Page 3 of Love You Always

Before I can move away from the window, her gaze rises and she looks directly at me, or at least what she can see of me with the harsh morning sun in her eyes. Her hand comes up to shade her forehead, and I move out of view. But not before I get a good look at her face, heart-shaped with delicate cheekbones and bee-stung lips that make me want to search out the offending bee—and thank it.

Shifting her shoulders back, she stares up as though she can look me in the eye. All the work stress must be getting to me because I swear it looks like she’s emanating her own light, which I know is impossible. It’s also impossible to look away.

Then I grab hold of my senses and take another step back from the window.

Because this is Ella Fieldstone. She’s an actress. All manufactured moments and perfect lighting. Nothing I’m imagining can possibly be real.

“Just go down and stall her, please. Act like you care about our winery’s future. Manifest something positive for once.”

“Right now I’m manifesting you leaving me alone, and Ella Fieldstone getting her little blue car off our property.”

I need to sit back down in my chair and do my actual job and let my sisters do theirs. Who the fuck cares about a celebrity wedding and whether it does or does not take place at our vineyard? I’m about to tell PJ as much when a movement outside catches my eye. I look down in time to see Ella Fieldstone step on her skirt and go down like a felled tree.

Huh.

Amid a sprinkling of concern is the thought that maybe I do know how to manifest after all.

CHAPTER 2

Ella

I havea bad habit of getting to destinations early. Maybe it’s years of morning call times on set, but I hate showing up and finding that everyone has been waiting on me.

Today, I’m a full day early for my meeting with Beatrix Corbett, who offered to walk me through the restaurant at Buttercup Hill and kick off six months of wedding planning. I normally wouldn’t show up anyplace twenty-four hours early and unannounced, but I’m here for…reasons.

And I’m really hoping the wedding planning won’t take six whole months. It’s just a party, after all. A spectacle.

Yes, I know women have been getting excited about their wedding days since the beginning of time, but I’m just not one of them. I’m too practical to get caught up in details like whether to start with a soup course or a plated appetizer. And I spend so much time getting fitted into wardrobe for work that choosing between duchess satin and raw silk dresses feels like a snooze.

Yup, instead of a bridezilla, I’m a bride van winkle—just wake me when it’s over.

I’m also a bride who’s currently facedown in a dusty parking lot, trying to figure out whether my skirt is caught or the world has just turned upside down. Probably a combination of the two.

A deep sigh escapes me before I even think about turning right side up. So typical.

It’s not that I’m naturally clumsy per se, but I do see my fair share of the ground, and I have scars on my knees to prove it. Long story, but let’s say it’s a good thing I’m not a model because I’d never make it down a runway.

Fortunately, no one saw my latest brush with gravel. I assume this is true because I’m pretty nearsighted. I only hear the faint chirp of birds and a soft rustle of wind through whatever tall trees are dappling me with sunlight and shadows. Taking a long breath, I tug on my skirt, which responds stubbornly, still stuck to whatever caused me to trip.

I tug harder this time, and my ankle twists to the side.

Oh.

I’m actually caught on myself.

My skirt, a flowy thing with little eyelet cutouts along the hem, is stuck in a love affair with the kitten heel of my slip-on mules. I bought the innocent-looking peach-colored pair because they have a low heel. The high ones cause all sorts of balance problems, so I stick to low ones. Not low enough, apparently.

I feel for the edge of the skirt and free the pointy heel from the fabric. The wind billows my skirt up and over my face, and the sides of my shoes grind against the tan gravel as I flail about. Serves me right for not just wearing tennis shoes.

“Make a good impression. Look cute.” The perennial instructions from my publicist, Nancy, ring in my ears. She doesn’t say these things on repeat because she’s a nag. She says them because otherwise, I’ll show up in gray sweats with my hair in a pile on top of my head. No makeup. Coffee spilling out of my ceramicmug because I’m too stubborn to use the swag from my last two movies. It feels bougie.

The coffee sits half-spilled in a chipped mug, balancing on a notepad in the center console. I ripped the scrunchie from my hair on the way up the Buttercup Hill driveway, but at least I managed to follow her instructions about the rest, putting on a pale peach sweater, a floral skirt, and the dastardly shoes.

Yanking them off my feet, I chuck them at my Fiat. Checking to make sure no one is watching me with a phone, I roll from my side to a kneeling position, fully aware I just flashed my thong underwear at a bunch of bluebirds and cabernet vines. I hope they won’t judge.

My phone rings, so I crawl toward the car to find my purse. My car answers automatically, blasting its caller ID on speakerphone.

“Call from Mom.” The British voice I chose for my navigation sounds like my mother is paying me a social call at Downton Abbey.

---