Chapter Seven Memphis
Chapter Seven
Memphis
I pull out and lower Vivian’s legs to the ground one at a time, bracing her as she wobbles slightly.
My arms and back are killing me, and I’m thankful for the brief reprieve the darkness provides so I can stretch my aching muscles for a second before I flip on the lights. Then I reach for the switch somewhere along the wall, squinting at the harsh brightness once I find it, my eyes unaccustomed to it after so long in the dark.
“You couldn’t have waited until I put my clothes back on?” she asks teasingly.
I rake my eyes over her, taking in her very disheveled state—her jeans and panties on the floor around one ankle, one shoe missing, her top and bra tugged down, her breasts exposed, her mane of hair wild around her face where her mascara is smudged and her cheeks are flushed.
Fuck, it’s sexy as hell looking at her and knowing I did that.
And I love it even more that she stands there with confidence, not caring in the slightest.
“Why would I want to wait?” I tease back. “The point was so I could see you naked with the lights on.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there, and I don’t miss the way her eyes flick up and down as I tug off the condom and tuck myself back into my pants.
“Easy to say when you’re still mostly dressed.”
I shrug, grabbing a tissue and chucking the condom in the trash. “Next time, I’ll make sure I’m completely in the buff.”
It’s meant as a joke, but inwardly I cringe.
Next time?
Where did that come from?
This was a one-time thing, a release that we both needed.
There will be no next time. I barely had time for this .
But I don’t like that thought, either.
Vivian redresses, hopefully oblivious to what’s going on in my mind. Only a minute or two passes before we’re both fully clothed again, looking not much worse for the wear.
“Where are we, exactly?” she asks, as she sits on the little couch and slips on her heeled boot.
“Just a break room. It doesn’t get used a lot.”
“And you know this ... how?”
I grin but don’t say anything, crossing my arms instead.
Vivian watches me with a playful expression. “Memphis! Have I been added to your break room notch count?”
I purse my lips and huff out a breath. “I am not touching that question with a ten-foot pole.”
There have only been two other women I’ve brought back here over the years, but it feels like the kind of information that will get me in trouble, regardless of what the number is.
“Well, thanks for that.” She’s putting her hair up into a messy bun as she says it, and I can’t help wishing she’d have left it down and wild so everyone would see just how mussed I made her. “You took the whole ‘splitting me in half’ thing seriously, and I commend the effort.”
I blink twice, then can’t help when I tumble into a bit of laughter, her casual attitude throwing me off guard.
“You are ... ridiculous,” I finally say. “And same to you. Thanks for the good time.”
She giggles as she looks at her reflection in a mirror on the wall, swiping at her smudged mascara. Then she looks at me and smiles, and something inside my chest thuds. Hard.
I clear my throat, ignoring it, and turn to tug the door open. Both of us walk out into the hallway and back into the main bar.
My friends are still at the pool table, and I consider rejoining them for a brief second before deciding that it’s probably time to head home.
“Do you need a ride?” I ask Vivian as we both make our way out the front door and on to Main Street. The late-summer air is damp and cool, and this late on a Sunday evening, nobody is really out in town anymore.
“Nah, I’m down at the Firehouse,” she says, hitching her thumb down the street toward where the bed-and-breakfast sits at the very end.
“That’s right. Well ... Have a good night, then.”
She surprises me, stepping forward and slipping her hand behind my neck. Then tugging me down and bringing our mouths together.
I don’t hesitate. I let myself enjoy the kiss and the way it feels to slip my arms around her waist and pull her against my body.
It’s easy. Natural.
Like breathing. Like blinking. Like falling asleep.
It’s also too short, and when Vivian pulls back, her eyes slightly hooded like she could go for another round, I find myself wishing that she would invite me back to her hotel. Wishing that we were already in her room so we could roll over and go again in the middle of the night.
The realization is unwanted. I take a step away from her, turning my head to look up and down the street as something unfamiliar begins to bubble underneath my skin.
“Look, Vivian,” I start, not even knowing exactly what I want to say, but still certain that I need to say ... something.
“Wow. That was fast.”
I tilt my head to the side in confusion, not sure I heard her correctly. “What?”
“It’s been less than five minutes, and you’re already breaking out the this can’t go anywhere speech.”
I’m a bit stunned, to be honest. Partially because I didn’t realize I was so transparent, but also because I don’t like that she was able to read me so easily.
“I feel like ... I don’t want what just happened to get back to Murphy,” I finally say, my response clearly a cop-out. “I don’t think she’d handle it well.”
I’m even more surprised when Vivian laughs.
“ She won’t handle it well, or you’re not handling it well?”
“Fine. I’m not handling it well. Happy?” I ask, my tone growing exasperated. “I don’t want us scratching an itch and creating something more complicated when I really don’t have the time for it. And you kissing me like that in the middle of the street is a recipe for ‘more complicated.’”
“You don’t have to worry about me wanting anything more from you than what you’ve given me,” she replies. “I wanted to be fucked, and that’s what you did. Thank you.”
She says it almost casually, her little wallet thing tucked under her arm and her hands in her pockets. But I don’t miss the little bit of hurt in her expression.
I grit my teeth and let out a long sigh.
“Are you sure you don’t need a ride?” I ask, feeling even worse now about sending her walking down the street in the evening, alone. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t ask.”
She gives me a tight smile. “Memphis, in this moment, I wouldn’t ask you for the time. Have a nice night.”
Then she turns, striding off down the tree-lined street in the direction of the Firehouse.
My gaze drops to her ass as she goes. I bite out a curse at my own weakness before heading in the opposite direction, making for where my truck is parked closer to the highway.
I hop in and slam the door, turning the key and revving up the ignition.
But then I sit there for a few minutes, staring straight ahead, unseeing.
I’m sure I could have handled that better, but I ... didn’t know how. And telling her I didn’t want things to be more complicated felt like the best choice.
It was honest, but also easier than explaining to her all the little things floating around in the back of my mind.
Of course I don’t want Murphy to find out I slept with Vivian, but it’s about so much more than just my sister hearing that I hooked up with someone she’s friends with.
Vivian is her best friend. The confidante she’s looked to for years. The person she has turned to when she felt like she didn’t have anyone else. When she felt like she was alone. When she felt like I was the one letting her down.
Even though I might not be the most sensitive guy in the world, it’s no secret that Murphy wants things between us to be better, for us to be closer. And I do, too.
And that’s just the Murphy situation.
That doesn’t even touch on the fact that I don’t have any fucking time right now. Not when I have this much on my plate. When I’m already struggling to keep it all together.
But I can’t explain something like that to Vivian.
Because who sits down with a one-night stand and says, This can’t happen again because my vineyard is on the brink of foreclosure ?
It sounds like bullshit. It sounds like the weirdest, most random excuse in the world.
Even though it’s not.
Every single day, I spend every moment that I can trying to repair things. Trying to find the magic pill that will solve all our problems and bring the vineyard back to its former glory. Searching for every single opportunity to level things out.
I. Don’t. Have. Time.
Not for anything that isn’t directly related to work.
Not for anything personal.
Maybe that makes me an asshole.
But I’m okay with that.
So, even though I didn’t need to handle things like that with Vivian, it’s easier to cut things off at the knees. Make sure she knows nothing else between us can happen again.
No matter how desperately I might want it to.
And that’s probably the most infuriating part of it all.
The following morning, my father and I drive the thirty minutes out to the Trager farm to pick up the produce order for this week’s restaurant menu.
Normally, the farms that service our kitchen deliver directly to us on a rotating schedule. But the Tragers are having issues with their trucks this week, and so we agreed to do our own collection.
It’s not ideal, since we have a lot going on. Harvest begins next week, but sometimes you have to reprioritize. And since the restaurant is bringing in the majority of our profit right now, stepping in to handle a delivery is one of those things that has to get done.
“You seen Keith recently?” I ask my dad as we pull out of the drive and head east.
My father and Keith Trager have been friends since they were kids. They might not get together regularly, but I know their friendship is important to my father. His daughter, Quinn, was best friends with Murphy when they were growing up, and our families used to do a lot together.
Not so much over the past few years, though.
My dad shakes his head. “Not in a couple months, no. Not since ... maybe since the restaurant opened.”
“We should do something,” I find myself suggesting. “With the Tragers, I mean. Invite them over for dinner at the house.”
It’s not an ideal time to add anything else to my schedule that will pull me away from work, but it still feels like the right call.
Dad gives me a friendly smile and pats my shoulder. “That sounds like a great idea, son.”
We shoot the shit a little bit, discussing the likelihood that the Giants will make the playoffs—low—and the possibility that we’ll get in a full harvest without a storm this year—high. Things between my dad and I can get a little tense, but we can still slip into casual conversation when the pressures of work take a back seat for a few minutes, even if it is a tad superficial.
Eventually, we pull down the long dirt road that leads to the Trager family’s farm, coming to a stop outside their big white barn.
“Hey, guys,” Keith calls down to us from the back of a refrigerated box truck parked outside the barn doors. He hops out, leaving a few other crew members to continue working as he crosses to us.
“Good to see you, Keith,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Hey, bud,” my dad says.
“Hey, Jackie.” Keith embraces my dad briefly, the two slapping each other on the back before pulling away. “Sorry to make things difficult this week,” he adds, thumbing in the direction of where I now realize the workers are unloading boxes of produce. “The truck won’t stay cool once we start driving, so we’re trying to do single runs at a time to avoid opening the doors and letting all the cool air out. Appreciate you coming out. We should have it all resolved by your next delivery.”
I pat Keith on the back. “Hey, it’s not a problem.”
Dad and I tug on some gloves and head over to the stacks of cardboard crates filled with produce. We hoist them onto our shoulders two at a time and carry them over to the bed of the truck. It doesn’t take very long with the help of Keith and his guys, and then we’re closing the gate and climbing back into the cab.
“I hope things get sorted out soon,” I call over to Keith as we wave goodbye. “Let us know if we can do anything.”
“I ’preciate ya!” he calls back, giving a little wave. Then he taps the back of our truck, sending us off.
We’re on the road for less than ten minutes when my dad speaks.
“I think their farm might be at risk of going under.”
I look to him, taking in his tight expression. “Why? Did he say something to you?”
My dad shakes his head. “No. It’s just a feeling. I know Keith, better than anyone. He seems ... worried.”
“But is there something that would make you think their whole farm might go under? I mean, that would be a huge deal. I can’t imagine Keith wouldn’t talk to you about it, right?”
“Keith’s a kind man, but he’s also a proud one,” he eventually says, his gaze out the window. “And sometimes, you feel like there’s only so much you can do.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes, and when he doesn’t say anything else, I decide not to prod further.
Part of me wonders if my dad is thinking of his own pride more than Keith’s. Even though we work together every day, that is not a conversation my father and I will probably ever have, especially when that pride is still a living, breathing thing.
At the end of last year, Dad lined up a buyer, planning to sell off the vineyard to some wealthy family that would probably see the operation as some weird pet project. I’d been shocked by the development and begged him to let me try to salvage things before he made a move. That’s when I pitched him the idea of the restaurant, something that I’d only been ruminating on until there was a reason to throw it out there.
He relented, but with a time frame and a budget. He gave me a year and $50,000.
From ideation to construction to opening several months ago, it’s been eight months. Thankfully, he hasn’t brought up the idea of selling again, but I don’t doubt it’s somewhere in the back of his mind. It’s an easy solution. One that allows him to pass the responsibility to someone else without having to face how he nearly ran the entire business into the ground.
Sure, the economy will always play a little bit of a role in success, but so does learning to adapt in an ever-changing market, or making smart choices when it comes to hiring and improving technology. Or even just knowing how to manage the finances and pay attention to the bottom dollar. All things my dad struggled with.
I’ll never understand why he didn’t ask for help. Why we all couldn’t have worked on remedying things together , back before we were in such dire straits.
But I don’t have the same type of bullish pride that my father has.
While my dad would rather turn a blind eye to his own mistakes and never admit how he failed, I’m able to very clearly address both.
I’m bossy, sure. That’s a fault of mine.
But when push comes to shove, I’m more concerned with things being done right than with being right. I’m not so set in my ways that I’m unwilling to reach out for help. Or ask for advice. My sister might disagree, and I can admit it doesn’t always come easily, but I’ve done plenty of both.
If my dad had kept things going the way he had been, our vineyard would have gone tits up less than three months after I took over the finances and operations.
Instead, I faced his poor management head-on, righting as many wrongs as I could in as little time as I could manage. I have plugged up every financial hemorrhage and cleaned up the budget. And I got the restaurant up and running by the skin of my teeth.
But not with the budget my dad gave me. That number wasn’t even enough to hire a chef. So I took out a personal loan, deciding to go all in on saving the vineyard, even if I’ll be paying off that debt until I’m in my eighties.
Leveraging myself was a big risk, but so far, it has proven worth it.
I still worry, though. I worry it’s not enough. I worry that the decisions I’ve made weren’t the right ones. That my choices about how to restructure things will bite me in the ass.
What I refuse to do, though, is lay down and die.
I refuse to let the legacy I’ve worked so hard for crumble when I’ve barely gotten my chance.
I will not let us sink, even if that means I spend every waking moment kicking under the surface so we stay afloat.
It takes about fifteen more minutes to get home, but then another thirty to unload the truck with Dad and Wes. I race back to the house and hop in the shower, then pop into the kitchen to make a quick lunch before I need to head over to the cellar.
I’m stepping in for Naomi for a few days, covering some of her daily winery tours while she and Edgar are getting the property fully prepped for the harvest. Normally, Micah is the tour backup, but they need his hands as well. When harvest season comes around, everyone becomes a jack-of-all-trades. It doesn’t matter who’s doing something as long as it’s getting done.
It’s been a few months since I’ve needed to do a tour, and I’m always on edge right before I have to do anything forward facing, so my attitude is already sour when Vivian walks into the kitchen, looking as radiant and breathtaking as she does every time I see her.
“Do we need to have another conversation about how you’re stalking me?” I ask her, bracing my hands on the island.
She purses her lips, exasperation clear in her expression. “I’m here about last night. Can we talk in your office?”
“There’s nothing we need to talk about, Vivian.” I wipe my hands on a paper towel and chuck it in the trash. “I think we said enough, don’t you?”
We also don’t need to go anywhere more private, though I don’t say that part out loud.
“Well, tough. I have something important to say, and you are going to stand there and listen to me say it.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. The shit she says.
“Sorry. Can’t right now.” I glance at my watch. “Heading off to do a winery tour.”
She opens her mouth but I speak again, cutting her off.
“And the harvest begins next week, so all of my free time is wrapped up in covering these tours, in case you’re hoping to ambush me later.” I grin at her. “Or tomorrow. You seem like the type.”
At that she rolls her eyes, and as I stalk from the kitchen, I hear her call out from behind me.
“I’m definitely the type, Memphis! I’ll be seeing you soon!”
I shake my head, unable to wipe the stupid smile off my face.
How is it that I can be so exasperated by her and so enamored with her at the same time?
The truth is that there is a part of me that wants to know what Vivian has to say. But that’s only because a part of me hopes she’ll bulldoze through my decision to keep her at arm’s length. At ten-foot pole length. At football field length.
That we might end up hot and sweaty together again.
My neck goes hot at the memory of last night.
God, how it felt pumping inside her. The way her hands gripped my body, battling for control. Fuck, even just the tangle of our tongues.
If Vivian felt even half of what I did in that break room last night, I can only guess that’s what it is she wants to talk to me about.
And I don’t want to hear it.
Because it would be too easy to find myself giving in to that desire to be with her again.