Chapter Eleven MURPHY
Chapter Eleven
M URPHY
Instead of returning to the house, I stomp angrily through the vineyard and over to the wine cellar. I punch in the code Micah used the other day and yank the door open.
I deflate almost instantly. The woody smell of the oak barrels mixing with the different fragrances of wine is somehow like a balm to my injured spirit.
Whenever I was upset when I was younger, I’d go into the wine cellar and hide in the back behind all the barrels, almost like I needed the lower temperatures to cool me off. That old building is gone, replaced by this new one that is taller and filled with more than three hundred barrels, according to Micah. But the feeling is the same, as if the scent does enough on its own to soothe me.
I wander between rows of different vintages, and I can’t help the way my mind replays what just happened with Wes.
The way he watched me.
The way he touched me.
The way I fell apart in his hands.
And how quickly those incredible feelings and emotions turned sour when he shut me down seconds later.
I don’t understand what the hell happened. How we could have been enjoying a moment like that, how he could make me come like that, only to deny moving things further? Was it some weird power trip? Play around with me and then pull away? Keep me wanting more?
I can’t be sure, so I do what any girl would do in similar circumstances.
I grab a bottle of wine and a glass from the display that’s kept stocked for winery tours, and I call my best friend.
“Hello?” she says, her voice groggy.
“I need to talk to you,” I tell her as I drop cross-legged on the ground in the back of the cellar, the cool cement floor quickly seeping through my shorts and chilling my skin.
“Why are you calling me so late?”
I uncork the wine bottle and pour an oversize glass as I talk. “What if I told you that my boss just fingered me to an orgasm in the kitchen of our new restaurant and then refused to let me touch him afterward.”
A beat passes, then I hear Vivian’s voice again, sounding much more awake than she did a few seconds ago. “Girl, tell me everything .”
After I take a long, healthy sip of my cabernet, I do. But I start at the beginning. What happened at the gas station, finding out he was my boss, and the way he’s continued to lure me in only to shut me out. Then the nights at the bench ... and the dirty talk outside his cabin yesterday.
When I’m finished, I’m worried she’s hung up until she clears her throat.
“Say something,” I beg, once I’ve gotten it all out. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“I mean ... What is there to say other than ‘Come-gratulations’?”
“Be serious,” I reply, half laughing.
“I am serious. He gave you one of the best orgasms of your life and barely touched you? Asked for nothing in return? Do you know how rare that is? That hasn’t happened to me in weeks.” There’s a slight pause, and then her voice comes through the speaker much louder as she shouts out, “It must be very nice that your guy is so good at making you come!”
I tug my phone against my chest, giggling. “I hope your neighbors weren’t woken up by your loud ass.”
She laughs. “It would make me feel better knowing I’m not the only one being awoken in the middle of the night.”
I scoff. “V, it is not even midnight.”
“So? I went to bed two hours ago. I’m getting some beauty sleep. I have a meeting with a producer from Humble Roads in the morning.”
“What’s Humble Roads?”
“It’s an indie label,” she tells me, excitement thrumming through her voice. “Apparently they’re very selective, but they’re specifically looking for strong female recording artists. Joanie told me they’re amazing at launching unknowns, so ... we’ll see what happens.”
“God, that’s so amazing. I’m so excited for you!” I hope my smile and happiness for her translates through the phone.
I made her promise me before I moved away that she’d update me on her success. The last thing I’d want is for her to keep things from me because she doesn’t want to hurt me or something stupid like that.
I can be pissed for me and excited for her in the same breath.
“I know you are. And I hope you know that if they sign me, they’ll also be signing all of our amazing cowrites.”
I sigh and lean my head back against the wall, staring up at the wine barrels stacked high and looming above me on racks, my mind flitting over that idea before dismissing it outright.
“Well, don’t be too attached if they tell you to scrap those songs, okay? You don’t owe me anything.”
“Enough about the stupid meeting tomorrow.” Her tone brooks no argument. “I want to get back to this Wes guy.”
I take an unladylike gulp of my wine at her return to our earlier topic.
“What do you think it all means?” I ask her. “There’s something about it that makes me feel slutty.”
“Okay, first of all, we both know you’re not slutty or you’d still be here in LA, amiright ?” her words coming out rapid fire. “And second, we also know you’re not slutty because we denounce the existence and use of that word, amialsoright ?”
My lips turn up at her sass. “Yeah, I know, but it just—”
“No buts,” she interrupts. “You know the kind of woman you are. You know that you can do anything, or be anybody, or do anybody or be anything, and your worth is not impacted. Am. I. Right?”
I smile, my love for Vivian Walsh growing ever larger.
“I wish you had someone there to remind you of these things on a regular basis,” she continues. “Like a me, but not as awesome as me, you know? Because clearly your family aren’t going to be the ones to do it.”
I snort, but the humor isn’t really there, and I take another large sip of my wine.
“Have you hung out with anyone other than your hot boss?”
“Does sitting at a table with vineyard employees and my family count?” I ask, feeling a little embarrassed.
“No, it does not .” Her voice rises slightly. “You need friends, lady. Real friends. People who are going to be in your corner and tell you what a baddie you are.”
I contemplate her words. Do I need a friend? Do I need someone here to remind me of all the things Vivian has been saying?
Maybe.
“Official task for the to-do list!” she enthuses, and I groan.
This is a thing Vivian does all the time. She says it’s how she keeps herself on track for her career, but it always seems like the official tasks she gives to me are never career related.
Typically they revolve around men. And self-care. And being a baddie , which makes me want to laugh just thinking about it.
“Finding a girlfriend that you can invite over for a slumber party.”
I huff a laugh. “I’m twenty-seven, Vivian.”
“So the fuck what?” she replies, and I giggle again. “We spent the night together constantly.”
“That’s because I hated my roommate and you wanted someone who would keep you from eating family-size portions of frozen macaroni.”
Vivian scoffs. “Don’t act like our slumber parties weren’t the literal joy of your life, Miss Hawthorne. I don’t associate with liars.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile is stretched wide on my face.
“I miss you,” I tell her. “A lot.”
“I miss you too, cutie-pie. It’s why I’m getting the girls together to come visit you soon, okay? Don’t think I didn’t notice you’ve been a ghost in that conversation, either.”
My nose wrinkles. “I know, I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to have everyone up here. You know? My life in LA was so different than my life here, and I feel like I need to sort things out with my family before I invite anything from that life to mix and mingle with this one.”
“It better not be because you’re embarrassed of me, Murph. Just because I speak loudly about the fact my boyfriend doesn’t give me orgasms anymore,” she says, yelling the latter part of her sentence loudly again, “doesn’t mean I would do anything to embarrass you in front of your family.”
I cover my face with a hand, trying to control my laughter. I know she’s yelling at her boyfriend somewhere in her apartment, but I can only imagine what her neighbors must think.
“I know, V. I know.”
“Listen, I really do need to get this good sleep, all right? But I’m not kidding about finding a friend, okay? Everyone needs friends.”
I nod, but she can’t see me so I just hum my agreement.
“And keep me posted on the chef. He sounds like fun.”
I laugh, then tell her I love her and say goodbye.
I never had girlfriends like Vivian when I was younger. I was involved in choir and hung out pretty regularly with Quinn and her group of friends, but nothing like this. I’ve never laughed like I do with Vivian. Hell, I didn’t even realize how much I enjoyed laughing until I met her.
It’s hard to realize how much you love someone, and how important they are to you, right before you leave them behind.
I read through the advertisement for what feels like the fifth time, double-checking that I’ve caught any grammatical errors. Once I feel satisfied, I send off the information in a mass email to the list of connections who will help get the word out. From larger, more legitimate sources, like the city’s online employment listings and the high school career counselor, to more personal ones, like some of Dad’s friends who still live around town.
My hope is that we get enough interest to be able to select from the most qualified applicants rather than just hire whoever applies.
But in this economy, you never know.
Clicking off the internet browser, I shift the mouse to the top corner, preparing to set Memphis’s computer to sleep mode when the name of a file on the desktop catches my eye.
Financials.
There’s no real reason for me to go snooping through the vineyard’s finances. Not really.
Except . . .
With his comment the other day about keeping the vineyard from bankruptcy, there’s been a little voice in the back of my mind whispering that things might be a lot more serious than I realize.
So.
I click on it.
It feels like another language. I’ve never been great at math or numbers. Not like Memphis. He took a bunch of classes at the community college to help him manage the business side of things, and I remember my senior year hearing him brag about getting the top grade in his accounting class.
Yuck.
But some sort of understanding of finances would come in handy right now as I peruse a massive spreadsheet that looks to be tracking several years’ worth of finances. The tabs on the bottom go back five years, and if I remember what Micah said correctly, that’s about the time they built up the new cellar and upgraded the warehouse.
When I scroll all the way to the bottom of this year’s page, though, it’s easier to see what the problem is.
Every column has a negative number in bold red.
Even an idiot can deduce that’s probably not a good thing.
And when I look at each of the other pages for the previous years, it’s the same.
But before I can snoop any further, Memphis walks through the door.
“What are you doing?”
I click out of the spreadsheet and put the computer to sleep.
“Just finishing up sending out the hiring ads,” I reply, shocked at how level and cool I sound considering I feel like a spy.
Memphis nods, seemingly appeased, and then we swap spots as I slip out to the other side of the table and he takes a seat.
I eye the door, thinking I got away with my snooping and should bolt. But if something’s wrong with the vineyard ...
Spinning to look back at Memphis, I decide to take the risky route instead.
“Hey, Memphis.”
“Hmm,” he replies, staring at his computer screen.
“How are things going? With the vineyard.”
At that, he looks back to me, his expression serious, then leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
“What do you mean?”
I sort of regret asking now that I have his full attention, but I push on anyway.
“I mean ... Is everything going okay? You mentioned something about keeping the vineyard out of bankruptcy the other day and I was just”—I shrug a shoulder—“wondering.”
There’s a tic in his jaw, and that’s when I realize his entire body looks tense and uncomfortable.
“Things are fine.”
That’s all he says, and I’ve never been less convinced.
But I decide not to push. I mean, if something was seriously wrong, there’s no way Memphis would keep it a secret. There has to be some kind of explanation—a wrong formula or something—in the spreadsheet.
I’m sure that’s it.
Or at least, I’m hoping that’s it.
My brother has already turned his attention back to his computer, so I turn to walk out the door.
“Hey, Murphy,” Memphis calls after me.
I spin, hope and worry both fluttering in my heart. Maybe he’ll actually talk to me. Share what’s really going on.
There’s a risk that comes along with that, though. If he tells me something is seriously wrong, it’s time to roll up my sleeves and help. Whatever it is. And part of me worries I’m still feeling too bitter. I came here because I need a soft-ish place to land, not because I wanted to invest myself fully into the family business again.
“Wes is heading to the Trager farm tomorrow to look at their supply and put in a recurring order for delivery. He needs some extra hands, but I can’t spare anyone from the vines. I need you to go with him.”
Whatever I was hoping Memphis would share isn’t the direction he goes at all. I let out a long sigh, my emotions pinging all over the map.
Of course that’s what Memphis would need me to do. Spend almost an entire day in the car with Wes—the man who is infuriatingly attractive and frustratingly closed off.
“Will that be a problem?”
I sigh again at the sound of Memphis’s brick-wall voice returning.
“No, it won’t be a problem.”
When I wake up in the morning, I text Memphis to ask him when I’m supposed to be meeting Wes. Instead of responding with a time, he just sends me Wes’s number.
Which would have been fine had we just been a boss and employee, or whatever we are. But of course, now it looks like I’ve snooped around trying to get his phone number.
Though I can’t deny the fact that a tiny part of me is glad to have it. Should I ever need it. Or something.
So I text Wes to let him know Memphis is sending me along, and we agree to meet up at the restaurant at ten o’clock, since that’s where the vineyard truck is parked.
He gives me a friendly smile when I arrive, and the butterflies in my stomach take flight.
I still feel confused by what happened between us in the kitchen two nights ago. I’d been planning to spend my Sunday evening doing a little self-care and giving myself a pedicure. But instead, I’d sat on a kitchen counter and let Wes stroke me between my legs until I came.
And then he refused to move forward? Like, what hot-blooded man doesn’t want to get laid? Or at least get a blow job?
Part of me wants to demand an explanation. What possible reason could there be for him touching me but refusing to let me touch him ?
Instead, I return his smile, hop into the truck, and stare blindly out the window as Wes removes tools from the truck bed and places them in the bin on the back of an ATV parked a few feet away.
Then he loads up next to me.
“Mind if I turn on some music?” he asks, and when I shake my head, he reaches over and adjusts the radio. “All right, let’s go.”
The drive out to the Trager farm takes about thirty minutes, and we spend most of it in silence, each of us just staring ahead as some early 2000s punk band plays through the shitty speakers.
The nice thing about the relative silence is that it gives me a chance to just sit and stare out the window, watching plot after plot of farmland pass by as we drive farther into Rosewood.
Even though I never wanted to live here growing up, it wasn’t ever about the area. Not really. I’ve never taken issue with the rolling hills, the quaint but bustling towns, and long rows of grapes that stretched on for what feels like forever. The weather’s decent, if not a little dry, and the sunsets are beautiful.
It’s the reason we came here in the first place that set me and Rosewood at odds. My mother’s death, and my father’s fear of handling two children and a newborn all on his own.
During a time of grief and pain, my brother and I had to also mourn the loss of our house and our friends and the life we had before. Unfortunately, I was just old enough for it to be the most horrible thing in the world, which also meant I was predisposed to hate Rosewood, regardless of how terrible or wonderful it really was when we arrived.
Part of me feels like I’m stuck in that same cycle now that I’ve been forced to return. But this time, I’m not so sure if I’ll ever be able to leave again or if I’ll be destined to stick around, which makes the emotional upheaval feel all the more dramatic.
As a child, this was the place I was forced to come after my mom died.
Now, it’s the place I was forced to come after having someone intentionally ruin any chance I have at following my dreams.
Anybody would hate this town if they were in my shoes.
“I’m sorry about the other night.”
I startle at the sound of Wes’s voice, having been lost in my thoughts for who knows how long. He looks straight ahead, one arm forward, his wrist resting easily on the steering wheel.
“What?”
“I said, I’m sorry about the other night. In the kitchen,” he continues, glancing at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
“What was that?” I prod, wanting answers if he’s willing to share. “Because it feels like ... I mean, were you grossed out by something or not ... turned on or ...?”
I wrinkle my nose at how insecure that makes me sound, but I don’t try to backtrack. Even though I’m not insecure about most things, I am in this moment.
Wes sighs and flicks his blinker, turning us down the dirt lane that leads into the Trager farm. We both jostle at the uneven ground, the wheels bouncing us lightly.
“Part of me feels like I should tell you that I wasn’t turned on. That might make everything easier. At least for you.” He glances at me again. “But it couldn’t be further from the truth. I can’t remember being so turned on in my entire life.”
I give him a look that says I call bullshit . “And that made you ... not want anything to move further?” Confusion lingers heavy in my voice and heart. “Because that makes absolutely zero sense to me.”
He’s quiet for a while, but I get the feeling he’s trying to sort something in his mind. Wes seems similar to Micah in that way, like he wants to fully think something through before he says or does it.
“The only thing I can tell you, Murphy, is that I really need this job.”
Something inside my mind clicks, and my shoulders ease. But I prod him a bit more, just to make sure I’m understanding him correctly.
“You’re pushing me away because you’re worried about Memphis?”
“You can probably get away with doing whatever—or whoever—you want,” Wes replies, and I can’t help the small smile that blooms at what he says. “But I’m disposable. I’m not family. I’m not a close friend or someone who has been working for your family for years. And I can’t ...”
He trails off, his voice growing tight.
“I can’t take that kind of risk, Murphy. I’m sorry.”
I stare out the window as we pull up to the massive barn at the end of the lane. Wes brings the truck to a halt and turns off the engine.
“So if we weren’t a boss and employee, and if you weren’t working for my brother ...”
I glance down when I feel something touch my pinkie where my hands are slightly tucked under my thighs. Wes’s hand is right there on the seat, his own finger pressed lightly against mine.
It’s a repeat of how I touched him in the kitchen, and it blends this moment with that one.
“It took everything inside me to stop,” he whispers.
His eyes seem to search mine. It sends a surge of need racing through me, and my heart picks up speed.
I’m not sure whether knowing his true thoughts and feelings makes everything better or worse. It feels good to know I wasn’t being rejected. But it also feels like the absolute worst torture to know we both want something to happen that won’t because circumstances are in the way.
I want so desperately to lean in and kiss him. To taste his lips and give us both what we’ve been craving since that night we first met.
My face must give away the fact I have a lot going on inside my head, because Wes’s gaze is just as hungry. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. But a tap on the truck jerks us both out of the moment.
Keith Trager is standing by the front bumper, grinning at us. I wave hello, a tight smile on my face, and he waves in return.
Then I take a deep breath and let it out.
“Let’s get to work,” I tell Wes.
He nods, and we push our doors open and hop out of the truck.
“Well, look at you, Miss Murphy!” Keith says, his smile growing as I round the front to give him a hug. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“Just got back to town,” I reply. “Gonna be helping with the new restaurant.”
“That’s just great. I bet your pops is really glad to have you around, helping out.”
I smile, but don’t address what he said. If only he knew how my dad has been ignoring me since I’ve gotten back.
“How’s Quinn doing?” I ask.
At the mention of his daughter, Keith beams at me. “Ah, she’s doing great. She’s pregnant, you know. Seven months.”
“I saw something about that online. Congratulations.” I’m tugging some hair that has blown into my face back behind my ear when a thought occurs to me. “Hey, does she still have the same number?”
He nods. “Sure does.”
I grin. “I’ve been thinking I might give her a call.”
Keith gives me a fatherly look at that. “Aw, you know I bet she’d love that. You two were thick as thieves growing up. I’m sure it’ll be fun shootin’ the shit and catching up on old times.”
I’m not so sure about the whole thick as thieves thing, but he’s right that it will be nice to catch up. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to tick making a friend off the official task list.
Keith turns to look at Wes, who’s just joined us at the front of the truck. “And you must be the new chef. Keith Trager, nice to meet you.”
“Wesley Hart. Nice to meet you as well.” Wes shakes the man’s hand. “I believe Memphis spoke with you about giving me a tour of the farm and the produce you harvest. I have a menu I’m finalizing for the restaurant, using almost exclusively local produce and protein. Sourcing as many of those items from you as possible would be wonderful.”
Something softens in Keith’s grin. “Isn’t that nice,” he says. “You’re doing that farm-to-table stuff we always hear about on HGTV.”
Wes chuckles. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I’ve got lots for you to look at,” Keith says, turning to walk toward the barn and waving at us to follow. “We sell about eighty percent of our harvests to grocery stores, since they generally order large quantities. But we have a handful of restaurants and other businesses that put in regular orders as well, so we’re definitely familiar with the distribution lines. There’s a local guy who handles the deliveries, and I can get you in contact with him if you end up wanting to put in an order.”
Keith motions for us to join him on a golf cart parked next to the barn, and then we’re riding along a dirt path that splits the farm.
I’ve been to the Trager farm plenty of times growing up to hang out with Quinn. Plus, Dad and Keith have known each other since they were in primary school, and both grew up in families that tended to land. But it’s been a while since I’ve been here, and I love getting a chance to drive around and see everything again.
I listen quietly as Keith points out the different crops to Wes, and the two discuss the restaurant menu and what the Trager farm might be able to provide during different times of the year.
I didn’t realize that Wes was doing a farm-to-table menu. Most of the places I’ve waitressed at have been highly processed chains, though the Italian place I worked at most recently was a lot pricier and had better ingredients.
“Why farm to table?” I ask him a little while later as we walk behind Keith toward a row of harvest trailers. “Seems a lot more complicated.”
“It is,” Wes says, “but my mentor was always preaching about it. It’s not only better ingredients, it also serves the community where the restaurant is located in a more direct way. Plenty of farms are now completely reliant upon major corporations that undercut them on pricing, and sourcing local means I get to give our dollars directly to my neighbor instead of a big-box store.”
I’m surprised at his answer, but not because I doubt him. Everything he says makes sense and meshes with the things I heard growing up about not only our vineyard but also the local farms and crops. I’m surprised because I pegged Wes as a kind of bad-boy-chef type. Someone who might do well on those cooking shows on TV. A little rugged, a little charming, good with a knife, and hot as hell.
But really, it sounds like he’s a softy at heart. Someone who cares about small business and the environment. The type of person who wants to care for his neighbor over self-profit.
The more I get to know him, the more he shows me who he is. And the more he gives me, the closer I want to get.
Shit.