Page 14 of Love You Always

CHAPTER 6

Ella

Me: It’s Ella Fieldstone. Confirming tomorrow

Archer: Yes

Me: Great! I’m excited!

Archer: Ok

Me: Are you excited? Come on, admit it

Archer: See you tomorrow

Me: Can I bring you coffee as a thank you?

Archer: I’m good

Me: What time is good for you?

Archer: 10

Me: Lookingforward to it

Wow,he’s just as grumpy in his texts as he is in person. Nothing I can’t handle. He’s not the first person I’ve had to kill with kindness. Jerky directors, irritable key grips—I’ve given them all the sunshine treatment when necessary, and they’ve all come around.

I know I’m asking a favor that falls outside of normal wedding planning, but with the amount I’m about to pay for this wedding, I don’t feel too bad about him taking an hour out of his day to teach me a few things. He probably thinks I’m a diva. Well, he can get in line.

It’s true that I’ve fired more people than almost anyone in Hollywood, and I always have a rider in my contracts giving me total control over the staffing of whatever movie I’m involved in. That means I can fire the director, the writer, the cinematographer—anyone I see fit, at any time—and the breathless industry media has translated that to mean that I’m difficult to please. But they haven’t had to work with jerks who make life miserable for everyone on set.

I only have one real requirement for people who work on my productions—kindness. Anyone who can’t adhere to that gets fired. I’m not just talking about people being kind to me. We have a “no assholes” policy on the set and in the production offices. Zero tolerance for bullies.

Archer Corbett’s terse texts don’t exactly scream friendliness, but I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. I’m hoping a teddy bear heart beats underneath the grumpy winemaker exterior. And even if not…I really do want to learn about wine making.

That’s why I follow behind him as he strides down a winding path behind the barn. His legs are long, much longer than mine since I ditched my shoes in my car. The pair I grabbed in a rush this morning had a two-inch heel, and I worried about toppling over again in front of him.

So I’m rushing behind barefoot, my wide-legged pantsgrazing the ground as I speed walk to stay within a yard of him. The tiny rocks in the path sting the bottoms of my feet, but I ignore them.

Archer doesn’t bother to turn back to see if he’s leaving me in the dust, but that doesn’t offend me. I’m on his turf and he’s doing me a favor, so he can walk as fast as he wants. I’m busy convincing myself of this when he stops suddenly and whips around. My momentum is too much to slow me down, so I slam into his chest. My hands reach out to break my collision with a wall of muscle that I can feel through the soft flannel of the plaid shirt he wears over a tee.

Pushing myself away, my fingers dig into hard abs, and suck in an unintentional breath. From the smirk that forms on his lips, I know he heard me. I clear my throat, hoping to convince him I’m just suffering from indigestion. I fight the urge to trace the contours of a clear six-pack beneath my hands. One of Archer’s palms reaches out to steady me, gripping my shoulder and sending a ripple of heat down my arm. “Sorry,” I mumble, listing to the side. His other hand comes out to hold me up at the hip to keep me from toppling over.

I could explain the reason for my lack of balance, but I don’t know this man at all, and I don’t owe him anything, other than my courtesy as he takes me to wherever he’s going to collect grape samples.

“You okay there?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

I nod. “Yeah. Didn’t expect you to stop.”

Standing this close to him, I take in his broad shoulders that taper to a slim waist. He’s tall, easily over six feet, and solid as an ox—a hot, sexy ox. He has high cheekbones and deep blue eyes like stormy seas. Light creases across his forehead tell me he’s not just grumpy—he worries. I wonder what about. His lips press together in a line, but they look soft. He seems like a tumble of contrasts.

He tips his head and regards me, rubbing his chin, skeptical. “Second time you lost your balance. Coincidence?”

I sigh in annoyance. “Fine. I have something called persistent postural perceptual dizziness.”

He looks at me blankly. Then shakes his head as though working himself from a trance. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Vertigo, basically. I get dizzy and lose my balance sometimes. And I did not just fall. You stopped and I wasn’t expecting that. Okay, Grumpy Grape?”

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