Love You Truly (Buttercup Hill #3)

Chapter 18

Dash

Mallory: How’s your day going?

Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

Mallory: Your fiancée. You’re eternally devoted to me, remember?

Me: I do.

Mallory: Save that for the wedding

Me: Right. I’m off to buy you diamonds, as instructed

Mallory: I love a fiancé who listens!

I wasn’t lying about the diamonds.

I should be at the gym. That’s what I’d normally be doing at noon on a Saturday.

After a late night with friends and a chance to sleep in for once in a week, I’d be sweating on the treadmill to warm up for three rounds of weights. Same thing nearly every day.

Instead, I’m flying up Highway 80 on my way back from a ring shop in San Francisco. I spent the morning with Owen, a buddy of mine who owns restaurants in Napa Valley and divides his time between there and a house in Hayes Valley.

Initially, he recommended a place in the jewelry district and even offered to bring his wife with him when he met me to look at stones. “Isla has better taste than me,” he’d said when I called him last night in a panic. His wife is a renowned baker who supplies bread to the nicer of the two restaurants on the Buttercup Hill property, but she’s one of those women who’s good at everything, so I’m not surprised she knows something about diamonds too.

I secretly think it’s her bread that helped Butter and Rosemary earn its Michelin star a couple of years back, but she’s too modest to admit it. “I just make the sourdough starter and bake. It’s where you take it from there that has everyone swooning,” she always says.

Despite Isla’s taste, I panicked. “Stones?” I’d asked Owen. “I thought I was buying a ring.”

He explained to me that I needed to choose the stone and the setting, and then the jeweler would make the ring to my specifications.

“No, no, no. It doesn’t need to be that complicated. I have no specifications.”

“Well, maybe she does.” I love how married guys make it sound like it’s so obvious that every decision and question actually has one right answer, and it’s whatever his wife says. He was once a dummy like me who didn’t know such things, but now he relinquishes his choices like everyone else.

“I just need a ring,” I said, at which point he told Isla not to bother coming with him. I could hear him explaining, “He’s lost sight of reason. I’ll handle it.”

When we met at a different jewelry store, one that had rings with stones already in them, he peppered me with questions. “Who is she? How’d you meet? How’re you planning to propose?”

I gave him the party line Mallory and I came up with involving our messy meet-cute in the pickle aisle, our attempts to keep our romance under wraps, and my admission to how nuts I am about her.

He smiled and nodded as though he understood how that could happen. I know he felt that way when he met Isla, and he’s known me long enough that he sees beneath the facade other people around town think is the real Dashiell Corbett. “Glad you found someone good. You deserve it.”

He’s one of my oldest friends, so I debated coming clean with him and telling him it will be a marriage of convenience, but then I decided that the fewer the people who know, the better the odds of us pulling it off without anyone suspecting we’re not really in love.

The trip to the jewelry store was relatively painless because I told myself over and over that it was simply a business transaction. Buy the ring, marry the girl, see Buttercup Hill live to do business for another decade. Big picture thinking.

I didn’t tell Owen any of that, but on my drive back to Napa, it’s all I can think about. I know I’m making the right decision by agreeing to marry Mallory for the good of our family business.

With two older brothers who are seriously type A, it’s always been easier to take my place at the back of the line and let them do the heavy lifting on the financial and strategic end of Buttercup Hill. They’re exactly like my father, and it only makes sense for them to make the big decisions.

At least it did…

I may be friendlier and more outgoing than them, making me perfect for my job as the employee liaison. I’ll talk to anyone, and it’s easy to convince people to see things my way because I’m not an asshole about it. That’s the thing neither of my brothers seems to understand. A good attitude and a genuine smile go a long way.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not smart. It doesn’t mean I can’t be the one to save our business from financial ruin. And the idea of spearheading this nutty plan has me excited enough that I drove my ass to San Francisco at the crack of dawn to buy a ring.

And it has me driving straight to Mallory’s doorstep to deliver it.

I exit the highway and begin the drive up the narrower road toward Napa. I pass several farmstands, and after the third “you pick it” sign, I pull off into a small dirt lot next to rows of corn and tomatoes. I browse among the freshly picked produce and flowers and select a few items I hope Mallory will like.

It occurs to me that I don’t know so many things about her—her favorite flowers, how she likes her coffee, what kind of workout she does—but I’m actually excited to spend time finding out as we’re pushed together in this little ruse.

I tell myself that it’s just natural curiosity, that I’d be interested in getting to know anyone, that there’s nothing special about the woman who’s been on my mind all morning.

I’ll keep telling myself all of those things until I believe them.

Thirty minutes later, I’m knocking on Mallory’s door, having no idea what she does on a Saturday. For all I know, she could be in some Pilates class or riding a horse.

I almost dart back to my truck and speed the hell off her property. I’m a bundle of nerves, which is ridiculous. This isn’t a real proposal.

So why does it feel like a big fucking deal?

I should leave. Except that the front door is opening. Apparently, Mallory is home. She stands in front of me wearing a pale blue tank top that shows off bronzed skin that has no right to look that soft. My eyes trail down from her collarbones to the top's contours, making it clear she’s not wearing a bra. Curves all day long.

Good day for me to show up unexpectedly.

Because instead of standing here imagining what her breasts might look like under a filmy swatch of cotton, I have a complete picture. Her perky nipples bite through the fabric, and I can’t stop staring. Maybe I really am just a guy who ogles women for sport. At the moment, I’m an Olympic athlete at ogling, and I don’t feel one bit apologetic about it.

Until she clears her throat.

My eyes shoot back to her face, which has a decidedly confused and perturbed expression. Her pretty mouth turns down in a frown, and she squints at me as though I’m too bright to handle.

“Hi.” She crosses her arms over her chest like any sane person would when faced with a panting lapdog ready to lick her from head to toe.

“Hi.” I’m safer to start with that than blurt out inappropriate things about how good her long, bare legs look in the cutoff denim shorts she’s wearing.

“What are you doing here?” The confusion hasn’t left her face, and I realize she has a legitimate right to look at me that way, given that I showed up at her doorstep unannounced in the middle of a weekend when we didn’t plan to see each other.

“Right. That.” I had the entire drive up from San Francisco to come up with some idea of what to say to her, and right now, none of those thoughts occupy my brain. I feel like an awkward preteen boy standing before the prom queen on a dare.

Sometimes, when I look at Mallory, I feel like the geeky freshman I never actually was, thanks mostly to a deep voice and muscles that developed early. Now, I have sympathy for every one of my pale, skinny friends who struck out with girls on the regular.

Mallory clears her throat, making me realize I’m staring at her without explanation.

“I, um, figured we should make it official.”

Driving up here under a bluebird sky framed by wispy white clouds in the distance, I imagined what Cyrano would tell dopey Christian. I tried to come up with my own silver-tongued magic to get the girl.

But then I stopped myself, remembering I’m not a lovestruck suitor. I’m just a guy who made a deal he wants to honor. I pulled off the highway at a smoothie shop and ordered two strawberry-banana frozen drinks.

I thrust one of them toward Mallory, who reaches for it. “Thanks.”

“Strawberry banana. Not sure you like that flavor.” The sight of her has reduced me to a pimply middle schooler asking a girl to go steady.

“Who doesn’t like that flavor?” She takes a sip, and her eyes drift shut. “Wow, that hits the spot after yoga.”

The sun hits her face, and she looks like she should be modeling for a smoothie company or something. That’s how perfect she looks, with her pink lips wrapped around the straw and her dark lashes grazing her cheeks each time she blinks.

I’m tempted to call it a day and leave. Smoothie success. But Mallory notices the loose bouquet of red and orange ranunculus I chose from the farm stand. I carried it under my arm from the car and put it down before she opened the door.

“Oh. I brought you these too. Do you have a favorite color of flower?”

Now she looks at me quizzically. “Is this some kind of get-to-know-you visit? Do you have a carload of props?”

“Nope, just these.”

She juts a hip out to the side and puts a hand on it, studying me. “Do you have a favorite flower color?

“Whatever ones won’t die the soonest are good in my book.”

She chuckles. “That works too.” She stares at me watching her. I need to salvage this before it becomes really awkward.

Before it becomes really, really awkward…

So I wrestle the ring box from my pocket and present it to her. Mallory’s eyes go wide, and she drops her smoothie. I catch it before it hits the floor and squeeze the cup so hard that a squirt flies up through the straw and onto my shirt.

Now I have a big pink arch of strawberry banana on my chest, and Mallory laughs.

“Not what I was hoping for when I went out and bought a ring.”

“Sorry. I’m just still processing that part. You…bought a ring? An engagement ring?”

“Um, yeah. Pretty sure you dropped a hundred hints about diamonds.”

“I was…I was kidding!”

I dismiss the thought with a wave. “Come on, Marshmallow. A ring is important when two people are going to waltz around in front of a certain ex-husband and look convincing.”

She laughs. “I am looking forward to the waltzing.”

And because Mallory rarely does what I’m expecting, instead of taking the box from me, she takes a step backward and uses the large windowpane glass to check her reflection. She pulls her hair out of its topknot, shakes it out, and straightens her tank top. Throwing her shoulders back, she stands up taller.

“Okay, a little better. I’m ready. Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Your proposal.”

“Um…” All thoughts leave my mind simultaneously. I did spend a few miles of the drive thinking about what people say when they get engaged, but that was mainly because the ring box digging into my leg kept bringing my focus back to it.

I didn’t think about what I’d say to Mallory because this isn’t a real proposal.

Right?

The way she’s standing here impatiently waiting for me to make good on whatever is supposed to accompany an engagement ring, I stammer some more and think about that damned Cyrano play again and try to remember any of the lines that could help me here. Unfortunately, I have a shit memory, and I’m on my own with only a jingle for a fast food hamburger chain running through my mind.

Time to get creative.

I drop to one knee and gaze upward, tracing the long, tanned leg to where it gives way to Mallory’s curves and, finally, her gorgeous face.

Mallory doesn’t react to my position. Maybe she thinks I dropped something or I need to tie my shoe. Maybe she’s waiting for me to grab some other random get-to-know-you item and ask her more irrelevant questions.

“Mallomar, in the time I’ve gotten to know you a little bit, I have to say you’ve surprised me. You don’t let people see the real you, but I like the glimpses I’ve caught. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. I know this is all a business deal for both of us, but you still deserve a real engagement. A story you can tell people about when they ask.”

I gesture to the flowers and the smoothie as though they’d make any sort of a decent engagement story. But when I look back at her, she’s motionless and focused on me.

Her mouth drops open, and her hand goes to her chest. “Dash, this is really sweet of you.”

“You deserve a real proposal for our fake engagement.” I stop myself when I hear how ridiculous it sounds. “I know that’s probably weird…”

“It’s not. Thank you.” Her soft, kind voice emboldens me to finish what I came here to do.

Gesturing around us, I take in the rolling green acres of farmland, and a different kind of calm settles over me than I feel when I’m at Buttercup Hill. This place is all unmanicured, fertile green patches of plants. It isn’t a business yet, just open land, the fresh scent of loamy soil, and a dozen types of plants and grasses. There’s freedom in that and I like how it feels. Messy and untamed like Mallory, who doesn’t suffer fools.

“You could do so much with this.” I gesture around us. “Dry farmed vines, grazing patches for animals, a sustainable agriculture incubator, educational walking tours.”

She smiles. “I love all of that. You have a good eye.”

It screams potential, and for the first time, I feel proud to be helping Mallory do what she wants with it. I don’t have much say at Buttercup Hill, but this…this feels like a fresh start.“I don’t just want to be another guy who admires you from afar. I want to be the guy who sits across the table from you at dinner and hears about the boring parts of your day. I want to be the first one to see you smile when you get good news. And I want to be the guy who helps you build this place into your dream.”

My words take on a life of their own as I say them, but I mean every word.

That’s why I stop talking. I realize I’m professing real feelings, or at least words that sound like real feelings, and that’s not the point here.

I want to seal it all with a kiss. I want to do so much more, but none of that is part of our arrangement. We’re not in public, and there’s no public benefit to pulling her into my arms and kissing the hell out of her, despite what I might want to do.

When my gaze returns to her face, I notice her soft jaw and glassy eyes. I allow myself to think that maybe, possibly, this could be a real moment between us. She licks her lips like she’s getting ready for the kind of kiss I’m aching to give her.

The moment hangs heavy between us. Nothing stops me from kissing her except the fear of future awkwardness if I’m wrong about how she feels. We have a wedding and a marriage ahead of us, and I don’t want to ruin it because I can’t keep my hands to myself.

So I swallow down my impulse and take the ring out of the box.

“It’s not an engagement if you’re not wearing my ring, so let’s see if it fits.”

She tentatively holds out her hand but snatches it back before I can slip the ring on. “Wait, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Am I?”

“You didn’t actually ask me to marry you.”

A smile pulls at my lips because I love that she wants the whole proposal, not just the ring or a few canned lines.

“Mallory Rutherford, I want you until the end of days. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

She starts nodding before I get all the words out. “Yes. Yes, I will, Dashiell Corbett.”

I slide the ring onto her finger and feel like I’ve conquered something huge. Maybe my own fears. I don’t know why I’m filled with deep feelings over a ring. It’s a wonder how this tiny piece of jewelry carries so much weight and how wars are fought and won over women who possess a fraction of the beauty of the one standing before me.

Mallory holds the ring up to the light, inspecting the flawless solitaire, emerald cut diamond. I spent more than I needed to, but I didn’t want anyone to doubt my intentions or question my sincerity. Especially her.

“For the record, you got it right,” Mallory says, her eyes never leaving the ring as she picks up the flowers and tugs one red bloom from the bunch.

“You like red flowers,” I confirm, feeling lucky the bright batch that caught my eye happens to be what she likes.

“I don’t just mean the flowers.” She holds up the ring and lets the sun catch its facets so it sparkles. “You got everything right.”

Hearing her words does something to me, hits me deep, and I want to kiss her.

I take a step closer, then another. Gently reaching for the flowers, I pull them from her hand and put them on the porch swing. Her eyes follow my movements as I put a hand on her hip and guide her closer to me.

She doesn’t resist when I slide the other hand into her hair and run my fingers through the silky strands before cupping her cheek. There’s fire in her eyes as they meet mine, and her lips part. I suppress a groan when the tip of her tongue slips out and licks her bottom lip.

The air crackles between us, swollen with electricity that sparks my desire even more. I hesitate a second longer to enjoy the anticipation before I sink into her lips and take what I don’t want to resist anymore. Her eyes drift shut and I hear a quiet intake of breath.

I hesitate a second too long.

A truck barrels up the driveway and skids into a dusty spot next to mine. Mallory’s eyes shoot open and my head whips around to identify the intruder. Mary swings open the door to her truck and emerges with a white pastry bag.

“Biscuits are on me today.” Fucking cheerful, irritating Brit.

Mallory takes a step back and my hands drop from her body. Mary makes her way to us and Mallory walks past me to greet her and show her the ring.

“Nice work,” Mary tells me. “You do fake engagements right.”

Mallory’s apologetic smile tells me she regrets the interruption, but Mary’s words are what ring in my ears. Fake engagement.

I may have let the ring and the moment sweep me up and make me believe we really are an engaged couple in love.

But she’s not that woman. She’s my business partner.

So I can’t be that guy.