Chapter 34
STUFFED: RUNNER STOPPED IMMEDIATELY AT LINE OF SCRIMMAGE.
Kent is a whole different world from the parts of England I’ve traveled to in the past. The air feels softer.
In some ways, it reminds me of that perfect first bite of a fresh apple, crisp with a faint sweetness that isn’t replicated anywhere else.
The wildflowers and distant sea add to the persistent freshness that wafts through the air as Troy walks beside me through the rows of vines that stretch in every direction as if he’s been here a hundred times instead of this being his first visit.
He squeezes my hand, understanding my awe. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible.”
“Aren’t you glad I convinced you to dress casually?” He teases as my boot gets caught in some mud just before we enter the tasting house.
I’m about to tease him about catching a damsel in distress when our guide—Chelsea Harcourt, the vineyard’s owner—makes her appearance.
She’s beautiful in a refined British way that makes me think her lineage must contain royal blood.
Her outfit also doesn’t comprise dark mud-caked jeans.
No, she’s wearing a Bottega Veneta linen dress with her hair swept up in what must be a real pearl clip, and diamond studs that wink when she turns her head toward Troy and smiles.
Coming around the counter, she takes his extended hand with both of hers. “Troy Walsh. It’s been far too long since I invited you during the vintners convention in Munich.”
“Chelsea. Good to see you again. I’d like to introduce you to—”
Her face loses its warmth the second her brown eyes land on me, and her voice noticeably cools. “Maya Cox. Of course, I’ve heard of you.”
Troy doesn’t pick up on either her nuanced insult or my reaction as Chelsea turns the charm back on. “When Corbin told me you would be visiting, we were thrilled. It’s not every day we get someone with your family’s lineage interested in English reds.”
I listen to her prattle on for a few moments and try to dissect what it is about this woman that bothers me.
Is it because I didn’t grow up in this world of influence?
No, I have more confidence than that. Is it me being self-conscious of the fact she speaks wine so easily?
No, because with all my travel, I follow the conversation fairly easily.
Then I realize it’s the fact that she’s cut me out of the conversation completely. It’s her use of “we” meaning her, Troy, and some man named “Corbin,” without including me when I’m standing right here holding his hand that grates.
I feel stupid. Troy and I haven’t labeled what we are, and here I am having a moment where my blue eyes are turning bright green all because Chelsea’s gracious.
Polite. But I can’t quite prevent my teeth grinding every time she looks at him—forget about when she lays her hands on his arm like she’s tenderizing every inch of her next meal.
Troy doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he’s too kind and tactful to make a scene. “Figured it was time to see how you’re pulling off pinot in this climate.”
“We make do,” she says, eyes lingering on him in a way that makes it clear she’s thinking about more than wine. Chelsea saunters toward the back room, hips swaying. “Follow me, and I’ll show you where the magic starts.”
The magic.
It’s strange the things that stay with you. It’s not always the sound of laughter, or a text you dismiss. Sometimes, it’s a phrase that lands like a slap.
Chelsea’s brief flirtation triggers a flashback I never expected to have, certainly not while Troy’s grounding me.
“How much longer do we have to stay?” I murmur to Bryce. “I only landed a few hours ago, and my time zones are completely messed up.”
“You’re amazing for even showing up.” He drags a glass of champagne down the open back of my dress. “Just a few more minutes.”
That’s when she showed up.
In between sips of champagne to prevent me from being rude enough to yawn, I recall her being blonde, polished, and in PR. But I remember her laughing at something Bryce said before offering, “Follow me. I’ll show you how we make the magic happen.”
He handed me his drink and pleaded, “Just a few minutes, babe. Then we’ll go home.”
I pressed a kiss onto his cheek and agreed.
Hearing Chelsea say something so similar sets off internal alarm bells. Now, looking back, I know exactly what emotions should have gone along with what happened that night—humiliation and anger while someone tried to reach for what’s supposedly yours.
Only this time, I have no claim on the man beside me.
Do I?
I subdue the thought and let the tug of his hand pull me back into step next to Troy as Chelsea begins her tour.
She’s good at this—confident in her product.
I know I should pay attention, but I’m too distracted by the way she leans into Troy.
Every time she does, something sharp and ugly twists in my gut.
Then, she sends a lance through my heart as she guides us toward a sorting table where she propositions him right in front of me. “So, how long are you in the country? Perhaps we can arrange a private tasting before you head home?”
I twist my head to the side, collecting the pieces of the wall I’ve let Troy tumble over like toy blocks to me.
Before I can gather more than just a handful, he responds.
It’s smooth and riddled with charm, as expected.
But it’s the words that stop me cold. “We appreciate the offer, Chelsea, but I promised my girlfriend a few days in London before we return home.”
All my anxiety and jealousy drain out of me so quickly, I feel dizzy. Chelsea offers me a tight smile. “Of course. My apologies. I didn’t mean to cause a detour in your schedule.”
“No need,” I murmur. “It’s been lovely touring your operation. It gives me a better appreciation of Tenuta delle Ombre.”
Her eyes flick back and forth between us, assessing. “I see. Let us proceed. Shall we?”
As Chelsea moves briskly forward, with a lot less sashaying, Troy hazards a glance at me. He murmurs low enough for only me to hear. “You okay, uvetta mia?”
I nod, because I will be. But tonight I think it’s time for me and Troy to have an overdue conversation about who we are to each other and where we go from here.
Once we’re nestled in a corner booth at a small pub, Troy brings up the topic we’ve shelved until now. “You were quiet during the tour.”
“Chelsea was doing enough talking for both of us.”
He rolls his eyes. “You mean the very married woman who kept trying to imply I could score a touchdown?”
“I think she had more class than that, Troy,” I admonish him.
“You do?” He’s shocked.
I wait until he’s taken a sip of his Old Speckled Hen. “She was just offering her very ripe fruit at a bargain basement price.”
He snorts his ale through his nose. Even as he’s mopping up the mess, he pins me in place with the directness of his gaze. “I noticed everything. Including how you withdrew. What happened?”
Instead of hiding it, I share with him the flashback that occurred. I conclude with, “I guess it just occurred to me how much I was disrespected right in front of my face. It didn’t occur behind my back.”
Troy tilts his head, studying me intently. “You’re not wrong. She was openly making a play.”
Suddenly, I wish I’d chosen to drink my dinner. I reach for my ale even as I ramble, “She’s charming. Beautiful. Successful—”
He cuts me off. “And she’s not you. She’s not the woman I’ve opened my home and my heart to. She’s not the woman I introduced my family to.”
I lower my pint to the table and look directly at him. On his face is nothing but the truth he just spoke plus a heaping pile of devotion. I just have to be ready to reach for it.
He wants to claim me. To put a title on us. To be with me—even after my heart has been kicked around.
I open my mouth to give him my answer, but he stops me with a swift kiss. “Don’t say yes until you’re one hundred percent sure. Don’t say no if there’s any space for me in your heart.” Troy brushes a curl from my cheek. “When you’re ready, you’ll let me know.”
When his hand finds mine across the table, I know I’m ready for this game to end.
Because there’s so much more to life than playing. There’s living—being in the moment.
And I want both with Troy.