth at me again. I nod that she succeeded. “They’re playing up the rustic charm of a third-generation diamond in the rough.”

“Translation, please.”

“We’re rescuing a hidden gem in the wine country from financial ruin and turning it into a wedding destination with the renovated inn. Beatrix has before and after photos of the inn, which readers love. Family-run places are hot right now.”

My brain snags on one word. “Ruin?”

Her smile turns into a frown to match mine.

“I had to give them something juicy. They love a comeback story.” Teeth gritted, she watches me for a reaction. PJ is one of the few people who’s not afraid of my moods. I guess when you’re the little sister to three older brothers, you can’t be bothered by a mood.

“A comeback story.” I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee and consider this. “So they’re going to dig around in the disaster of this past year and write about all the things we did wrong? Dad would hate that.”

“We’re talking about a front-page Town and Country magazine story that will have gorgeous photos and will keep us busy and booked for years to come. Relax.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe.” I scrub a hand through my hair and try not to think about all the ways this could go south. The reporter could draw attention to our financial problems. Someone could pay too much attention to how things are running under my supervision and start asking questions about our father’s declining health. Or some issue I haven’t begun to stress about.

I’m tempted to tell her to scrap the whole thing when PJ glances out my window. “Oh, she’s here!” It’s the kind of reverence reserved for royalty or heads of state.

“Who’s here?”

“Ella Fieldstone. She just drove up in that little blue electric car that’s all over social media.”

If there were a way to roll my eyes farther back into my head, I’d do it. Ella Fieldstone and her dumb car only intensify my headache. Forget the bad ink she gets for being difficult—I didn’t like her when I met her years ago. Her diva vibe rubbed me the wrong way back when I lived in LA, and I don’t need a second interaction .

“People are so lame. Why do they care what car some celebrity drives?”

“Because it’s her , and whatever she does gets attention. Did you know that car sales in that color blue spiked twenty percent after she bought hers? She’s one of the biggest influencers. She’s the reason we got the Town and Country spread—having her wedding here is huge. It’ll make us the hottest venue in the county, and we can’t manufacture that kind of good publicity. Besides, you’re the one who’s been stressing about how to make ends meet—this will help us.”

That annoys me even more. The idea that I should be grateful for Ella Fieldstone’s wedding chaps my hide.

I can’t even rely on Jax anymore to take my side. Our middle brother will put our balance sheet before my preferences. Before he met his wife, Ruby, his surly, single-dad moods matched my own. Now, he’s stupidly happy and in love, leaving me to be the resident baddie in the family.

If I’m honest, sometimes it hurts to be the only one of my siblings who doesn’t have a partner, sealed off from being stupidly in love. Then, I remind myself that I’m better off protected from emotions that might derail me. My focus is on business. Numbers. I trust them more than people.

“I’m still in charge of running the winery, so I think I should have a pretty large say.” The truth is that I don’t have answers for how we’d make up the kind of income that would come from being the hottest wedding venue in the county, assuming PJ is correct.

“Good luck with that. Beatrix says it’s a go, and Jax is all about the spreadsheets. It’s three against one, dude.”

Her phone beeps with a text, and her brow furrows as her thumbs start moving across the screen.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Trix says she can’t meet with Ella for an hour. She’s here on the wrong day or time or something. ”

“What a shame.” I suppress a smile, secretly delighted that the celebrity downstairs isn’t going to have red carpets rolled out just because she showed up when she felt like it.

“I have a call with an East Coast editor in five minutes. Can you go down and entertain her until Beatrix can get here?”

“I’m busy.” I sneak a look out the window and stand up to get a better view of the small blue car parked crookedly in a space in the gravel lot outside the barn. Figures, she’s too fancy to bother parking her car straight. Who cares if she takes up more than one spot? “But I can go down and tell her to take a hike.”

The driver’s side door swings open, and one bare leg unfolds before a swish of pink floral fabric drops over the limb, obscuring it from view. It’s followed by a sweep of wild hair streaked with blond. The wind has its way with the long strands as a slim arm reaches up and swats the hair away, and the woman tucks a handful behind her ear.

Before I can move away from the window, her gaze rises and she looks directly at me, or at least what she can see of me with the harsh morning sun in her eyes. Her hand comes up to shade her forehead, and I move out of view. But not before I get a good look at her face, heart-shaped with delicate cheekbones and bee-stung lips that make me want to search out the offending bee—and thank it.

Shifting her shoulders back, she stares up as though she can look me in the eye. All the work stress must be getting to me because I swear it looks like she’s emanating her own light, which I know is impossible. It’s also impossible to look away.

Then I grab hold of my senses and take another step back from the window.

Because this is Ella Fieldstone. She’s an actress. All manufactured moments and perfect lighting. Nothing I’m imagining can possibly be real.

“Just go down and stall her, please. Act like you care about our winery’s future. Manifest something positive for once. ”

“Right now I’m manifesting you leaving me alone, and Ella Fieldstone getting her little blue car off our property.”

I need to sit back down in my chair and do my actual job and let my sisters do theirs. Who the fuck cares about a celebrity wedding and whether it does or does not take place at our vineyard? I’m about to tell PJ as much when a movement outside catches my eye. I look down in time to see Ella Fieldstone step on her skirt and go down like a felled tree.

Huh.

Amid a sprinkling of concern is the thought that maybe I do know how to manifest after all.