Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Chapter One MURPHY

Chapter One

M URPHY

The sign for Rosewood streaks by, the lights from my car illuminating it for just a moment before it disappears behind me with the fading sunlight.

Twenty more minutes until I’m home.

I sigh, wishing not for the first time that things were different.

That this wasn’t the way things in my life were falling together.

Or, I guess, falling apart.

The eight-hour drive from Venice Beach hasn’t been that bad, but once I crossed the bridge taking me out of San Francisco and into Napa, it felt like time sped up. The drive I had earlier wished would pass more quickly now feels like it’s coming to an end far too soon.

Because the fact I’m heading back to my hometown is finally starting to sink in, and I wish I could slow time for a little while. Just long enough to figure out ... well, to figure out a lot of things.

What I’m going to say.

What I’m going to do.

But most importantly, how I’m going to cope with the aftermath of what happened back in LA and what it means for my life.

I take the next exit and catch myself grinding my teeth, my jaw flexing with the anxiety that overwhelms me with each passing moment.

As I leave the freeway and begin the final stretch out into the country, everything I see is a reminder of why I left. All the reasons I couldn’t ever imagine a life here beyond the one forced on me as a child, when I had no choice about where to live and what to do.

The truth is that I hated Rosewood the moment we arrived. I was just four years old when my father, my brothers, and I showed up with a carload of belongings and a truckload of emotional baggage.

I take a deep breath and let it out long and slow, hoping it will help ease the anxious energy beginning to build in my chest.

It doesn’t help.

And then I make the turn onto Main Street, crossing the short stretch of downtown. Rosewood has one of those quaint downtown areas that doesn’t seem to exist anymore. It’s a stretch of road that hosts a bar, a restaurant, a café, a coffee shop, a bakery, and of course, little shops filled to the brim with every wine-related tchotchke a tourist might desire.

In the years since I left, I’ve come to realize just how different Rosewood is from so many other places. Though I haven’t yet decided whether that’s a good or a bad thing.

It’s particularly different from Venice Beach and Santa Monica, my stomping grounds when I moved to Southern California. People everywhere, beachy weather, tattoo parlors, and weed shops. The grunge and grit of the place make it feel like a town that brought out the wild, slightly unhinged parts of people. The social niceties of small-town life wouldn’t be a blip in the minds of anyone who stuck around there long enough.

Rosewood is ... the exact opposite. Clean and quaint and perfect in a way that is also absolutely infuriating.

Which is why the idea of being back sits in my belly like a stomach bug, a nauseating feeling that has me cracking my window for a little fresh air as I come to a stop at the end of the street. The familiar smells of wine country—damp earth and grapevine—flood my senses.

Memories from my childhood rush in, some bad, some good. Like the shared stresses of a bad year for the grapes, or seeing my father, covered in debris and sweat in the middle of the crush.

“Five generations have worked this land,” he’d say after another day of tireless physical work. “It’s our family legacy. You should be proud to be a part of something as beautiful as this.”

By you , he meant my brothers and me. We’d share eye rolls whenever Dad launched into one of his “family legacy” sermons. I often wondered if he was trying to believe the words himself, more than he expected them to mean something to us. After all, he’d left Rosewood as soon as he was eighteen, wholly uninterested in the family business or the pride of legacy, only to return with his tail between his legs after tragedy struck, two children and a newborn in tow.

I wince a little and rap my fingers against the steering wheel. Maybe we’re a lot more alike than I thought, my father and me.

Not that I’d ever tell him that.

I finally turn off the main drag, which takes me down the long highway out to my family’s vineyard and past the Rosewood High School football field and Chantry Winery—two landmarks of my younger years.

High school in a little wine country town didn’t offer much. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t unpopular either—kind of falling into that middle space that most high school students are in. I was invited to some parties, went to some school activities, had some friends.

Come to think of it, my high school experience is basically a metaphor for my life as the middle child. Not too much attention, but not enough.

Maybe that’s the real reason I left.

It sucks to feel like you’re just noticeable enough to be intentionally ignored.

I’d rather believe I bounced from Rosewood because I wanted more.

More fun.

More people.

More experiences.

Definitely more men.

The guys of my youth were mostly consumed with the quest for the two Ps. As my friend Quinn would repeatedly remind me—and possibly herself—as we spent countless nights on her living room couch watching reality TV, “All they’re after, Murph, is popularity and pussy. And if you can’t give them either, you have nothing they want.”

She had a point, and it only became clearer to me when I moved away just how true it was of pretty much every guy, everywhere. I can hardly remember a first date when the guy didn’t seriously think he was going to get laid at the end. Or at least get his dick sucked.

Not my style. Sex has never been a bartering chip for me.

My entire body shifts at that thought. The emotional whiplash of what happened back in LA makes my stomach turn over.

And then, as if the universe has decided to gift me one final middle finger on this emotional journey home, I hear a loud pop and my car begins to bounce and shudder, the wheel tugging to the side in deference to what I can only assume is a flat tire.

Fuck.

I know that nobody ever really needs a car issue, but this is seriously the last thing I need right now.

Something wells up inside my chest as I continue driving, hoping my memory is correct that there is a one-pump gas station around this bend ...

I take a shuddered breath when I see it, and my car hobbles its way off the highway and into the dirt lot before I roll to a stop next to a beat-up old truck.

It feels like a great effort not to burst into tears as I shove my door open and then slam it closed, my irritation and frustration getting the better of me. When I round to the back and take a look, I see that the back right tire is pretty much flat on the ground. Thankfully I didn’t damage my rim in that final few hundred yards.

I haven’t ever changed a tire by myself before, which makes me even more upset, especially since my dad and my older brother offered to teach me several times when I was in high school.

Rolling my eyes at the irony, I head toward the tiny shop, hoping that somebody can help me out.

But as soon as I push inside, I know I’m out of luck. The woman behind the counter looks to be in her seventies at least, and when I ask if there’s a mechanic on-site, she gives me an empathetic smile.

“I’m sorry, honey. But I’ve got a landline if you wanna call somebody.”

I give her a thin smile and shake my head, knowing I’m eventually going to have to resort to calling my brother. The amount of shit Memphis is going to give me ...

Sighing in disbelief at just how bad my luck has turned out, I head back to my car, staring at the flat tire as if I’ll be able to will it to inflate.

If this doesn’t sum up my life right now, I don’t know what would. Getting so close, almost there, and then having everything fall apart.

And then, it just all becomes too much. The dam breaks. My emotions rush in—a culmination of my return home settling into my soul on top of all the other bullshit I’ve been dealing with. I burst into tears, overwhelmed and broken. Dropping down into a squat in the middle of the dirt parking lot, I hide my face in my hands and just let it all out. All the sadness and frustration and disappointment.

“You okay?”

My sob cuts off in the middle and I look to the side, embarrassment coursing through me as I realize someone has been watching me have a breakdown.

I stand quickly, wiping at my face and staring studiously at the man’s feet, not wanting to see his likely judgment of the woman sobbing in the gas station parking lot.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I—”

But my voice cuts off. I can’t even force the fake smile and customer-service voice that I’ve perfected over nearly ten years. Instead, I start crying again.

“I’m sorry, I’m going through a lot,” I say, looking back to my car. “My tire popped and I don’t know how to fix it, and it has just been ... the worst day.”

My observer is silent for a long moment, and when I finally glance over at him, I feel a second wave of embarrassment. Heat prickles at the little places behind my ears and at my wrists when I see the concern evident across his brow.

“I might not be able to fix your horrible day,” he says after a long pause, “but I can handle the tire for you. Get everything fixed up so you can head on your way.”

I blink a few times, feeling a little off-balance at his offer. I’ve spent the past decade in LA, where nobody slows down for a moment, and definitely not long enough to help someone in a shit situation. I almost forgot people do that kind of thing.

I nod, thankful that the emotions previously welling inside me seem to be dissipating.

“Yeah, that would be great, actually.”

“Don’t suppose you have a spare tire in there, do you?”

I wince, wishing I could say yes and preparing to tell him the story of when I sold it to a friend for fifty bucks during tough times. But before I can, he dips his head toward his truck.

“No worries. I have a spare in mine.”

And then he strides toward his truck and drops down to the ground, sliding underneath the bed and working at something for a minute or two before he tugs out a tire and shimmies back out, his shirt and jeans now covered in dust.

“I’ll have this fixed up for you in just a few minutes,” he tells me, looping one strong arm through the tire and hoisting it over to my car along with a couple of tools.

I watch for a few minutes as he works, twisting a wrench for a while on the lug nuts before lifting the car with the jack.

Now that my earlier overwhelm has eased, it’s hard not to appreciate just how handsome this Good Samaritan is. I’ve never been one to give elevator eyes before, but I can’t help it now. My gaze lingers on his broad shoulders and flexing forearm muscles as he works on removing my flat.

My mind briefly flitters over the idea of what else he’s capable of with those hands, but I clear my throat and scratch idly at my cheek, trying to shove that thought aside.

“I really appreciate you taking the time to do this,” I say, not wanting to hover awkwardly in silence.

He glances up at me and grins, his hazel eyes warm and kind, then looks back at the task at hand. “I’m happy to help. You feeling a little better now?”

My face flushes and I let out a laugh that surely betrays my embarrassment. “Yeah. Sorry about the tears. I was feeling overwhelmed.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Life is overwhelming sometimes.” He looks at me again and shrugs. “I had a good cry just last week.”

I purse my lips, trying to hide my smile. “Oh yeah? A good cry, huh?”

He nods. “And a nice long bubble bath.”

Shaking my head, I can’t help when my smile gets the best of me. “Sounds soothing.”

“You should really try it out. See if it helps.”

I tuck my hands into the pockets of my shorts and lean back against his truck. “I will definitely consider that. Thank you so much for the suggestion.”

He chuckles and continues working for a few more minutes before hopping up and tugging the tire off and setting it to the side.

“This isn’t a permanent solution,” he says, his voice slightly strained as he shoves the spare into place. “You’ll still need to get a regular tire put on here. But this should be good for tonight.”

I nod, watching as he puts the lug nuts back on and begins tightening them, and when he finally drops my car back to the ground and gives the trunk a tap, I say the first thing on my mind.

“Can I buy you a beer or something? As a thank-you? There’s a bar about a mile up the road.”

He looks off to the side, in the direction of town, and seems to consider it for a moment. But ultimately, he shakes his head.

“Not really a bar kinda guy.”

I lick my lips, my ego slightly bruised.

Any other night, I would have said Okay , thanked him again, and gotten on the road. But something makes me try again.

Maybe I’m not ready for him to go just yet.

Or maybe I’m not ready to go.

Either way, I want a few more minutes with my rescuer, even if it’s just in this parking lot.

“Or maybe I could grab us some cheap wine coolers from inside?” I stick my thumb toward the gas station. “I don’t want to ask for help again, but I’d appreciate it more than you’ll ever know if you give me a reason not to go where I’m headed.”

He grins at me, licks his lower lip just slightly, then nods his head. “You know, a cheap wine cooler actually sounds great.”

I beam at him. “I’ll be right back.”

Then I race inside and hurriedly pay for two of the little bottles that I used to sneak back in high school.

“All right, I’ve got mojito or margarita,” I say as I approach where he’s seated on the dropped tailgate of his truck.

“I’ll take the mojito.”

“Good choice.”

I hop up next to him, then pop the caps off our bottles with my car key.

“That was a neat little trick,” he says, taking his drink from my hand.

I smile and clink my bottle against his. “Desperate times teach you some wild things.”

He smirks and raises his drink to his lips, mumbling, “Isn’t that the truth.”

We both take a sip, and I wince immediately, the flavor not at all what I remember from my youth. “Oh wow.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s terrible.”

“So bad.”

“I remember it being so much better when I was in high school.”

“Everything against the rules tastes better when you’re young.”

We both laugh. I swing my legs and cast my gaze over to the sun that has dipped low on the horizon, enjoying the simplicity of the moment.

I know once I hop off this tailgate and make the short drive down the road to the house, all the stress is going to rush back in. But for now, the peace and quiet, and sitting next to this handsome man who was willing to take time out of his day to help me, is exactly what I need.

“Thanks again for the tire save ... and for sitting here with me.”

His leg, dangling next to mine, bumps me so lightly I’m not sure if it was accidental or on purpose. I’m partial to the latter.

“And sorry you’re covered in dirt now. I hope you don’t have somewhere important to go tonight.”

Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Nah. And I figure you did me a favor. Now I have an excuse to take another bubble bath.”

My lips turn up and he winks before taking another sip from his wine cooler.

I watch as he does, and I can’t help the way my gaze drops to his lips for one long moment, wondering what it might be like to kiss a man like him. And when he looks back at me, I see his eyes dip as well. Just for a moment, for a quick, almost invisible glance, before he turns his head and stares off into the distance.

My hand between us is braced against the lip of the tailgate, and a shiver of anticipation slides through me when his hand does the same, the edge of his palm grazing against mine.

“So what was the deal earlier? It seems like you might have had more on your mind than just the tire.”

I nibble on the inside of my cheek, trying to decide how to answer. I want to keep talking to him, but the last thing I want to do is share all my dirty laundry. Ultimately, I settle on vague truths.

“Change is hard, especially when it feels like you’re not really in control of the course your life is taking.” I shrug and take another sip from my bottle. “I think earlier was like ... a dam breaking, you know? The tire was just the last straw on a very large haystack.”

He bobs his head. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Even talking about it brings the emotional magnitude up to the surface, and I bat away a tear that breaks free.

“Hey now.” His gentle voice, warm like a blanket I want to crawl into, wraps its way around me. His hand reaches up and cups my cheek, his thumb stroking where another tear has fallen. “No more tears tonight, hmm?”

I give him a watery smile, my emotions calming again.

“You seem to be able to keep my tears at bay better than I can,” I tell him. “Maybe I should keep you around.”

His lips turn up at that. “Maybe you should.”

The world fades away in that moment, when our faces are so close together, our thighs touching and the evening humidity making everything feel hazy and warm.

I feel a little drunk, and there’s no way it’s from the wine cooler that I’ve taken only a few sips of.

No, it’s this man holding my face in his hands.

I’m intoxicated with everything about him, and what I do know is very little.

All I know for sure is that it’s been a long time since I’ve been this interested in a man.

So I do the only thing that makes sense.

I lean in and press my lips to his.

He seems surprised at first, but that fades almost immediately, and the hand on my cheek slips around to the nape of my neck as his mouth opens against mine.

The taste of mint and lime explodes on my tongue, along with something else even more heady that makes me groan just slightly.

I shift my body so I’m facing him more, and my hands reach out, bracing against his strong chest. I love touching him, feeling the strength and warmth of his body beneath my palms.

The kiss doesn’t last long, and he nibbles gently on my lower lip before we eventually pull back and look at each other, each of us with smiles on our faces.

“That was unexpected,” I say, trying to keep the smile on my face small so he doesn’t see how wildly incredible I feel. I’m sure I barely succeed.

“It was,” he replies, his fingers stroking gently against the back of my head before he lets me go.

We sit there for another ten or fifteen minutes, taking little sips from our drinks and glancing at each other every so often with knowing smiles. It’s the kind of magical night that I would have dreamed about back in high school, when I would have been up all night with a pen and a notebook, trying to capture the experience in lyrics.

When we finish our wine coolers, he hops down and crosses over to a trash can that butts up to the back of the gas station to chuck them.

“You think the tire will be enough to get you where you’re going?” he asks as he walks back to me.

“I should be fine.”

He nods. “Good.” Then he takes my hand and helps me down, my feet kicking up a little bit of dust as I drop to the ground. His muscles flex as he pushes the tailgate closed, and the sound of it slamming shut feels jarring against the quiet of the evening.

The toe of my shoe skims over the dirt between us, and I wonder if I should ask for his number. Or if he’ll ask for mine.

He watches me for a long moment, and my heart throbs rapidly in my chest, the anticipation of what he might say growing until it’s a living thing inside of me. As friendly as he seems to be, he’s also very hard to read.

“You know, in another life, I would be asking for your number right now,” he says. “But things in my life are ...”

My heart falls. “You don’t have to explain,” I tell him with a thin smile, not wanting to hear another rejection. “My life is messy right now too, so ...”

I trail off, not knowing what else to say.

So ... I wouldn’t give you my number anyway?

So ... we’re better off leaving things like this?

Neither of those are really true, so it doesn’t even warrant saying them.

“Thanks again.” I take a step back, in the direction of my car.

His eyes skim over my face, and I can’t help but imagine that he’s trying to commit me to memory so he can remember me later.

Doubtful, though.

Instead, he’s probably trying to figure out how to say goodbye and get on the road without having to talk to me anymore.

Oh, how quickly all my warm and fuzzy feelings have begun to fade.

“All right, well, have a safe drive.”

I nod, and we both turn to get into our respective vehicles. I glance at my phone briefly, seeing a missed call and a text from my brother.

Memphis: Let me know when you’re ten minutes out. I’ll come help with your stuff.

I take a deep breath and send off a quick response, letting him know I’m just a few minutes away, then drop my phone in the cup holder and glance to my left.

My Good Samaritan is already gone, and I can see his taillights in my rearview as he pulls out onto the highway.

Part of me is glad he took off so fast. As fun as it was to give my mind a chance to create a reality where something more might have happened, I’m not in the market for that kind of distraction. I have too much on my mind as I prepare to face my family for the first time in nearly a decade.

They always disapproved of me leaving town in the first place, and I know they will have plenty to say now that I’m back.

I only have to drive a few minutes before I’m pulling off the highway and down the long dusty road to the house I grew up in, but my eyebrows scrunch in confusion when I see a familiar truck parked off to the side next to some of the other equipment.

When I come to a stop, I scan the area around the truck, trying to understand why that truck would be here.

As soon as I step out of my car, I hear a newly familiar voice.

“Did, uh ... did you need something else?”

I squint through the dark, finally seeing the form of the guy from the gas station heading toward me.

My head tilts to the side, and I cast my eyes up to our house, trying to make sure I didn’t pull into the wrong driveway.

But no, even with just the porch light, I can see the same dark-brown front door and the same silver door knocker that my younger brother, Micah, picked out from Home Depot: a circular grapevine with a stem of grapes dangling in the middle.

The man from the gas station is standing about fifteen feet away from me with his hands on his hips, looking at me like I’ve followed him home.

But before I can say anything—ask him what he’s doing here, tell him I live here, or any other thing that would actually make sense—I hear my name.

“Murphy?”

I turn and look back to the house where the front door is open, the light from inside illuminating a tall, strong figure that I know without a doubt is my brother.

“That was fast,” he says, walking toward me. “I didn’t realize you really meant only a few more minutes.”

“Yeah, I got a flat so I was at the pump when I texted you,” I reply, then look back over to where the Good Samaritan is still standing near his truck.

“Hey, Wes.” Memphis greets him briefly and then stops at the trunk of my car. “This is my sister, Murphy.”

My eyes stay on him—on Wes —and I watch as his body language changes, the tense way he’d been standing relaxing just slightly.

“Nice to meet you, Murphy,” he says, his voice tight.

“You, too.” Then I turn to where Memphis is tugging my suitcase out of the trunk. “Just the suitcase. I only have a few other things and they can wait until tomorrow.”

He shakes his head. “We can get it now. Wes, you mind carrying a box or two?”

I sigh, feeling awkward about having him help when I still haven’t processed the fact he’s here right now.

“So how do you two know each other?” I ask, assuming that Wes and my brother are friends or something.

Memphis pauses, eyeing us both. “Wes works here,” he tells me, hoisting a box out and handing it to Wes, who is suddenly right in my space and still smelling deliciously of dust and sweat and the faint scent of mojito wine cooler.

“Doing what?” I ask, watching as Wes stands silently, looking just as shell-shocked as I feel.

“He’s the chef of the new restaurant.” Memphis tucks a box under his arm. “So he’ll be your boss.”

I blink a few times, all of his words hitting me at once. There’s a restaurant? There’s a chef? Both are news to me. But one thing stands out the most, and my voice grows tight as I glare at my brother.

“He’ll be my what ?”