Love You Truly (Buttercup Hill #3)

Chapter 17

Mallory

All the big fundraising events have live auctions, and it should come as no shock that the people around here like their wine. Everyone has a friend of a friend with access to a rare vintage from a collector who’s willing to donate a bottle or two in exchange for a well-placed note of thanks in the auction catalog. One sits atop the black tablecloths on each high table scattered throughout the room.

This isn’t a stuffy sit-down affair, but people like to crowd around the tables with drinks and appetizers. Some of the tables have stools around them, and Dash leads me to one where we can perch on seats. The table couldn’t be closer to the center of the room if he took out a measuring tape.

“Let’s keep up the act, keep being seen as a couple,” I mutter.

Dash pulls my stool out and waits until I’m seated before dropping onto his own stool next to me.

“Very chivalrous.” I’ll never admit this to him, but I’m not hating spending the evening as his date. He’s kind and attentive, and being by his side saves me from making useless chitchat with half the people in the room.

“Men should always pull out chairs for you.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t feed me your canned lines, mister.”

He reaches for my hand sitting limply on my lap and lifts it onto the table. Covering it with his own, he turns his chair to face me. “Let’s get one thing clear. Fake relationship or not, nothing I say to you is a line.”

The sudden seriousness of his words and tone catches me off guard. “I thought we were just playing our parts.” Is he actually…offended by my presumption that this is an act, lines and all?

He nods. “Yeah, there’s a hard line I won’t cross. And lying falls squarely on the wrong side of that line. Men should pull out chairs for you. If they don’t or they haven’t in the past, it just makes them rude or stupid.”

My mouth opens but no words come out. I still can’t make sense of why he’s so stuck on this point. But I like it. In fact, I’m sick to death of men lying to me to get what they want, so I decide to take him up on his promise not to do it.

“No lying. Got it. I appreciate that.”

“Goes both ways, Marshmallow.” The smile is back, and I feel a surge of relief even as I gulp at what he’s telling me. I need to be honest too.

His dimpled grin is hard to resist. When he turns on the charm and hits me with his thousand-watt smile, I feel a little stir in my chest. I can see why women melt at his feet.

Even the ridiculous nickname is growing on me.

“Sure, Dash. No lying.”

He nods and turns back toward the table. We’ve intentionally mingled with people other than his siblings. The more people outside our immediate circles who see us canoodling, the better; they already know we went on a date.

Keeping his hand on top of mine on the table, Dash leans in and whispers, “My siblings think what we’re doing is a little crazy, but they’re playing along.”

My eyes go wide because this is the first he’s mentioned of telling his siblings. Of course I’d expect that he would, but it’s all feeling very real and official. My heart is flitting around in my chest, and I feel flushed.

“What did they say when you told them we’re engaged?” I choke out the whispered words because hearing that his family knows makes this all too real. And insane.

“They understand how it benefits us both. They’re cool with it. Don’t worry.” Tell that to the butterflies swarming my chest at the reality of being engaged, fake or not, to the gorgeous man on my arm. Despite the rumors that have circulated for years, Dash doesn’t strike me as a careless flirt who’s only interested in himself.

If anything, he’s gentlemanly and sweet. I never could have known this about him based on the rumors about his lady killing ways, but he’s kind of a sweetheart underneath the pretty face and shoulders so broad they’re practically tearing his suit.

I rest a hand on his shoulder, then let it slide down his bicep. I have to stop myself from sighing at the muscular curve of his arm, which makes me want to touch more of him.

“Ah, there’s the happy couple.” I bristle at Felix’s raspy voice, which irritates me a little more each time I hear it.

“Nice to see you,” I say politely, hoping he’ll leave it at that and go away.

He nods. “You too. Always happy to see you.” He twirls his finger around a tendril of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. It’s too familiar, but that’s Felix. Not good with boundaries.

“Get your goddamn hands off my wife.” Dash’s voice booms in a low, threatening growl. It’s not loud enough for anyone to hear beyond our table, but it sends a chill down my spine.

A delicious, beautiful chill I’ll feel for days. He’s hotter than hot, and it’s all I can do not to reach over and lick his neck.

Down, girl. Eat the Mallomar instead.

Felix removes his hand like he touched something hot. “Neanderthal,” he mutters, walking away.

“Possessive like that?” Dash asks with a smirk.

“Yes. Exactly like that. Your high school thespian work is really paying off.”

His smile dims just a bit, and I worry I’ve offended him somehow. But then PJ sweeps past Dash and gives him a playful pat on the head. “These seats taken?” She points at the two empties opposite us.

I see Dash start to protest, and PJ tugs at her blond updo with a smile. “Not for us, silly. But there’s a reporter here from Wine Style, and I want her sitting right in the middle of all the action. Save the other seat, too, in case I nab another reporter.” PJ handles press relations and social media for Buttercup Hill, and I know she’s good at her job based on the great coverage the winery always gets after events. “Thanks for bailing us out with the offer of your harvest, by the way,” she whispers.

I sit bolt upright. Dash mentioned needing grapes when we made our deal, but we never talked about me selling them.

“Hey, am I selling grapes to Buttercup Hill?” I try to keep my tone light.

“What?” Dash looks confused.

“PJ just mentioned it.”

He waves a hand. “No, she’s thinking of something else,” Dash explains. “And she’s also annoying.”

“Spoken like an older brother.”

Now that I watch PJ in action, I see that she curates exactly who she wants to have photographed and does nice things for magazine writers to ensure Buttercup stays on their minds. But I can’t help wondering if all of his talk about honesty is just the way he plays his game. He knows how to sweet-talk people. I need to make sure I don’t fall victim to it.

“These are all things I’ll need to do when Autumn Lake rolls out its first new vintages,” I say, taking mental notes. “I’ll either need to hire someone like PJ or do it all myself. Kind of have a feeling I’ll be doing it myself. At least at first.”

I barely realize I’m talking out loud until Dash answers me.

“You can’t do everything yourself. You’ll burn out. But you’ll cross that bridge…”

He’s silenced by the tap on a microphone by the auctioneer who’s just stepped to the front of the room. He’s a tall, barrel-chested man, and with that comes a deep voice. He introduces himself and directs everyone to the auction catalogs on the tables and the numbered paddles we were all given when we entered.

“Who’s ready to bid on some wine and do some good for the community?” his voice booms to a round of applause.

“You gonna bid on anything?” Dash asks, thumbing through the catalog and squinting at the vintages of wine offerings by the flickering candle on the table.

I shrug. “There are a couple in there I wouldn’t mind drinking someday, but I probably shouldn’t be spending big bucks on rare wines if I want to focus on growing a business.”

“On the contrary. Bid, win, make a name for yourself here tonight. People will remember it when Autumn Lake’s first vintage is ready for tasting. You’ll be the one with the discerning taste in wine.”

He may have a point. I look around the room and see that everyone has their eyes on the auctioneer, so I focus, taking a pen from my purse so I can mark items that catch my interest.

There’s more than just wine here. I note a weekend for two at a posh spa I’ve never been to, but I need to stick to wine. That’s what will get people’s attention in this room. Dash is right.

“Let’s open with a 1986 bottle of Lafite Rothschild.” A hum reverberates through the room. This is a crowd who knows that vintage will go for well over two thousand dollars.

Dash looks at me, and I shake my head. “Too rich for my blood.” He pulls my stool a little closer to his. To anyone bothering to look, we seem like a couple. Whispering to each other, little touches, leaning in. But most eyes are focused on the auctioneer who closes bidding on the Lafite Rothschild at twenty-seven hundred dollars.

Applause fills the room, and the bidder, Calliope Bruner, nods and smiles. Everyone knows who she is because her winery is in the middle of Silverado Trail, and she’s a fixture at these events. But she plays her cards close to the vest, only associating with the small group at her table, and most of them don’t live around here. I don’t know anyone in this town who’s actually friends with her. Kind of reminds me of me.

She sits with a group of women who surround her protectively. They remind me of the Pink Ladies from the musical Grease—one brunette, a blonde, and a redhead, all dressed similarly. The only thing missing is their pink satin jackets. I find myself wistfully thinking about how it would feel to have a crew of women like those, all of which seem ready to go to the mat against anyone who looks at their friend the wrong way.

My attention shifts back to the auction when the first bottle on my short list comes up for bidding. It’s a 2010 Chateau Latour from France, and I was lucky enough to taste it once. I raise my paddle high, staring straight at the auctioneer. He notes my bid and asks for the next incremental raise. “I have three hundred; can I get four?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see other paddles go up. “Five?” I boldly raise my paddle again, calculating how high I’m willing to bid for a single bottle of wine, but this is about more than something to drink.

I can feel the eyes of nearly everyone in the room land on me, and if anyone didn’t notice that I’m with Dashiell Corbett, they’re noticing now. So I give them a little something to look at, turning to Dash and smiling adoringly. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and leans in to kiss my cheek.

It’s subtle, but it’s enough to register on the radar of anyone paying the slightest bit of attention. We look like we’re being discreet, yet we’re so besotted with each other that we don’t notice anyone else in the room.

I’ve never experienced that in a relationship before, but it feels nice to pretend. I can almost convince myself that I have those budding feelings for Dash. He’s a convincing actor, and it hits me once again why women fall for him so easily. Then I remind myself that he loves and leaves them on the same night and feel glad that we’re only pretending.

“Did you know the most expensive bottle of wine ever bought at auction went for over half a million?”

“Dollars?” I gasp. “No, I did not know that. Who’d spend that?”

He chuckles at how aghast I am. “Collectors. If more than one person wants something, someone’s guaranteed to pay more than they should.”

“I won’t be doing that tonight.” I raise my paddle again when the auctioneer asks for eight hundred dollars, but this is my ceiling. If anyone outbids me now, they can have it.

“We have nine hundred. Next bid, one thousand dollars.” I exhale a small sigh of relief at not having to pay eight hundred dollars just for the sake of optics. Then I look around to see who else is still bidding.

I’m surprised to see that Trevor Stagwood is one of the bidders, and he’s looking straight at me as though he’s just proven his fortitude. He’s asked me out a few times, and I’ve avoided committing to an actual date. I wonder now if this is his way of getting noticed.

I nod in Trevor’s direction and turn my attention to another guy with his paddle raised. I don’t recognize him, which is unusual for one of these events. Maybe he’s new to the area or the friend of a friend.

“You know that guy?” I ask Dash, who has to swivel on his stool to see the man. Dash bristles and turns back toward me, whispering, “I do know him. Long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The guy makes the winning bid at sixteen hundred dollars, and now I want to know whatever Dash can tell me about him. It’s not just that we have the same taste in wine—lots of people like Chateau Latour—but I’m good with faces, and it surprises me that I don’t recognize his.

Dash turns on his stool and leans in close. “That’s Graham Garcia. My half brother.” He lets the words land with the weight of a lead balloon, anticipating my goggle-eyed reaction.

“You have a half brother?” I’ve known the Corbett family for years, and this is the first time I’ve heard of a bonus sibling. Now I want to skip out of this room and hear everything.

Dash nods. “Only found out about him a few months back. It’s…a whole thing.” He looks back in the direction of where Graham sits amid a buzz of congratulations from the people around him, but then the auctioneer snags his attention when he starts up bidding on the spa weekend.

“Hang on. I want this.” He readies his paddle, gripping the handle in his large hand.

“You do?” I’m puzzled because Dash doesn’t strike me as a spa weekend kind of guy. Plus, if he and I are going to sell this relationship charade, he can’t be whisking other women off for stolen weekends. I’m about to remind him of this when the bidding opens, and he raises his paddle in the air.

From then, it’s a madhouse. Husbands egged on by wives, couples having anxious conversations about how high to bid. All of them desperate to secure the luxurious accommodations at a winery retreat with a two-year waiting list.

“I have four thousand. Do I have forty-two hundred?” A dozen paddles rise in the air. The auctioneer is ramping up the bidding at a breakneck pace, talking a mile a minute and reaching ten thousand dollars in under forty seconds. My head spins at the number of paddles rising and lowering.

The chatter in the room is also increasing as everyone gets excited about the funds raised and the audacity of how much people are willing to spend.

“Come on, it’s for public theater. And that means shows like Frozen, Wicked, all the great productions your kids will beg you to see. Come on, do I have eleven thousand? It’s for the kids.” The auctioneer is good at his job, smiling as he increases the raise to five hundred at a time.

Through it all, Dash keeps raising his paddle. I look at him pointedly, trying to remind him that he can’t reasonably use this fancy weekend anytime soon. Maybe he’s already planning ahead for after our eventual divorce. It would make sense, I guess, since the waiting list is so long. So I sip my wine and let him do his thing.

He flashes a smile and rubs my bare shoulder. The heat of his fingers floods down my arm, and I lean closer to him, wanting more contact.

The bidding edges higher, but I’m distracted by how good Dash’s hand feels on my skin. I’m even more distracted when I remind myself that I shouldn’t be feeling things at all.

I join the applause when the gavel slams on the auction podium for the winner. Then I notice that everywhere I look in the room, I see eyes staring back at me. And Dash.

That’s when I realize that Dash is the winner with a bid of fourteen thousand dollars for a single spa weekend. I’m about to ask him if he’s gone ‘round the bend when he stands up from his stool and quiets the din in the room.

“I’m super stoked to win and even more excited that my bid will go toward construction of the new theater.” He holds his glass up, and people around the room mirror his movement, toasting him and applauding.

Someone yells, “Who’re you taking?” and the crowd laughs. A few more inquisitive souls join in a chorus of, “Yeah, who’s the lucky girl?” I stiffen in my chair, not wanting to make this kind of a public declaration of anything. We’re just supposed to be subtly giving people the impression we’re an item, so no one—especially not Felix—questions that we’re engaged.

There’s no need for Dash to wave and clear his throat dramatically, but that’s what he does. A hush falls over the room, save for the muttering of people wondering what he has planned as he continues to speak.

“Most of you probably know Mallory Rutherford…my fiancée.” He waits for the appropriate titters and whispers among the crowd. “I’m normally not one for hotel spas, but maybe that was because I’d never met a woman before who made me want to break the bank for a chance to spend a weekend there with her.”

He bends down and kisses me sweetly on the lips, the perfect expression of smitten endearment for a public place. “I’ll take the room key, thank you very much.”

Smiles and gentle applause validate the cuteness of Dash’s soul-bearing speech, and when he sits back down next to me, I catch a smug grin on his face.

“Pleased with yourself?” I ask.

“You have no idea.”

He turns back toward the table as the auctioneer proceeds to the next item as though he didn’t just make a grand pronouncement in front of the entire room. He was only supposed to make us look legit as a couple, not give the entire town something to talk about on Monday at work.

“I can’t decide whether I’m mad at you or not,” I tell him. He’s so damn sexy in his suit, and it confuses me. I want to be mad, but I also want to climb him like a tree.

“You’re not.” He takes a sip of wine and flips through the auction catalog nonchalantly. This is the Dash I’ve heard stories about. Cocky, charming, and convincing when he turns his attention toward you. It feels like a golden beam of sunlight shining on my face after a cold winter, and I can’t help it—I like the way it feels.

I give myself exactly thirty seconds to bask in what it would be like to have a man say what Dash did and really mean it. I’d love to hear those words and know they were true.

Then my thirty seconds are up, and I return to reality.

Don’t fall for the playboy. And definitely don’t believe his flattering words. They’re just talk designed to get a woman into bed.

And that’s not happening tonight. No way, no how. Even if we’ve convinced everyone in the room that we’re a couple, I know the truth. I may just need to feed myself daily reminders so I don’t forget.

I look over at where Sue Clayton is still eyeing Dash like he’s the one who got away. I never want to have that look on my face when it comes to a man. Especially not the one sitting next to me, making me feel things I have no business feeling. So I lock my heart down tight, smile back at Dash, and confirm. “You’re right. I’m not mad at all. You were brilliant. Game on.”

If anyone in the room had a question, it was answered with an ironclad defense able to withstand further scrutiny. Dash and I are getting married.

Which means people will expect us to have a wedding.

The thought sinks in my gut with a combination of relief and dread. We’re really doing this. It’s happening.

An hour later, as Dash walks me to my front door, I feel a new sense of dread. Now that it’s just the two of us, with no one around to observe our “relationship,” we’ve gone back to being acquaintances. Or maybe I guess we’re friends. All the heat and flirtation I felt all night long disappeared as soon as we pulled out of the parking lot.

Dash was quiet on the drive back, and now, as I fish through my purse for my keys, he’s quiet again. Stoic.

“Found ’em.” I hold them up. “Thank you for a fun evening.”

“I think we pulled it off, don’t you?”

I nod emphatically. “Your spa weekend stunt was the clincher.”

He smiles, but it’s not his usual wide grin. It’s a barely-there smile that may even be laced with sadness, but I don’t know him well enough to tell.

Standing at my door, I feel the weight of so many dates when guys used this moment to go in for a first kiss. Every one of the others falls flat compared to the kisses I’ve shared with Dash. Even if they were just for show.

Is he going to kiss me now?

The air around us feels soupy, with the evening mist rolling off the mountains. It syncs with the unease in my gut. I want him to kiss me, but I don’t want to want it.

“Okay, Mallomar. Sleep tight,” he says softly, trailing a finger down my arm until it lands at my hand. He gives it a squeeze.

I open my mouth, thinking I’ll concoct some excuse for him to stay. I could make coffee or…

He leans over and kisses my temple. I freeze, hoping his lips will stay on my skin, which craves more contact with him. He lingers for a moment longer, and I hear a low rumble in his throat. I inhale a shaky breath and turn to face him, our mouths only inches apart. The air between us hangs heavy. Dash’s heavy-lidded eyes drop closed, but then he pulls away.

“Good night.” The rasp of his voice sends goosebumps over my skin.

“Good night,” I say. “Thanks again.”

As I start to go inside, Dash calls after me. “Hey, you have any plans tomorrow?”

“No.”

He nods. “I’ll call you.”

And there it is, this budding feeling I can’t identify at first, and I sure as hell can’t explain it.

Because it feels like excitement. And that’s something I should never feel about a playboy who’s about to do me a favor for the good of the business. Yeah. Tell that to my heart.