8. Lana
eight
Lana
Three Months Later
Ishove a case of cabernet across the tasting-room floor, harder than necessary, thinking about Marx and how he has invaded my space.
It was bad enough when he left me three months ago, but now that he’s returned to Temptation Ridge as its latest resident in a cabin right next door to mine, my life couldn’t get any worse.
"That box didn't do anything to you." Liv tilts her head, watching me too closely.
I straighten and glare at Liv. My younger sister is perched on a stool behind the counter, smiling at her phone.
I don't need to ask why—Keanu. Everything is Keanu lately.
Keanu said this, Keanu did that, Keanu sent me this, Keanu tattooed that.
Actually, I don't want to know what else Keanu might have tattooed—especially given the location of Liv's first tattoo.
Seeing Liv so happy should give me hope.
Instead, it only reminds me that happiness always seems to belong to other people.
Life was so much better before Keanu, when I could crash on Liv’s couch whenever I wanted to get away from my own cabin without worrying about running into a naked Keanu roaming around the house.
"I know the box didn't do anything," I growl.
"You kicked it." Liv quickly types a message on her phone.
"I nudged it." I lift my chin, daring her to argue.
"You called it a lying bastard." Liv's mouth curves with mischief.
"I was speaking metaphorically."
Liv slowly lowers her phone. "Lana."
I know that tone—I am absolutely not going to get a lecture from my younger sister. "I'm working." I press my lips together.
"You're avoiding." Liv tilts her head, watching me too closely.
"Also working." I shift my weight, trying not to show how right she is.
"It's been three months since you last talked to him. He’s your neighbor now—you can’t keep ignoring him.” My stomach tightens at the memory—ninety-two days. Not that I'm counting—I'm definitely not counting. Only pathetic women count the exact number of days since a man broke their heart. "Lana?"
"I'm fine." I pick up a case of wine and set it on the table.
"You're absolutely miserable."
The tasting-room door swings open before I can throw a cork at her—Lyra walks in with Owen.
My twin sisters are identical, but lately they're easy to tell apart.
Liv has a tattoo-artist glow, and Lyra has a mountain-man glow.
Apparently, there's a difference. While I've got that bitter single-woman vibe.
Liv glances out the window, whispering, "Oh, crap."
I turn toward the window—a black pickup pulls into the gravel lot—a black pickup I’ve been trying to avoid for the past few weeks.
The driver's door opens, and boots hit the gravel.
My eyes travel up from the boots to the well-worn jeans, to the flannel shirt, to the dark hair, slightly longer than I remember.
But what catches me off guard is the beard—Marx has a freaking beard.
"Is that Marx?" Liv tilts her head, watching me too closely.
"No."
"It looks like Marx." Liv leans forward.
"Marx doesn't wear flannel." I curl my fingers into my palms. At least he only wore it during our one week together, not now, not after he dumped me ninety-two days ago.
"He does now." Liv smirks.
"He doesn't have a beard." I plant my feet and refuse to retreat.
"He definitely does now."
Marx turns toward the winery, and our eyes meet through the window.
My heart forgets I hate him. My body reacts to him before my pride can build any walls, and that scares me even more than seeing him again.
I watch him open the door and walk into the winery.
Then I hear his voice. "Lana." Damn him and that voice.
It can still reach places inside me I've spent three months barricading.
Marx stands just inside the tasting room, and I get my first real look at him. The city man I fell in love with is gone. This new Marx is rougher, bearded, and looks like he’s been a mountain man his whole life.
"Hi." Marx drags a hand over his beard.
I want to run into his arms and tell him I forgive him.
Rachel and his father stopped by the winery after their month-long honeymoon and explained everything to me about how Marx was only trying to protect me.
And like the fool I was, I waited, thinking that he would come back to me and explain everything himself—instead, I waited ninety-two days for nothing.
"Get out."