2. Gemma
GEMMA
JANUARY
I’d been trying to reach Bas for three weeks to schedule the follow-up meeting between Thomas, Alex, and me.
Since he hadn’t responded to phone calls or emails, I decided to visit Whitmore in person.
I rehearsed what I’d say the whole drive and hated every version of it. The man’s father had died, and I was here to force him to honor a contract he’d signed two weeks before his death. If there had been another way to ensure this event would still take place, I would have taken it. There wasn’t.
Sebastian Whitmore was halfway down a row, with a pair of snips in one hand. He cut a cane loose and let it drop on the dirt. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was sorry to hear about your father.”
His only response was to level the same glare at me as the last time I was here.
I’d braced for that from him. What I hadn’t prepared for was how different he looked. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and his frame was leaner than I remembered.
The fight I’d been preparing for drained out of me.
“We need to discuss the Wicked Winemakers’ Ball, the fundraiser for the children’s hospital—the one your father agreed to host.”
“I can’t help you.”
“This indicates otherwise,” I said, pulling the contract that stated he had to out of my satchel.
He glanced up for a split second, then returned to what he was doing.
“The date is the first weekend of November.”
He straightened and wiped his palms on his thighs. “You’re the wedding planner.”
“My name is Gemma Engel.”
“I remember.”
“We have to discuss this, Sebastian.”
He walked over to where I stood. “No one calls me that. If you want me to respond, I go by Bas. And, by the way, I don’t have to do a damn thing for you.”
“Actually, this contract says you do.”
He was taller than I remembered from the bar that night, a good deal dirtier, far less charming, and unfortunately, no less handsome.
He was six feet two, at least, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He’d shoved his sleeves up over forearms that were thick and roped with muscle.
Light-brown hair, wavy and streaked lighter on top by the sun, fell long enough to reach his collar, and a short dark beard ran along his jaw.
My mouth went dry. He was rude, filthy, and glaring at me from the middle of a muddy vineyard, and I still couldn’t stop staring at him.
Rich men, in my experience, didn’t prune their own vines.
Whatever else he was, he wasn’t above the work.
“I didn’t sign any contract about an event I know nothing about.”
“Your father did.”
He studied me but again didn’t say anything, so I continued.
“He signed a sponsorship and venue agreement in November.”
“Let me see that.”
I handed it over. He skimmed page after page, stopping a couple of times to reread something.
“This says the estate will host the event,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“You can talk to our event manager about that. There’s nothing you need me for.”
“The sponsor provides support as required. It says so.” I reached for the contract to point it out to him, but he held it too far away.
“What kind of support?”
“Donors for the giveaways, bachelors for the auction.”
He skimmed the rest of the pages. “Did you say bachelors?”
“That’s the biggest part of the fundraiser. In addition to that, I need you to open doors I can’t get through on my own.”
He shook his head. “Bet you can’t show me where it says that in this thing.”
“It’s implied.”
“Here’s what this does say. You get the event center and the lawn. The rest is up to you.”
“There’s also the sponsorship money.”
“I’ll write you a check.”
“That gets me your money and no one else’s.”
How could I convey to him that I had a venue, a sponsorship that would cover some of the costs, but certainly not all, and how important this would be for the valley?
What I couldn’t say was the truth. If the fundraiser failed, so would I, and this time, there’d be no clawing my way out of it. I’d had to do that once already. There was no possibility I’d get a third chance.
“Look, nobody here will give me the time of day without your support. Even if I manage to fill the tables, I can’t make anybody open a checkbook. This is a fundraiser that supports sick kids, Bas.”
He walked away without responding. When he reached the end of the row of grapevines, he was facing away from me when he stopped. He stayed there long enough that I wondered if he expected me to leave. If that was the case, we’d both be here all night.
Finally, he turned and retraced his steps until he stood a foot in front of me.
“If I do this, I want something in return.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.” I said it before he finished talking. Answering that fast gave me away, and now, we both knew I’d thought about it.
He smirked. “You wish.”
“Then, what do you want?”
“Starting tomorrow, and for one full year, you’re my date. You come with me to industry dinners, tastings, grower meetings, and harvest parties. Every business and social event I have to attend, you’re beside me.”
“Why?”
“The why doesn’t matter. Those are my terms.”
“I need to know.”
“Actually, you don’t. You can say no and march your tight little ass up that hill, out the gate, and return to wherever the hell you came from.”
My neck was hot, and it wasn’t all anger. I knew the difference. I wanted to slap him, and I wanted to know why a man who could barely stand the sight of me was bargaining to keep me beside him for a year.
I thought it over. This would benefit me. After being repeatedly seen with Sebastian Whitmore—Bas—every door that had been closed in my face would suddenly open wide.
“I’ll do it until the day after the ball. That gives you ten months.”
“My terms are a year. Like I said, you can take it or leave it.”
“And if I leave it? You won’t honor your father’s contract?”
“I’ll honor it. You’ll get everything that’s explicitly stated and nothing more.”
He held the document out to me, and when I took it, our fingers brushed. Heat shot up my arm. His hands were rough and calloused. Those of a working man. And now that I knew the feel of them on my skin, I doubted I’d ever forget it.
“You said starting tomorrow.”
“That’s right.”
“For what?”
“Wear the same kind of thing you had on at Izzy’s wedding. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Tell me where I’m going, and I’ll meet you there.”
He shook his head again. “That isn’t how a date works, and you know it, Gemma.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“You keep asking the same question but with different words. The answer doesn’t change. Take it—”
“Or leave it. I don’t need you to repeat it.”
“And?”
“I’ll text you my address.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me his phone. “Name, address, phone number, and email.”
“Anything else?”
“Your birthday. Including the year.”
I glared at him. “You want my Social Security number too?”
“Not yet.”
I huffed but did as he asked, then thrust the phone at him.
“See you tomorrow, Gemma,” he said as I stalked away.
I held myself together until I reached the car. Once I was behind the wheel, I stopped trying to keep my hands still. I glanced over in his direction and watched him move down the row like our conversation had never happened.
I’d gotten through a helluva lot worse. I could handle one year as Bas Whitmore’s date.
My landlord was standing on my porch when I pulled into the driveway.
He was dressed more formally than I’d ever seen him.
He had on a collared shirt tucked into clean jeans rather than grubby work clothes, and he kept his hands in his pockets while I parked.
Dread filled me when I thought about why.
I hadn’t seen much of him since I moved in. The only other time I could remember was when he had to come out to replace the water heater. Wait. There was also the damaged roof after a storm. Before showing up to fix either, he’d called first.
“Gemma. Glad I caught you.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m selling the house,” he told me. “I had it appraised last month, and with the market where it is, my daughter starting college in the fall—I’m sorry, Gemma. Truly. I wanted to tell you to your face.”
“How long do I have?”
“Thirty days. I know that’s not much time. If it were up to me…”
It was up to him.
He waited for a thank you he wouldn’t get.
“You’ve had a good deal here, you know? Under market the whole time you’ve been in it. I hope you know I was glad to do it.”
It wasn’t a single cent under market, so I wouldn’t thank him for that either.
I could’ve argued with him about it. Reminded him my rent had never been late, and if I could handle a repair myself, I took care of it rather than call him, but why? His mind was made up.
“Thanks for telling me in person.”
I walked past him, into the house, and closed the door. He’d tell his wife I took it well, and that would assuage his guilt. Probably hers too.
I plopped down on the sofa and set my bag down. Where in the hell was I going to live? While the rent wasn’t any kind of a deal, there weren’t any other places on this side of town as small as this one. Any farther out, commuting would eat up a good chunk of my day.
The closer we got to the date of the ball, the longer my hours would stretch. I’d pay for a house, but I’d only be there to use the bed and bathroom.
I ran my business from my kitchen table.
Engel Events had a website, a logo I’d overpaid for, and a filing system in a plastic tub beside the refrigerator.
I hadn’t been able to afford to hire help for any of the weddings I planned.
I wouldn’t have any choice with the ball.
Thankfully, the contract Thomas Whitmore had signed paid enough for me to be able to hire one or two for the planning stages and however many were necessary during the week leading up to the event and that night.
As Alex had said, the Wicked Winemakers’ Ball this one was modeled after was run by volunteers.
Not a single person was paid, other than the staff of whichever venue held it that year.
That was another thing. It wasn’t always at the same place.
If this year was a success, which it had to be, a year from now I wouldn’t have to deal with the likes of Bas Whitmore.
I sat down at the kitchen table, remembered my bag was still on the sofa, got up, grabbed it, then sat down again and pulled out the ever-thickening notebook I’d been keeping.
Flipping through the sections, I couldn’t help but notice that the only thing they had in common was how empty they were. The bachelor and silent-auction pages were blank, and the donor section only had a list of calls I’d made that hadn’t been returned.
I called Alex.
“Hey, Gemma. How’s Bas?”
I wanted to say grouchy as hell. “We met, and he agreed to honor the contract his father signed.”
“Excellent. Is he also our first confirmed bachelor?”
“Not exactly, but I’m working on it.”
Alex laughed. “I knew hiring you was the smartest thing I did all year. Send the rest of the numbers as soon as you have them.”
“Will do.” So far, they were abysmally low, but she’d have to expect that. Right?
She said something about having a houseful and ended the call before I could say goodbye.
I grabbed a blank notepad, where I wrote the things I wasn’t ready to add to the book.
On the first line, I wrote, find a place to live.
I underlined it twice, as if I’d need the reminder that it was urgent and the hours I had available to look were as scarce as the financial commitments I’d managed to secure.
Especially given that, starting tomorrow at seven, some of my evenings belonged to Bas Whitmore. Rentals showed after work. Landlords returned calls at dinnertime unless they were using an agent, in which case, the rent would be double.
The sensible thing would be to go to bed.
Instead, I opened the closet and rummaged around until I found the dry cleaner’s bag that held the dress Bas had told me to wear.
Those weren’t his exact words. What he’d said was, “the same kind of thing you had on at Izzy’s wedding.
” This was it. I wore it to every event.
Which meant that if he had more than one a week, he might notice.
Then again, this was Bas. He probably wouldn’t notice if I shaved my head, as long as he got his end of the bargain. Actually, that, he might.
The plastic came off the dress in one pull. I laid it across the foot of the bed and smoothed it flat with one hand.
Then turned off the light.