Love You Always (Buttercup Hill #5)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

A rcher

For the first time in weeks, I slept like a felled redwood. I don’t know what to make of that because I stayed up later than I should have reading everything I could find about a certain actress, but sometime after midnight, I must’ve drifted off with my light on.

The sunlight woke me up just after six, and I rolled out of bed like a soldier on duty. Slipped on my running shorts, stuffed my feet into my shoes, put on the rest of my gear. I was out the door within ten minutes without thinking about whether I feel like hitting the pavement or not. Running always tells me for sure whether I’m worn out or whether I have enough juice to make it through the day. A mile in, I was feeling pretty good, so I picked up my pace and finished the six-mile loop in about forty-five minutes. I promised Carson I’d join him later for “shoulder day” at the gym, so I guess today will be a double workout day.

Walking the path past the pond on our property, I swing by Sweet Butter for a latte and sip it on the way back to my office. In the distance, I hear the rumble of tractors in the far vineyard, where the grapes are ready to be picked. I hop onto a forklift truck and drive out there to watch the pickers.

“Hey, boss,” Elma says, looking briefly away from the vines but never missing a single grape. She’s the best picker we have, and it’s no accident. She learned from her father, who worked for my father. Her family has lived in Calistoga for almost as long as my family has been in the area, and since I took over the wine making, she’s taught more than a dozen pickers how to do their jobs better.

Bunches of grapes drop into a bin at her feet as she slips a sharp pair of sheers through the vines. Then, like she has an instinct for inefficiency, she stops and winds around one of the trellises to talk to another picker. “You’re leaving too much fruit behind.”

They normally chat among themselves in Spanish, so I assume she’s using English to make it extra clear to me that she’s on top of her game. I lean down to inspect the vines she’s already picked clean and notice only a couple of lone grapes that didn’t make it into the bin. When she comes back over, she tips her head up at my inspection, knowing her technique is above reproach but wanting me to tell her so anyway.

“You’re the best of the best,” I say, appreciative of her skill. I’m never annoyed to dole out praise to our workers when it’s warranted, and I want our employees to be happy.

“We’re getting every dollar out of this harvest. How my daddy taught me.” She goes back to slicing through the vines and the purple bunches of grapes soon fill the bin. I haul it to the truck and slide it into the back, where several other pickers have already deposited their full bins.

When the truck is fully loaded, I start the engine and drive back to the winery. It’s my favorite time of day—late enough that workers are already here, and the winery feels productive, but not so late that day drinkers have arrived, and Buttercup Hill turns into a tourist destination. Not that I don’t like and appreciate the guests who we depend on to keep buzz going, but it’s not my area of expertise and I’m just as likely to offend someone with my mood as I am to say the right thing, according to PJ or Beatrix.

Backing the truck up to the de-stemming machine, I throw an arm over the passenger headrest to guide me. Unfortunately, my path is blocked by a certain light-haired pixie I can’t seem to get rid of. I hit the brake and turn off the engine. Hopping out of the truck, I glare at her. “Standing behind a moving vehicle isn’t smart, princess. Good way to get run over.” I step out of the truck and slam the door.

She puts her hands on her hips like Wonder Woman. “You wouldn’t hit me.”

I shake my head, as exasperated by her as I am glad to see her. My eyes rake over every part of her, taking in the sassy jut of her hip, the tiny nip of her waist, the rolled-up jeans and purple hoodie that make her look like a college student, and the flip-flops that leave her a full foot shorter than me. “Don’t make it easy, then.”

“Can we start, boss?” Elma asks. I nod and the workers start emptying the bins from the back of the truck and lining them up in front of the de-stemmer.

“Why are you here?”

“All charm, as usual, Archer. Would it kill you to be friendly?” She turns and leans against my truck, arms crossed.

If she only knew how hard I’m trying to be aloof when I want to be more than friendly. To cage her in between my forearms against my truck, inhale the sweet scent of her skin, and see if her lips taste as good as I imagine. But showing her the gruff asshole in me will do a better job of pushing her away, and then maybe I’ll be able to stop thinking about her all the fucking time .

I swallow hard and run a hand over my face. “Sorry. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just had a meeting with Beatrix to go over some things.”

A part of me feels annoyed that I don’t already know this, but I’m also aware that if I keep meddling, Beatrix will think I’m trying to tank this dream wedding, so I’ve been observing from afar.

“What’s happening here?” She points to where the bins are being dumped into the machine.

“De-stemmer. Before they go into the vats.” I gesture to where clumps of grapes ride up a conveyor belt to where a mechanism removes the stems and deposits the grapes into a clean bin. The stems end up in the composter. Her wide eyes take everything in, following the grapes as they go up the belt.

“Cool.” She laughs. “I know that’s not a proper wine term. But still, I find it cool.”

Watching her geeky fascination, I try to reconcile the public image of Ella Fieldstone—America’s sweetheart, the rom-com queen with a long string of hot-mess relationships—and the calm, inquisitive woman who keeps showing up here wanting to talk about grapes.

We stand side by side for a few minutes longer, watching the machine do its thing, before I ask the question I still want answered. “Did you come here to finish our tour?”

I could be imagining that her cheeks pink up at the suggestion she’s here to see me. Implicit in my question is the moment left hanging between us when she seemed as drawn to me as I am to her.

She looks down, her long lashes feathering over her cheeks, and once again I’m struck by how good she is at making men fall for her. I won’t be one of them, but I can see her appeal to the poor suckers who never saw it coming. They’re no match for the sparkle of her bright eyes that make it seem like she’s never seen anything as fascinating as the person directly in front of her .

“I, um, I’m not gonna lie. I’d love to.” She bites her lip, reluctant. “I mean, I don’t want to take up your time. If there’s someone else you want to send me with…totally okay.” She stalls and stammers and I don’t understand why she’s asking for someone else. Not to mention the shift in enthusiasm from the last time she was here. She looks over her shoulder, and when her gaze returns to me, I see conflict in her furrowed brow.

I should welcome her reluctance. I have a hundred things on my plate today and I’ve been neglecting a critical deal to buy the grapes we need to meet our overseas wine quota. Giving her a tour is the last thing I should be doing. This ridiculous crush or whatever it is that has me utterly distracted by Ella Fieldstone needs to die on the vine, so to speak. I should take her cue and outsource this task to any one of our employees who knows our wine-making process backward and forward. But I can’t resist her.

“I can do it. We have a few different types of fermentation tanks, and?—”

“Good God, are you really talking about fermentation? You must’ve finished the fascinating lecture on mold spores and gas.” Beatrix sidles up next to me and elbows me in the ribs. She thinks she’s being funny, but I’m hardly laughing when I see who’s next to her—Callum Haywood. Tall, musclebound, tattooed. He looks me over with steely impatience, as though I have no right to talk to his fiancée. It makes me flex my alpha male just to prove him wrong.

“Some people actually find it interesting. We’re a winery. It’s what we do,” I remind my sister.

“It’s what you do. I help our guests plan their weddings. And design stuff and oversee the hospitality?—”

I put up my hands to stop my sister from listing all of her accomplishments and duties. “I get it, Trix. You do a lot. We all appreciate you.” It takes all my self-restraint not to roll my eyes, and I exert that modicum of restraint because I’m aware of Ella watching me.

In two strides, Callum is next to Ella, tugging her into his side, possessively. He kisses her cheek like a wolf sampling his first course. “It’s nice.” I cringe at his disinterest in a wedding to the woman he’s lucky enough to be manhandling right now.

Is it my imagination, or does she flinch a tiny bit when his lips touch her skin?

Ella looks at her phone. “You saw everything in fifteen minutes?”

“We walked through the restaurant and looked out at the garden from the roof, but I didn’t show him all the photos of how it looks when we set up the space. And we have a tasting menu prepared so you can decide what you’d like,” Beatrix explains.

Callum shakes his head. “I don’t need all that. Whatever you want is fine.” He turns toward Ella and surveys her face as though searching for imperfections. I don’t like it. He grabs hold of the loose strands of hair that catch the sunlight like gold threads and shoves them behind her shoulders. Patting her hair down, he tries to tame it. My hands ball at my sides, itching to reach out and undo his straightening.

“We toured the garden behind Butter and Rosemary, but we haven’t gone over to the inn yet,” Beatrix says, tucking a stray strand of hair back into the ponytail that’s her signature look. She’s dressed in a pencil skirt and heels, looking much more professional than I do in my worn jeans with holes in the knees. Like she just reminded me, I don’t work much with the guests—I work where there’s dirt and plants and science.

Beatrix taps a pen against a page in her binder and looks at her phone. For a while, I thought she’d mellowed out when she and her college ex fell hard for each other all these years later. But now that she’s a mom, she runs her life on a schedule like no one I’ve ever met. Still, she seems happier than ever with her fiancé Ren, the pro hockey star who became one of my friends in the process.

Turning back to look at Ella and Callum, I feel fucking ill. While Ren and my sister became better versions of themselves when they got together, I can’t help thinking that Ella doesn’t look like her best self, standing under the possessive arm of her fiancé. I don’t know him from Adam, but there’s something about the guy I just don’t like. His swagger, his inked neck, his dark jeans that are so tight there’s no question about the bulge of his dick.

I like the woman I’ve gotten to know a little bit, with her wild hair, sharp gaze, and unfortunate dizziness, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that Callum isn’t good enough for her.

Yeah, I’m jealous as fuck, and it’s a hundred percent inappropriate because I have no claim on her. I’m just a guy who can offer her science nerd side a little distraction from the wedding planning she seems to loathe. Well, fine. As long as she wants to keep learning about wine making, I won’t begrudge her the chance to tag along with me at work. She is the client, after all.

“You ready to see the scene of the crime—or the future one, anyway?” Callum pulls Ella in a little tighter. I want her to squirm away, but she doesn’t. I watch for signs she hates it, but she gives nothing away.

“You’re calling your wedding a crime?” I grit out, hating this guy more than I have any right to when he’s not doing anything particularly wrong.

Callum’s head swivels and he blinks at me as though he’s just taking note of my existence. He chuckles and runs his hand up and down Ella’s arm before kissing the top of her head. “What we do after the wedding might be a crime in a few states.” He shrugs, so fucking smug. I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to keep them from reaching for his thick neck and squeezing until the tattoos pop off.

Ella laughs uncomfortably and Beatrix looks from the happy couple to me. Her head tilt tells me to chill the hell out, but I can’t.

“Sure, I’m ready to see the inn. Most of our people will be coming from out of town, so they’ll be staying for the weekend. We should probably reserve all the rooms,” Ella says.

My stomach lurches. Somehow all the touring and talk about the wedding still seemed hypothetical until the mention of guests.

“Sure,” he says, tipping his head toward my sister, who starts leading them in the direction of the inn. I walk along with them, ready with an excuse about needing to meet with our foreman in the vineyard nearest the inn if questioned. But no one raises the issue.

“Do people send invitations five months out?” I ask.

Beatrix shoots me a questioning stare, but I return it with innocence.

“Oh, um, more of a save the date with lodging info and stuff. The actual invitations will go out two months ahead,” Ella answers, walking next to my sister and delighting at everything in our path. Callum galumphs behind them, eyes fixed on his phone.

Beatrix looks questioningly at me more than once as I tag along after the group. It’s true that I should be in my office—I should have closed that grape deal yesterday—but Ella in the grip of her fiancé is like a car crash I can’t ignore. Even if it causes a pit to form in my stomach each time he puts his hands on her.

When we reach the inn, the first stop is the honeymoon suite, which is a luxe cottage, complete with a chef’s kitchen and a massive living room. Beatrix feels like it’s the showpiece of the newly-renovated inn, and even I can admit that it sells the place better than anything we could put on our website. Ella oohs and aahs over the giant stone fireplace, the pale brown couches overstuffed with feathers, the white-tiled kitchen where our staff sets up an omelet bar and coffee station for guests .

Callum moves ahead of us to the bedroom and whistles at what I know is a king-sized bed under a smooth white duvet cover. Large fluffed pillows. Sunlight streaming in from the paned windows. Panoramic views of vineyards. “Ella, come see the bedroom,” he beckons. She shakes her hair out and follows him into the room. My gaze stays fixed on her until she disappears.

“What are you doing?” Beatrix’s harsh whisper matches her scowl.

“Nothing.”

She motions me farther away from the bedroom, walking us out onto the porch of the free-standing suite. “Not nothing. I’m pretty sure you’ve never accompanied me on a tour of the wedding facilities before.”

I shrug. “There’s a first for everything.”

She blinks at me, unconvinced. “I swear, Archer, if you derail this wedding, I will not forgive you. We need this. The exposure will keep this place booked for years. That’s income. It’s a no-brainer.”

“I’m not derailing anything.” I do my best to make my expression a mask of disinterest as she studies me. “Anyway, I should get back to the cellars. We have a big yield of cab today. Can’t waste more time here.” I leave with the sound of Ella’s laughter following me from the bedroom. It sounds like silver fucking bells.