11. Graham
Chapter eleven
Graham
I ’ve made a grave mistake.
I knew it the minute I agreed to be fake engaged to a woman who makes my blood boil, and it was confirmed when simply kissing her made my brain cells fry.
Rosay Wilmington will be the death of me.
If I thought anything about this weekend together would be easy, I’m sure now that I don’t know a damn thing.
She’s devastatingly beautiful, and she knows it.
Her confidence in herself and her abilities amplifies that beauty even further.
My brain was already on the fritz when I saw the condoms and toy she packed in her bag, and now that I know how soft her lips are and how she responds to my…
brand of intimacy, I don’t know how we’ll make it through the weekend.
Just because she carries condoms with her doesn’t mean she wants you.
“There’s no way you believed kissing me would be bad.” I stare out the window as if watching the cars passing will help regulate my erratic heart rate. “And come to think of it, that means you’ve thought about kissing me before.”
She scoffs. “I never thought about it before I was forced to be fake engaged to you.”
“Forced?” I rear back with a glower on my face.
“No one forced you to do anything.” I’m not sure there’s a person on earth with the ability to make her do something she doesn’t want to.
“And this is a mutually beneficial a rrangement. You get a dashingly handsome, successful fiancé, and I get to network. It’s a win win. ”
“Humble much?”
“Is the rest of your family as eccentric as you are?” I ask.
Rosay slinks back into the seat, and her demeanor shifts from the playful bubbly woman I’ve come to know to the serious guarded woman I’m realizing she is.
I immediately wish I could take the words back because I can tell they’ve hurt her, that they’ve highlighted the differences between her and her family.
My chest burns with disdain at myself for not being more careful with my words.
“No, not really.” She rubs her arms as if she’s cold beneath her jacket.
“Kieran is ambitious and hardworking. He’s done a great job of expanding the winery and making it even more profitable.
And Waverly is quiet and insanely intelligent.
She’s in her fourth year of residency for internal medicine and was at the top of her class.
Winnie is the most like me, but that’s probably because we’re close in age. ”
I choose my words carefully. “What was your mom like?”
Rosay’s face lights up as she launches into a story about the time she stole her mom’s glass of wine as a toddler and how her mother taught her about gardening.
I relax into the seat, listening to the honeyed tone of her voice.
It’s a conundrum that when I truly allow myself to enjoy Rosay’s presence rather than just thinking of her as a distraction to my end goal, I feel at peace.
All anxious thoughts and constant worry about emails and clients, quiets down.
That’s probably because all the blood leaves your brain and rushes south.
A truck pulls up behind us, and a scraggly man in a blue jumpsuit exits. “I’ll be right back. Lock the door behind me.”
“Sure you’re not scared I won’t let you back in?”
I ignore her and slide out of the car, thankful for the reprieve from her tropical scent and the heat pouring off her body. The more time I spend with her, the more I’m sure that if I don’t get the right head in check, we’ll be crossing a line.
It doesn’t matter that she’s my employee, or that there’s about a hundred HR rules I’d like to break with her, I need to focus on getting new clients to keep my own job.
The technician changes the tire quickly, and we’re back on the road with Tracy Chapman blaring through the speakers.
The earlier tension has dissipated, and there’s a comfortable silence as we head toward the auto shop to get a new tire before arriving at her family’s estate.
I sneak small glances at Rosay, making sure her fingers are still tapping against her thigh to the music.
My chest tightens again when I look at her blonde hair, frustrated that she feels the need to change herself.
“You’re supposed to be looking at the road,” she says, smiling.
“You wouldn’t know I was looking at you if you weren’t looking at me.” I steal one last glance at her, relishing the genuine smile on her face.
***
Limestone hills draped in wildflowers welcome us to Hill Country, the mesquite trees and sprawling vineyards covering the terrain under big open skies.
The area feels both old and alive at the same time.
We coast into downtown Fredericksburg, greeted by an orange and green sign with decorative lattice and the word Willkommen running across the bottom.
A blend of modern and historical buildings line the main street, some now turned into boutiques and galleries, others housing restaurants.
“Anything else I need to know before we cross enemy lines?” We creep along Main Street, and I groan at the scent of barbecue floating through the opened window.
She point s to a Bavarian style restaurant with flags hanging along the balcony. “I had my first kiss there.”
“The Auslander?”
“The one and only.” She smirks. “Daryl Dugart kissed me behind the restaurant after the eighth-grade band concert.”
An irrational hate burns inside my chest for this Daryl Dugart. What a stupid name. I replay her words and pull my thoughts back to the present.
“Band concert?” I glance at the GPS to ensure I’m still going the correct way.
“Yup.”
“Oh, come on. Gotta give me more than that. Did you play tuba? The flute?” She shakes her head, amusement pulling her cheeks high. “Ah, you were the triangle player, weren’t you?”
“Saxophone,” she says, finally putting me out of my misery. “First chair in all-county and wind ensemble.”
“Your parents must’ve been so proud.”
Her smile falters, and I internally punch myself for the comment. As if the entire reason we’re in this predicament isn’t because she wants to impress her family.
“They were very proud of me,” she says, staring out at the passing buildings. “They never missed a concert, and they always sat in the front row.”
Pride fills my chest at hearing her speak of her accomplishments. “Do you still play?”
“I can, but I haven’t in years. It’s kind of like riding a bike. You never really forget, you just have to get back into the mode, so your brain r emembers.”
“I never got to play an instrument,” I hear myself saying, though an alarm in my brain blares, trying to tell me to stop speaking. Any hopes that Rosay would let that tidbit slide flies right out the window when she turns to me with a pout on her face.
“Why not?”
I suck in a short breath and hope she won’t want to delve deeper. The last time I showed someone every part of me, they used me and threw me away to bolster their own career. Rosay doesn’t strike me as the type to do that, but then again, neither did Bethany.
“We didn’t have the money, and I didn’t have the skill.”
“Well, you couldn’t practice the skill if you didn’t have the means to get an instrument. I’m sorry your school didn’t have a rental system. I feel like every school should have access to a better arts program.”
Thankful for the reprieve of our questions, I listen to her talk about her tutoring students and how most of them are gifted in music yet struggle with math.
I was always good at numbers, but I never had the chance to explore anything else.
From the moment I was able to, I worked.
Cooking and cleaning were the only things I had extra time for.
Taking care of my dad while he was busting his butt was my sole focus and still is.
“Turn down this road.” Rosay points to a dirt path between some trees. “Then you’ll go around the bend and down the hill.” I follow her directions but stop when we approach a large orange and white striped barrier.
“You can park here.”
“What?” I ask, confused as to where the directions have taken us.
She exits the car and blocks out the sun with her hand as she scans the area. I juggle with whether or not to follow but decide it’s best to stay put. As she stands there with her hands on her hips, I catalogue all the details I wouldn’t be able to in her presence.
She calls me out on everything.
Her usual striped or funky patterned pants have been replaced by a pair of denim jeans that look painted on by the most exquisite artist, and her long-sleeved white blouse fits perfectly with the turquoise-studded belt around her waist. Like a true Texan, she’s wearing boots with tiny pink embellishments.
She’s drop dead gorgeous.
But she’s not her . The blonde hair looks good—I doubt there’s a look she couldn’t pull off—but that feisty, strong-willed woman seems dampened. I hate it.
Her shoulders are taut with tension as she trudges back to the car.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, just fine.” She tosses her phone into her purse and buckles her seatbelt.
As much as I try to remind myself that this is just a work thing, that I’m not really the person who should want to console her or want her to trust me enough to help her bear the weight, I can’t stop myself. I nudge her chin my way, holding it with a light grasp.
“What’s wrong?”
The set of her jaw and the sheen covering her eyes tells me she’s trying not to cry. “I accidentally put in the address for the old house. They should be at the new house.”
She rips her chin from my fingers and looks out the window, trying to inconspicuously wipe away tears.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, noticing the emphasis she put on the word ‘new.’ Rosay is an open book, the type of person who lets you know where you stand. For i nstance, I’ve always known that she thinks I’m an uptight asshole. But she’s not herself whenever we talk about her family. “I—”
“Back up here.”
I zip my lips. If it’s something she needs to work through on her own, I don’t want to try and dampen her feelings.
She directs me once we’re back on the main road, and we go about a mile before she has me turn off onto another dirt road.
We pass through two massive wrought iron gates.
An emblem is affixed to the bars, a golden W in script with the words Wilmington Winery beneath.
A picturesque setting unfolds in front of us. Rows and rows of vines, heavy with a variety of grapes ready for picking, with some stretched across trellises, as well as rustic buildings made of stone and wood that blend into the natural surroundings. It’s beautiful.
“They moved onto the winery estate,” she says, speaking to herself.
We pass the main building, and I slow down to avoid the people milling about. Even with the windows up, the scent of loamy soil and flowers mix, bursting through the vents.
“This place is beautiful,” I say.
Rosay’s leg bounces as we near the back of the property, and I can’t help but rest my hand on her thigh. Warmth skitters up my arm when she wraps her hand around mine, gaze still focused outside the window.
“Holy shit,” I breathe out as we turn and find three—what I can only describe as cabins—scattered about. They’re shaped and decorated like big wine barrels, complete with hoops and a door that looks like a tap. “That’s awesome.”
“They’re vacation rentals,” she says, giving me a pained smile. “Kieran added them a few years ago.”
It’s a damn smart investment. Finding a way to add another revenue stream can only bolster their reputation as the go-to space for events.
“Where should I park?” I ask, following the path as it curves up the side of a hill.
At the top of the hill stands a rustic style ranch house with a dark metal roof, wheat colored brick chimneys, and a hulking three car garage in the back. The sun shines on the house as if highlighting its closeness to heaven perched up on the high hill.
“You can pull in there beside the Rover.”
I park and cut the engine, finding it difficult to remove my hand from her leg. She might be nervous because she doesn’t believe we can do this, but I know I’ll do whatever it takes to achieve our goal.
“Look at me,” I urge. Her shoulders rise with her inhale, and she turns to me with her lips rolled between her teeth. “Are you okay?”
She nods.
“Talk to me, Rosay.”
A soft groan leaves her lips. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“I’ve got you.” I squeeze her thigh. “Whatever you need from me, whatever I have to do, I’ll do it. We’ll make sure your family believes it.”
“Thanks, Graham.”
“That’s sweetheart to you,” I reply, tossing her a grin.
“You’re insufferable.” She unbuckles herself. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? My siblings have no boundaries. They’re nosy, have high expectations, and are quick to sniff out when something is wrong.”
I chuckle. “So, they’re exactly like you.”
Though I know this statement could have a wavering effect on her, this time she smiles. “You’re prepared to handle three more of me?”
“Hell no,” I say. “I can barely handle one of you.”
“You’re damn right you can’t.”
She twists into the back of the vehicle to grab her bag, and her shirt rides up enough to reveal that faint scar along her hip I saw earlier. I reach out and slid e my finger across the smooth skin until I hit the raised line. “What’s this from?”
Rosay flinches at my touch and curls back into the seat with her bag as a barrier. “Let’s leave that in the ‘off-limits’ section.”
“Uh, okay.” I scramble for a way to change the subject. “Do you know where we’ll be staying? I can grab the bags from the car later if you don’t want to bring them now.”
Frown lines appear on her face. “I’m actually not sure now. I figured we’d stay in my old room, but…”
I don’t push for the answer she clearly doesn’t have. Instead, I get out and come to her side of the car, opening the door and extending my hand to help her out. “Let’s go meet the family.”