Love You Too (Buttercup Hill #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

B eatrix

“Beatrix, can we squeeze in a large party tonight at the restaurant? It’s for the mayor.”

Check!

“Can you make a decision on the fabric for the lobby chairs at the inn? And approve the menu changes at the café? And choose a stain for the floors, but make the work happen while we’re closed?”

Check, check, and OMG, check!

I am the queen of multitasking, the grand dame of juggling, the duchess of details. Really, I should have a crown.

Or a big, fat pillow because I’m freakin’ exhausted.

There’s no crown or flower wreath with ribbons hanging down my back. No long sundress. No casual, easy, relaxed vibe. Design and construction are moving at the pace of an injured slug, and I’m a frazzled, hot mess.

“Will the inn be open in time for my wedding?” My younger sister, PJ—short for Penelope June—twirls her dark, wavy hair around a finger and blinks meaningfully at me as I bury my face in the foam of my latte.

So. Not. Check!

“Hey, do you see that butterfly on the wall over there? Isn’t it pretty?” I point, and her grimace says she’s not falling for my distraction. Her question has only one answer, so I nod and smile, rather than force myself to lie.

Stress etched on her face, she stands in my office above Butter and Rosemary, the gourmet restaurant at our family winery, Buttercup Hill. Her wedding is set for early January, five months from now, and the inn on our property is in shambles. Water damage from a faulty fire sprinkler system ruined furniture, floors, and paint, so we had to shutter one of our best revenue sources. I had the idea of using the repairs as an excuse for a full-scale renovation to make the place a vineyard haven, a gem in the wine country.

Totally on-brand for me. My plate is already full, but I can’t resist a new project. Can’t fight the shiny glimmer of a design challenge.

My hair pulls at my temples in a tight ponytail that’s already giving me a headache. It looks professional, with a couple of intentional loose pieces framing my face to make me appear softer. Kinder. Less likely to bite someone’s head off for placing a fork at the wrong angle next to a plate in our Michelin-starred restaurant. Less likely to bark at my sister, who doesn’t deserve my ire when she’s just stressed and worried about her wedding. Though I do wish she’d have a little more faith in my ability to pull off the wedding of her dreams at the inn.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve got it covered. Go hug your sweet fiancé, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” My sister leaves, reassured, and I head toward the conference room, where linens are splayed out in a colorful fan of paisley, damask, and ikat prints on the large plank table. The rep for our fabric vendor stands a few paces away, holding her breath, waiting for me to point to the prints I want for draperies, sofa coverings, and pillows. With thirty-five rooms to decorate, the decisions will result in thousands of dollars in fabric. I can’t afford to make mistakes.

“I like these.” I point to a family of pale blue and sandy brown tones that will offset the natural wood I selected for the refurbished suites. “And let’s do some kind of accent for the bathroom tile in this blue shade,” I tell my assistant, Julie, whose superpower is her ability to appear when needed. She makes notes in a binder, which doubles as my lifeline—the flimsy tether between the ideas in my head and their eventual execution. I’m too busy thinking three meetings ahead to remember what I’ve decided in the present, so Julie makes sure I have records of everything jotted in color-coded pens. Then she blinks up at me, looking awake, bright, and ready for the next challenge. She’s my other lifeline.

“Blue tile—check. I’ll order samples.”

On a side table in the winery’s main conference room, stacks of Italian- and American-made pottery sit on display. There are plates and bowls painted with colorful images of farm animals, more classic porcelain, and handmade earthenware from a local potter in Sausalito. Each year, I try to change the dinnerware at Butter and Rosemary because returning guests say the design elements are as important as the food. Heaven forbid we just use something for several years in a row, and I maintain a little sanity. Not to mention the sheer wastefulness of starting from scratch.

“I’m tempted to keep what we have,” I tell Julie, feeling the wave of exhaustion that comes with making too many decisions. “We can call it a return to classics.”

“You mean boring.”

I love that Julie doesn’t mince words, but sometimes I wish she wasn’t right about everything. Her messy blond hair, untucked oversized tee, and face devoid of makeup give her the aura of someone who should be skipping among the vineyards, not keeping my to-do lists, but she has a great memory for details, and she works her tail off.

“Fine. Let’s do the one from Sausalito. We can play up the local angle. I’ll feel better about buying new dishes if we’re supporting a Bay Area business.”

Julie makes more notes and dismisses a few more of the vendors she’s assembled for our design meeting. A few minutes later, we’re in my car, headed into downtown Napa, where cute shops line the small streets bisected by the Napa River. Our destination is the Oxbow Public Market, where I want to make sure the jams from Buttercup Hill peaches are prominently displayed in the artisanal section. And going into town will give me an excuse to look around for design inspiration, which I desperately need.

At a stoplight, I rub my temples, trying to ward off an impending migraine. My jaw aches with tension, and my body feels shaky, running mostly on caffeine. I hate the sense that I’m not in control of my emotions, my temper fraying over tiny inconveniences like a woman on her cell phone who doesn’t see the light turn green. I honk and hate myself a little for my lack of self-control.

“Have you eaten today?” Julie’s blue eyes hit me like accusing pinpricks.

“I had coffee.”

“Yeah, that’s not food. You need fuel. You also need to get laid.”

I startle at the non sequitur and then glare at her.

“What?” she asks, matter-of-factly. “You’re thirty years old, and you have nothing in your life but work. You need to get out, be impulsive for five minutes, live a little. Otherwise, you’ll stay wound up, and that’s not good for anyone.”

“I do live life. I’m right here, living life, trying to work against the clock to make everyone in my family happy.” She’s not necessarily wrong, but I don’t have time for this now.

“Not what I meant.” When I glare some more, she relents. “At least eat breakfast.”

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” I wait for a pedestrian to cross against the light and fight the urge to honk.

“It’s after two.”

“Guess I’m not a lunch person either.”

We have this exchange daily, as though it’s brand-new information. I act surprised and grateful to hear Julie remind me that food is fuel, knowing I’ll ignore it again the next day. Julie slips me a handful of almonds from her purse so I don’t get cranky, and I eat them to stave off feeling hangry for another hour.

“Thanks,” I say, crunching through a mouthful and steering my green SUV into the parking lot behind the market.

Julie zips her purse and points to an empty spot. At thirty-five, she’s half a decade older than me but worlds away in lifestyle. Each morning, she leaves her tiny blond two-year-old daughter with her husband, who works evenings at the Dark Horse pub in Calistoga. She likes to start early and finish in the afternoon, so her family has time together before the pub shift.

They seem to have everything figured out in a way I can’t fathom. All of my multitasking is directed toward my job. No husband. No cute kid. No real life outside of work. The screen goes blank when I try to think beyond today.

Falling in love isn’t even on my radar. I had my heart smashed to pieces one time, and it was enough to cure me of any urge to date for a long while. Been there, done that. No reason to put myself through it again, so instead, I let my work be my true north.

It’s worked well for me so far. I’m a career woman, and with three brothers, I’ve never felt like male energy was missing from my life. I can’t imagine being with anyone who could understand the time and energy my job requires, and I’m so tired at the end of each day that I can hardly keep my eyes open, let alone have enough energy for an orgasm.

After an hour, I’ve snapped some photos of decorating ideas and sourced a supplier for vintage artwork made from old wine crates. Julie’s husband, Ed, waits for her in the parking lot. I allow myself a thirty-second break to coo at her toddler, who scampers out of her dad’s grasp and runs toward Julie, arms outstretched.

“You need to eat something real,” Julie calls back at me before lifting her daughter to the sky and kissing her belly.

“I will, I will.”

“Except you won’t. You know how you get when you’re obsessed.” She holds her daughter out to me so I can squeeze those fat cheeks. I do so because it’s what’s expected of a woman at child-bearing age, even though my own biological baby clock is on pause while I work on my career. A tiny thought wiggles through the chaos in my brain and tells me that those cute baby cheeks have taken my stress level down a couple of notches. But I can’t think too hard about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off her daughter, kissing her belly while fumbling through her purse and shoving a granola bar at me. “You make impulsive decisions you regret later on, you blurt things out when you should think first, and you snap at the people you love.”

“I do not!” I snap.

“Just do me a favor and eat something, please. And get fucked, for heaven’s sake,” she whispers, cradling a hand around her daughter’s ears. “That will take the edge off for sure.” She knows my refrigerator at home is empty, and I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal. It’s either snacking on the go or not eating at all. As to the getting laid part, it’s about as likely as having the inn renovated by tomorrow.

“That ain’t gonna happen anytime soon unless you have a man in your purse. ”

She laughs. “I’ll work on that.”

An hour later, I’m running on fumes. I fish around in my bag for Julie’s granola bar, but my mission is disrupted when the sales clerk returns with my swatches of fabric. She smiles, tucks her long silver bangs behind her ears, and adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses so they sit higher on her nose. “Here we go. I threw in a few extra color palettes in case you want to try it a different way.” She always stashes away new fabrics she thinks I’ll like before other customers see them.

“Oh, you’re sweet. I’ll probably come back with a whole new color scheme after I try the alternates.”

“Not trying to make it harder,” she sings.

“You’re not. I love options.”

Her smile widens, and she pulls out a bag from beneath the counter. It’s practically big enough to hold the fabric swatches and her. And the counter. “Sorry. We only have giant bags for some reason.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need a bag.”

I tuck the pile of fabric under one arm and resume the hunt for a snack. The granola bar has somehow slipped into the purse abyss, never to be found amid useless pennies and old lipsticks. Tin of mints? The only one I have contains change for parking meters.

My stomach grinds from the coffee I guzzled on an empty stomach. I don’t think I can wait until I get back to the winery to put something in my system, so I detour to the bakery. As I stare at the glass case filled with golden croissants, berry muffins, and little fruit tarts, the only challenge is to choose just one.

“Blueberry bran muffin and a coffee with cream. To go, please.” I shouldn’t have more coffee, but the muffin will soak some of it up, and I need the energy boost .

I balance the folded white bakery bag on top of the coffee cup and adjust the stack of fabric in my other hand. My purse dangles from my shoulder by a skinny strap, and I navigate past the cheese counter and a display of pretty packaged chocolate.

Passing a wine shop with floor-to-ceiling bottles of local vintages, I notice the owner hasn’t ordered the recent crop of cabernets from Buttercup Hill, but that’s a problem for my older brother Archer to solve. I have enough to focus on today with restaurant decor and reopening the inn.

The late afternoon sun shines so brightly that I squint to find my car in the parking lot. I sort of remember where I parked. It was near a tree. At least, I think so. I’m busy looking into the distance, so I don’t see what’s directly in my path. Or rather, who is directly in my path. Not until my knees hit a brown ball of fur, and I lose my footing for a second.

That’s all it takes for my bakery bag to topple from the lid of my coffee. “No, no!” I beg, but it obeys gravity instead of me. I lunge to grab it without spilling the coffee, my purse sliding to the ground and dumping its contents. The tin of coins opens and sends rolling quarters in all directions. Tampons fly. Lipsticks scatter.

The ball of fur decides my little catastrophe is a really fun game and begins leaping toward the coins and pawing them to the pavement. The dog is medium-sized with fur like a brown shag rug and warm cocoa eyes. “Where’s your leash? Who owns you?” I mutter, glancing around. All I see is bright, glary sunlight and pavement.

I manage to grab the muffin bag before the dog gets to it, but I’m gripping my coffee cup too tightly, so the lid pops off, and the life-giving drink sloshes down my arm.

“Ow! Shit, shit, shit.” I suck air through my teeth, shaking liquid from my scalded arm while I scramble on the hot pavement to retrieve the lid and gather my stuff. So very ladylike.

Note to self: always carry snacks. Never balance things on coffee lids. Conceal tampons in some sort of a pouch. Advice I will ignore the next time I leave the house.

The dog chooses my moment of vulnerability to charge at me like I’ve just yelled “go.” I lose my footing and roll backward, coffee spilling again. The dog seems to think this is a game and starts licking my face with glee.

Listen, I am a dog person. I think they’re cute. I willingly pet them. I’ve even toyed with getting a dog. But right now, in this moment, I am not feeling the love.

Well, maybe a little bit. The dog’s rough little tongue tickles as it laps at my cheeks and chin. It feels like an apology for the chaos. “Okay, buddy. I know. You just want to play. Not your fault your human is a dumbass.”

I hold the muffin bag under the dog’s nose for a good sniff and then toss it a few yards away. Predictably, the dog chases after it, and I cover my face with both hands to block out the infernal sun for a few merciful seconds.

That’s when I finally hear a deep shout in the distance. “Truman. Tru! Stop. Sit. There. No. Stay.”

Even I know that’s too many commands for a dog to understand and obey in a single moment, but at least someone is claiming responsibility for the fur monster. Truman bounces around like he has pogo sticks for legs, his curly fur glinting in the sun, tongue hanging out one side of his open mouth. Pure joy.

As flustered as I am here on my back, I start to laugh. I haven’t sat down all day, and apparently this is how I need to accomplish it—by getting flattened by a hyperactive dog on the sidewalk. The whole situation is so ridiculous when I realize I’m jealous of a dog and his zest for life. Not to mention his freedom from deadlines, fabric swatches, and stress.

The air around me cools as the sun is blocked by a cloud. I wrench my hands from my eyes and open them.

Only it’s not a cloud blocking the sun. It’s the broad shoulders of a tall man standing over me with a confused expression. With the sun behind him, he’s hard to see clearly. “Geez, sorry about that. You okay?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair.

“You really should keep your dog on a leash.” I sound like a crotchety old lady, but this is about animal safety. “Cars barely stop for humans, let alone dogs. Give your guy a fighting chance, at least.”

He lets out a long exhale and unfurls a leash from his hand, so it dangles in front of me. “That was the plan. But the little trickster escaped before I got it on him.” He rubs a hand over his chin, where a few days’ worth of stubble catches the sun. I still can’t get a clear view of his face because of the glare, but his voice sounds familiar. He’s a local or someone I’ve run into at Buttercup Hill.

“You sure you’re okay?” Something snags his gaze, and he spins around to yell, “Tru, what the heck are you doing?”

“I’m good.” I push myself to a sitting position, noticing the scattered coins around me and the tampon squeezed in my fist. I quickly shove it into my purse. Then, a hand comes into my field of vision. It’s large, strong-looking, and extended toward me. When I look up, I see that the man is offering to pull me to standing. I wave him off.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay on the ground here with my dignity.”

He waves his hand, insistent. “Come on. At least let me replace your breakfast.”

Grudgingly, I place my hand in his and nearly recoil at the jolt of electricity when I touch his skin. It’s like a shock of lightning entering my body at my fingertips, ricocheting up my arm and down my spine. His palm is dry and warm as it connects with mine, flooding me with an unsettling heat. His fingertips rough and calloused as they take a firm but gentle hold. It’s jarring because of its intensity but also…familiar. My body reacts to a long held memory.

When I’m on my feet, I crane my neck slightly, taking in the full six feet and four inches of the man in front of me, cataloging his soft brown eyes, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, lips that have no business looking as soft as they do. My eyes quickly scan his body, noticing the defined muscles of his arms beneath his t-shirt, his thighs pulling at the denim of his jeans.

Guess some things never change. At least not for Dominick Renaldi, star hockey player, gorgeous physical specimen, and champion heartbreaker. Or Ren, as I called him back before he broke mine. Ten years earlier, he was the love of my life. The butter to my toast. The capital O of all my orgasms, which have been few and far between ever since.

And now…a stranger.

Playing hockey clearly still keeps him fit, which is decidedly unfair—the rule when you bump into the ex who broke your heart is that he’s supposed to look like a hairy ogre. Oh wait, that’s me—covered in coffee, hair a mess, clothes in disarray from being trampled by his dog.

“Trix?” His eyes soften as they go round with disbelief. That nickname. He’s the only one besides my family who ever uses it. It sends a warmth of familiarity through my veins before I remind myself I don’t feel anything for this man. We aren’t friends. We’re barely acquaintances now.

“W-why are you here?”

He smiles. Dammit, there go the dimples and those perfect teeth.

“I play for the Otters now. I’m a local. Sort of.”

I know enough about hockey to know that means the Oakland Otters, which are just an hour from here. I nod, trying for an air of nonchalance but probably looking like a woozy fangirl instead.

Well, shit.

You know when you want to act like an adult and let the guy who broke your heart see that you’re completely over him? Yeah. I want to do that, really, I do. Because I am over Ren. I have been for years. I no longer think about him. I barely notice when some picture comes across my social media feed of Ren cavorting with yet another beautiful woman. And when a hockey game is on at the Dark Horse, I barely give it a passing glance.

I am over him. Over. Him.

And yet…seeing him again jars my senses and roils my stomach with something unexpected. My heart starts beating like an amateur drummer in a slick marching band. Loud, discordant thumps that surely can be heard two stadiums away. My face heats with embarrassment—that has to be what it is—because he found me disheveled and flat on my ass, and he looks, well, perfect.

Why does the one man who I planned to never see again have to be so freakin’ beautiful? No, not beautiful. Sinfully, undisputedly gorgeous.

And as good as he looks, that’s how angry I suddenly feel. The hurt I had over the way we ended comes roaring back like an untamed waterfall, drowning out any kindness toward his adorable dog. I do not have a warm feeling for Dominick Renaldi, not anymore. I have nothing to say to him now.

Yet here he is, looking at me with that amused smirky smile I used to find so damn cute. I feel my hackles raise and my fists ball defensively. I’ve never slugged a man, but I’d have no problem making Ren the first. It’s been ten years coming and it would feel oh so good.

College sweethearts. Young love. Impossible choices. We were hot and passionate for a full year before the wheels came off. Life happened. Real-world factors came into play, and our romance couldn’t survive it. Things went from blissful to finished so quickly that I had whiplash.

I realized in hindsight that we never really had a chance. Before the end of his senior year, he was recruited by a Canadian hockey team and missed graduation because he needed to replace an injured player immediately. I was still a sophomore, still undeclared and uncertain about what I wanted to do with my education or my life.

I offered to follow him to Canada. That’s how stupid in love I was. But he cured me of that in one fell swoop by dumping me abruptly and leaving the country for his new career.

So I finished college, discovered a love for design and renovation, and figured out I had talents that far outweighed being a puck bunny. I moved to Napa to help out at Buttercup Hill, and here I am, eight years later. Wiser, busier, career-focused. Far too rooted in my feminist ideals to follow anyone anywhere.

My career is my identity, and I wouldn’t follow a guy like Ren across the room, let alone across the country. He taught me not to fall for a man whose career is his one true love, and I’ll never forget that lesson. And while my heart and mind are content never seeing or speaking to this man again, my treacherous body can’t decide whether to slap him dramatically across the jaw, telenovela-style, or grab that pretty face and kiss him silly, showing him what he’s missed out on for all these years.

All of these thoughts hurtle toward me at lightspeed. Just seeing him in front of me produces a rip inside my chest. The same feeling of my heart deflating that I felt all those years ago, but now it’s tinged with irritation that he’s here. In Napa. My territory. With a dog who’s clearly as poorly behaved as him.

“Trix, are you okay?” His warm brown eyes are tinged with concern. His lips tip downward as he surveys me with something akin to sympathy, and I hate that he seems to pity me. The frustration turns to anger in my veins, giving me an unquenchable feeling of…

Nope.

I should walk away. Quickly. Before I say something I’ll regret.

Gathering my stack of materials from the ground, my muffin-less brain goes rogue, and I mutter the one thing that would make me okay. “No. I need to get laid.”