Grayson
“Are you sure this isn’t a pity invite?”
I grunt. Pity invite. That’s a new one.
It’s genuinely impressive how many different ways Eliza can ask the same question: Are you sure I’m welcome at your brother’s?
We’re at six—no, seven—iterations now.
“I’m as sure as I was twenty minutes ago when we got in this truck. Which is as sure as I was right before we left the farm. Which is as sure as I was—"
“Okay. I get it.” Her fingers play nervously in her lap as she watches Anson’s street roll by.
Though street’s an inadequate term. The private single-lane road is framed by lush, green trees that link together up top, like this antique bureau mirror Mom used to have. No matter how many times I’ve driven it, it’s still stunning.
There’s a little intake of breath, then, “It’s just, he wouldn’t be inviting me if I wasn’t squatting in your house.”
With her nerves, it’s like I’m taking her to visit royalty.
Yeah, Anson’s made a name for himself, and he’s in charge of her employment. But he’s also the kid I’d noogie in middle school when my growth spurt came before his.
And he sure as hell wouldn’t have specifically invited Eliza along if he didn’t want her there.
“If you were squatting, I would’ve kicked you out by now.”
She snorts. “You could’ve tried.”
I plant her with a dry look. “You realize that stubbornness doesn’t trump physical strength, right?”
She’s decently tall, and more than a little toned, but I could toss her over my shoulder, walk to the salt pond, and dump her there without batting an eye.
Or go for a much shorter walk to the bed. Set her down and show her just how fucking much I want her to keep on staying at my place.
“You’ve come home the past two days walking like a seventy-year-old and creaking when you sit down,” she points out. “Pretty sure my stubbornness would win.”
“You want to test that theory?” The challenge runs out of my mouth before I can drag it back.
Who the fuck am I kidding? All my restraint is gone.
She’s fucking living with me.
All that distance I tried so hard to shove between us was obliterated the moment she called me for help with that boat.
Eliza puts the ball right back in my court. “Do you want to?”
Fuck yes.
That one, I manage to keep down. “You’ve had a bad week. Don’t want to crush your ego along with it.”
She hums. Disappointed, maybe. Or just being the smarter of us two and not chasing the conversation any further.
Again, I find my focus off the road and on her. The woman who’s cooked me dinner and packed me lunch two days in a row, who’s suddenly got me looking forward to something other than sleep at the end of the workday.
Which is just as well, because I can’t fucking sleep. Not with her just down the hall. In my grasp, playing house, giving my imagination too much material to run away and dig my grave with.
Offering her my place to stay was the most self-sabotaging, asinine thing I could have done. And the fact that I don’t regret it yet goes to show just how thoroughly fucked I am.
Because the regret will come.
When she’s gone, and my place is empty, and her fiery quips and proud little chin and intelligent eyes are just a sorry memory that I jerk off to because I can’t let go.
I force my eyes back to the road, because the street’s about to open up, and learning what wonder looks like on her face will dig my grave deep enough to touch hell.
As it is, her little gasp makes my chest swell with satisfaction.
“Holy crap. The photos do not do this place justice,” she breathes.
I can confirm they don’t.
Framed by the tall trees of Garnet Shores’ signature woods, Anson’s vineyard is like stepping into a little oasis straight out of the Italian countryside.
Perfect lines of grapevines frame the long drive leading to a recently updated stone villa, the property’s crown jewel, where tours and tastings are held and small batch wines are made.
We hang a right, circling around to the house located a healthy stretch behind it, its facade similar to the main building, only smaller.
The vineyard is tiny, relatively speaking, but Anson has used the scarcity principle to turn it into a coveted, shining jewel. Separated from the main road, enclosed in trees, you can’t help but feel like you’re stumbling upon some little treasure.
“What’s that?” Eliza asks, nodding to a ramshackle structure tucked against the trees in the distance.
“The bane of my brother’s existence.” Also known as the one thing he hasn’t been able to mold to his will. “It’s this old woman’s house.”
“On your brother’s property?”
“Yes and no.” The truck creaks as I park in Anson’s driveway. His pickup is so shiny, I can see every scratch and chip on my truck’s hood in its reflection. “Tell me what you know about this property’s history.”
We both know she researched it before she came here.
“Years before your brother purchased it, it was a working vineyard. The previous owner struggled to compete with other local vineyards and the imported stuff, so he went bankrupt. The property went on the market for a few years until your brother picked it up and turned it around.”
“That’s right. But before the previous owner bought this land, it was a farm.
That abomination used to be part of that farm, and the old owner kept it for his sister.
For whatever reason, he made that house and the little plot of land around it legally hers, so when he sold the vineyard, the house wasn’t included. ”
“Does she still live there?”
“Nope. Nursing home.”
She squints at the dilapidated house. “The house is a wreck. Why wouldn’t his sister just sell it to Anson with the vineyard?”
“Don’t know. But Anson’s ready to throw the state’s most expensive lawyer at it.”
While I don’t support him waging war on a grandma, the structure will probably collapse if anyone steps foot in it. Buying it might save a life.
To our left, the front door bursts open, and a maelstrom of action tumbles out—Lala, dressed in soccer gear, a ball in hand, and Runner, my brother’s German Shepherd, right on her heels like the perfectly trained dog she is.
“Get out of the truck!” Her voice bounces with her feet, moving at an impressively fast clip for an eight-year-old. “Anson said I can’t play after the tasting, so it needs to be—”
Lala skids to a stop, braids flying over her shoulders, when she sees my passenger through the open window.
“Who is she?”
Sharing a humored glance with Eliza, we exit the truck. “La, this is Eliza,” I introduce as she comes around the front. “She works on the farm with me.”
Lala shamelessly evaluates Eliza, her little head tilting with a full-body scan. “You don’t look like you work on the farm.”
No, she doesn’t, in a pretty little sundress that shows the smallest glimpse of her thighs.
Eliza smiles kindly. “My work is different from your brother’s. I do marketing.”
Lala bulldozes right on to her next question. “Do you play soccer?”
“I didn’t grow up playing soccer, but I can play sports.”
“Can you do goalie?”
“I can probably figure it out.”
“Then you’re the goalie,” La declares.
“Honey, she’s wearing a dre—”
“It’s alright,” Eliza says, taking me by surprise.
Not because I doubt her athleticism, but because she came over for a tasting of Anson’s newest wine—and looks the part, glossy lips, strappy sandals, and all.
Apparently, she takes Lala by surprise too, because my little sister loudly states, “The last girl Gray brought wouldn’t play goalie.”
Kids and the shit they say. “La, that’s not—”
She barrels on. “All she did was twirl her fake hair and flutter her eyelashes—”
“Enough,” I say sternly.
Lala recognizes my rare not-messing-around tone and sheepishly eyes her cleat-covered feet, kicking the ground. “Am I being ill-mannered?” she asks.
That choice of words would throw me if she wasn’t being raised by Anson. Ill-mannered. Christ.
Pulling on my parent-role pants, I tell her, “Talking about people who aren’t here in a negative way isn’t nice.”
“But she was mean to you, and she made you sad. How can I talk about her in a good way?”
My heart warms at her protectiveness, even as I say, “It just isn’t a good way to welcome a new guest, who just offered to play soccer with you.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.” She hits Eliza with her signature green doe-eyes. “Welcome to our home. Will you still play soccer?”
Eliza fights a smile. “Thank you. And yes, soccer sounds fun.”
Lala beams just as Anson leans out the front door, wearing a button-down. “Hello, Eliza,” he greets with the formality of a board meeting. To our little sister, he says, “You have twenty minutes. Do not kick the ball at her face.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Twenty,” Anson says firmly.
The gears in her little mind turn as she thinks over her next offer. Anson knows it, which is why he says, “I’m willing to change it to ten.”
Lala’s eyes widen. “No, thank you!” She heads for the backyard, shouting “Hurry up! We only have twenty minutes!” over her shoulder.
Eliza meets my eyes as we follow. “So…you dated the daughter of a man who hates you, who also refused to play soccer, huh?”
Thank you, Lala, for bringing up Mackenzie. Not sure why I thought Eliza would let that one slide.
I opt for a lame, “Yep.”
What am I going to say? That I’m a poor, sappy bastard who was thinking with his dick?
“Is that your type?” Eliza asks.
Ahead, Lala sets the ball down in front of the little goal Anson built her and gives it a mighty warm-up kick.
“No.” My throat burns with more words. Since I’m already fucked, I just say them.
“You are.”
I watch Eliza’s mouth open into a little “O.” Then, coward that I am, I take off, jogging over to Lala.
And Eliza goes on to prove my point for the next twenty minutes as she kicks off her sandals and posts up in the goal, letting enough of Lala’s goals through to make my little sister giggle with glee—and, in true Eliza style, blocking all of mine with a shit-eating grin.