Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Darcy
I ’d always found my morning run around the vineyard to be the best way to start my day. It took me away from the pressures of life and allowed me to unburden myself, so the last thing I expected this morning was to run into him , El Diablo—the man who was creating all the problems from which I wanted to escape.
I was happy I didn’t wake up with the man on my mind. I’d let it all go after I returned to my room and started reading up on Titus Hawk, the billionaire tycoon who’d recently moved to California. He and his brothers, who were known for their fancy hotels and other lavish real estate, were here because they recently partnered up with none other than James Mitchell. It was only a matter of weeks before the company was soaring through the roof with record growth and establishing an entirely new client base.
Titus, Colton, and Wyatt Hawk were just as gorgeous as the next male model, which seemed to be a perplexing trend amongst these types of guys. I couldn’t help but wonder about this new generation of billionaires and how these playboys were coming into so much money. Of course, many were trust fund kids, actively doing nothing but spending their parents’ cash, but those aren’t the ones I was curious about. The Adonis types who came from nowhere and had the Midas touch were the ones I was interested in, and I wanted to write about them. They were all unnaturally gorgeous, sure, but they also had to be extremely intelligent to be so successful in all their ventures. My only issue with selling that to the magazine was that the billionaire who owned it was an ugly troll who might not want to read about the fresh new meat in town.
“So?” my mom asked with a question in her voice. “I heard Mr. Aster met you up on the hillside this morning.” She licked the jam off her finger after making her toast.
“Sure, yeah,” I said, pulling a mug out of the cabinet and walking over to the freshly brewed coffee I’d started before I jumped in the shower.
“Well, is he as handsome in the morning as in the evening?”
I turned with my hot cup of coffee, walked over to the bar stool lined up with three others on the other side of the enormous kitchen island, and took a sip.
“Mom,” I started, not knowing how to break this to her, “I know that you love a good love story.”
“Well, your father and I have one, and I have been longing for the day you will, too,” she said, smiling and tucking a frizzy curl behind her ear.
“That’s very cute, but times are different now, and Dad wasn’t a complete asshole billionaire who hated everything about your home. So,” I smirked at her, “let’s just say that you’re barking up the wrong tree for a sweet little love story with the man sent here to—wait. What was the analogy he used last night?” I stopped, pretending to search for the right term. “Was it something about being sent here to serve a prison sentence…or about hell on earth?” I blew out a breath. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s not here to rescue your daughter; he’s here for your winery.”
“You never know,” she said.
“You know, I should be irritated with you for thinking this way, but I love how much of a hopeless romantic you are.”
She walked over and touched the tiny dimple on my chin. “I know you would, but you shouldn’t discount the possibility that?—”
“Mom,” I interrupted her, eyes darting over her shoulder to where the man she would drag me down the aisle to marry in a heartbeat was walking into the kitchen. “Easy,” I said with some reproach in my voice.
“Good morning,” he announced, entering the kitchen looking lost with no idea what to do with himself.
I took another sip of my coffee, studying him. He was a powerful man but also weak in many ways, one of those ways being how he entered this kitchen, doing half-turns like a five-year-old looking for his mother in a crowd. I could only guess he was looking around and wondering why his breakfast wasn’t being held out on a silver tray by servants for him to take back to the rooms he hated.
“Mr. Aster,” my mom said, “can I help you find something? Anything? I’ll have Antonio make you anything you would like?—”
“Antonio isn’t needed, ma’am,” he said. “I’m merely looking for your espresso machine.”
I closed my eyes in humor and irritation. Of course, he needed an espresso machine.
My mom seemed embarrassed and lost for words, like she’d let down the King of England again, so I decided to give her a moment to gather herself and help the man out.
“There’s coffee over there. I just brewed it,” I pointed to the coffee machine. “But if you desire an espresso, tiny espresso cup and all,” I smiled my smart-ass smile while his dark eyes studied mine, “you’re not going to find that here. That machine is in the tasting room where we begin tours and such. Steph is the one who can help you with that.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, frowning and turning to the coffee maker. “Do you have any mugs, or are those in the reception portion of the wine-tasting building as well?”
“Right here, Mr. Aster,” my mom hurried to the cabinet to give the man a mug. Hopefully, regular coffee would provide enough caffeine before he made his way to the wine-tasting rooms and reception area of the vineyard to give his critique.
“Thank you, and please, just call me Sebastian,” he said, eyeing me with humor, given his remarks from last night when he gave me a crash course on last names and what he preferred to be called when he allowed it.
“Not a problem,” Mom answered, smiling, then looking at me. “I’m going to get the yoga studio ready for pregnancy yoga today. I’ll be doing classes all day, so you won’t see me until late tonight unless you want to join any of them?”
Sebastian’s curious expression instantly darted my way, probably wondering if my mother had suggested pregnancy yoga for any other reason than for me to know she’d be gone all day.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, shamelessly allowing the man’s mind to wonder. “Love ya, Mom.”
She gave me a quick kiss on my cheek, then floated out of the kitchen like the bohemian butterfly she was.
I’d grown weary of her walking around on eggshells because of this prick. I didn’t like this fake version of herself that she’d adopted once this man stormed into our home, making his insults and demands.
“You’re pregnant?” he asked, shockingly sitting at the counter with me.
Three barstools away, of course.
“Wouldn’t you love to know?” I answered, taking another sip before my coffee became officially lukewarm and disgusting.
He eyed my coffee. “Well, if you are, you should probably reduce your caffeine intake,” he arched an eyebrow at my offensive-to-pregnant-women coffee mug.
“Last I recall, you aren’t the father of my child, so I would appreciate it if you kept your opinions about my activities to yourself and stayed focused on your task at hand.”
He grinned. “I’m glad you and I got off to a decent start this morning after yesterday’s nonsense,” he offered, taking another sip of his coffee. “However, the longer the sun stays up, the quicker that all seems to deteriorate with you.”
“No,” I said. “I’m also happy we weren’t enemies this morning; however, you seem quite opinionated about everything.”
“How so?” he questioned.
I gave him a look of question, “How so? Well, for starters, my mom invited me to yoga, and the next thing I know, I’m ordered to watch my caffeine intake as if I’m carrying your child.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he offered. “I just think it would be wise, for the baby’s sake, of course.”
“Well, the unborn child I’m not carrying appreciates your concern,” I said with a laugh. “The real issue here is your reaction if I were pregnant. Why would you feel it necessary to tell some pregnant woman you don’t even know what she can and cannot drink?”
I could see him growing flustered, and I understood why. It was easy to see that no one had ever questioned this man without feeling stupid for doing so. However, I didn’t feel stupid for speaking up about his behavior because he was being rude. He was intrusive and opinionated, and we didn’t know each other remotely well enough for him to speak to me about such a personal thing, real or not.
He was the co-owner of this place, and that was it. He didn’t own me, and whether my parents believed it or not, he didn’t own them either.
“We come from two different worlds, Ms. Burke,” he said, intentionally using formalities. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand that I was merely being friendly with my suggestions. My late wife was terrified to do anything that might harm our daughter while she was pregnant, and I’m afraid I allowed those memories and old habits to surface when I wrongly assumed you were carrying a child.”
His comment immediately disarmed me, and I instantly regretted making the man explain himself to me. I didn’t feel bad about calling him out, but the sadness in his expression when he spoke about the memory of his late wife carrying their child broke my heart. I damn near pulled a Martina Burke and hugged the man to chase away the grief I saw manifest for a few seconds, but thank God I had control over my emotions, unlike my mother. I’m sure that if I would’ve made a move to comfort him in any way, he would’ve shaken me off him like a bad dream.
“I’m sorry,” I managed after searching for the right response. “I heard she was a lovely woman.”
“How would you have heard that?” he questioned. He didn’t sound too dickish, but there was a hint of irritation in his voice.
Because I write columns about you rich folks, and I’m trying to decide if I even want to consume myself with thoughts of you to write about your ass. And yes, you would hate to know I am the Billionaire Gossip columnist…
“Oh, I’m friends with the Mitchells,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. I met Avery Mitchell at a gala I’d attended two years ago.
She was a blast to hang around. Now and then, Avery and I would get together for lunch dates when I was in LA, and I’d even gone out to dinner with her and her friends for a few girls’ nights. We weren’t best friends, but we always had a good time when we got together. I even wrote an article on her husband, Jim— Mr. Mitchell —about how he’d successfully warded off an angry CEO trying to tear down many of Jim’s subsidiaries to cover up his own misdeeds.
Jim was a very private person, but since Avery and I were friends—and she insisted he allow it—he welcomed me into their home for the interview. He was a good guy, direct and polite, but that was pretty much my extent of friendship with the Mitchells.
“Jim didn’t seem remotely interested in my family and even less concerned about my personal life,” he responded. He was probably trying to catch me making things out to be more than they were when it came to knowing Jim Mitchell.
“That’s not surprising,” I answered. “However, word gets around, and because of that, I heard that your wife was a lovely woman, and her early death was beyond tragic—you know what?” I stopped myself, hopefully while I was ahead. “I was just trying to pay you a compliment.”
A compliment? Compliments are for outfits, not dead wives, you idiot! I scolded myself. As if the subject wasn’t touchy enough, I just had to talk about his dearly departed wife.
His brow furrowed and he frowned with distant, dark eyes.
“Allow me to make myself very clear, Ms. Burke,” he said, his tone icy and prickly, “I do not now, nor will I ever, need a compliment from you or anyone else,” he looked intently into my eyes. “I appreciate your kind words about my late wife, and while it is my fault she was brought up in conversation at all, I prefer not to speak about her with people who didn’t know her and those whom I do not know at all.”
“Very well,” I met his nasty mood with one of my own. “I won’t mention anything about her. But this was only brought up because you were informing me about how I should?—”
“I was out of line for that,” he said, stoic and completely done with this conversation. Totally shut down. Gone. Ready to bounce the hell out of this kitchen.
Maybe he really did need that espresso.
He stood up, and I wanted to say something, but I felt it was best to allow the man to retreat. This constant back-and-forth would land one of us on a plane out of California, and I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be the one to go. This man was obviously not going to leave California until his job was done here, and I wasn’t trying to be some hero to charm the miserable fucker. So, I would gladly take off until he wrapped things up. I could go on assignment to Martha’s Vineyard or somewhere and do some write-ups on the innumerable socialites there.
All I knew was that the best place for me was to be out of this guy’s firing range. I wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t your average stuck-up prick…he was a very sad, grieving one. And it was evident that no one was helping him get through any of the stages. His wife had been gone for over a year, and usually, a man with his looks and status would’ve probably remarried by now. But not him.
He stood and looked over at me with a half-smile. “Thank you for the coffee,” was all he said before he walked away from the kitchen, his mind seemingly elsewhere as I heard him exhale deeply and run a hand through his hair.
I wanted to be irritated with him, but I could sense the man was broken. His parents probably didn’t know how to deal with him being lost like this—lost in the sense that he wasn’t sitting as the chairman of the Aster Family board and preparing to rule the world in his dad’s place when the day came.
Instead of knowing how or attempting to help him, I had a feeling they sent his ass out here to snap him out of the grief- stricken state he was in. And why wouldn’t they? Those families had nannies raising their kids, and once they were of age, they were shipped off to boarding school. They weren’t known for being hands-on parents.
My lips twisted as I began to feel torn. Part of me wished I could be there for him, but not in the way one might think. It was more of an instinct to help a wounded animal. Unfortunately, strange, wounded animals tended to bite you even when you weren’t the one who inflicted their pain, and I got the feeling the same would happen in this instance. However, being my mother’s daughter and all, I wouldn’t rest easy knowing someone was lost in grief. I was no grief counselor by any means, and I was under no delusion that I was a savior here, but perhaps a bit more kindness and a little less moodiness from me might go a long way in encouraging the same from him. I’d seen him this morning as he watched the sunrise in awe, and I knew there had to be some glimmer of kindness in there somewhere. If the remodel of every building on this property didn’t bring it out, maybe some of Mom’s spiritual yoga classes would.