Page 23 of Love You Always

“Never mind.” I try to quell my jittery pulse and the nervous anticipation of seeing Archer. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be craving sweet gestures from a grouchy man who isn’t my fiancé.

A minute later, the cart sweeps past the lake, and I look out for the swans that seemed to be keeping watch over Archer while he walked along the other day. No swans. No Archer.

Stop looking for him. You’re here with your fiancé. To plan your wedding.

Maybe if I tell myself enough times I’ll feel more excited about it. Beatrix pulls the cart into a parking spot outside Butter and Rosemary, a white, sprawling two-story farmhouse with ivy-covered trellises running along the path that leads to the red double doors at the front. Rosemary hedges and wide planters filled with more lavender and succulents flank the gravel pathway. I inhale a deep breath that makes me feel like I’ve entered a spa.

I think about how lucky the Corbett family is to live here and experience this every day. My eyes close for a moment and I imagine myself waking up here in the morning and walking onto the balcony of my bedroom, looking at the sun rising over the vineyards and inhaling lavender and rosemary in near silence.

“I could live in a place like this.” I sigh and tip my head against Callum’s shoulder, willing him to be a better guy. I know it’s not fair to want or expect it when that’s not what our relationship is. Grabbing his hand, I play the part of selling our relationship, the idea that all of this is real. I know Callum likes me, but I feel myself willing him to pretend to love me, at least in front of other people.

“Seriously? Out here in the sticks?” Callum says while pointing a finger toward the vineyards where the grapes hang in the shade of the vines.

“See how the grapes are growing beneath the canopy of leaves? That way, the fruit is shaded from the sun.”

“Um, okay.” He goes back to his phone.

“Do you not find it a little bit interesting?” I glare at his busy fingers tapping on the screen, not even caring that they have the talent to play a guitar.

He looks up. “Sorry, but no. I don’t have a hard-on for grapes.” He puts an arm around me. “Just have one for you.”

He flashes me that country boy grin that has women around the world throwing their cowboy hats at his feet. It moves a of piece my heart. How could it not? At the end of the day, I’m the girl with the bad reputation who believes in love, even if I can’t find it and only have a fake fiancé to show for it.

I let errant thoughts of Archer fade away and try to focus on what’s in front of me—my wedding and my future. And then adoption.

“Works for me.”

CHAPTER 11

Archer

For the firsttime in weeks, I slept like a felled redwood. I don’t know what to make of that because I stayed up later than I should have reading everything I could find about a certain actress, but sometime after midnight, I must’ve drifted off with my light on.

The sunlight woke me up just after six, and I rolled out of bed like a soldier on duty. Slipped on my running shorts, stuffed my feet into my shoes, put on the rest of my gear. I was out the door within ten minutes without thinking about whether I feel like hitting the pavement or not. Running always tells me for sure whether I’m worn out or whether I have enough juice to make it through the day. A mile in, I was feeling pretty good, so I picked up my pace and finished the six-mile loop in about forty-five minutes. I promised Carson I’d join him later for “shoulder day” at the gym, so I guess today will be a double workout day.

Walking the path past the pond on our property, I swing bySweet Butter for a latte and sip it on the way back to my office. In the distance, I hear the rumble of tractors in the far vineyard, where the grapes are ready to be picked. I hop onto a forklift truck and drive out there to watch the pickers.

“Hey, boss,” Elma says, looking briefly away from the vines but never missing a single grape. She’s the best picker we have, and it’s no accident. She learned from her father, who worked for my father. Her family has lived in Calistoga for almost as long as my family has been in the area, and since I took over the wine making, she’s taught more than a dozen pickers how to do their jobs better.

Bunches of grapes drop into a bin at her feet as she slips a sharp pair of sheers through the vines. Then, like she has an instinct for inefficiency, she stops and winds around one of the trellises to talk to another picker. “You’re leaving too much fruit behind.”

They normally chat among themselves in Spanish, so I assume she’s using English to make it extra clear to me that she’s on top of her game. I lean down to inspect the vines she’s already picked clean and notice only a couple of lone grapes that didn’t make it into the bin. When she comes back over, she tips her head up at my inspection, knowing her technique is above reproach but wanting me to tell her so anyway.

“You’re the best of the best,” I say, appreciative of her skill. I’m never annoyed to dole out praise to our workers when it’s warranted, and I want our employees to be happy.

“We’re getting every dollar out of this harvest. How my daddy taught me.” She goes back to slicing through the vines and the purple bunches of grapes soon fill the bin. I haul it to the truck and slide it into the back, where several other pickers have already deposited their full bins.

When the truck is fully loaded, I start the engine and drive back to the winery. It’s my favorite time of day—late enough that workers are already here, and the winery feels productive, butnot so late that day drinkers have arrived, and Buttercup Hill turns into a tourist destination. Not that I don’t like and appreciate the guests who we depend on to keep buzz going, but it’s not my area of expertise and I’m just as likely to offend someone with my mood as I am to say the right thing, according to PJ or Beatrix.

Backing the truck up to the de-stemming machine, I throw an arm over the passenger headrest to guide me. Unfortunately, my path is blocked by a certain light-haired pixie I can’t seem to get rid of. I hit the brake and turn off the engine. Hopping out of the truck, I glare at her. “Standing behind a moving vehicle isn’t smart, princess. Good way to get run over.” I step out of the truck and slam the door.

She puts her hands on her hips like Wonder Woman. “You wouldn’t hit me.”

I shake my head, as exasperated by her as I am glad to see her. My eyes rake over every part of her, taking in the sassy jut of her hip, the tiny nip of her waist, the rolled-up jeans and purple hoodie that make her look like a college student, and the flip-flops that leave her a full foot shorter than me. “Don’t make it easy, then.”

“Can we start, boss?” Elma asks. I nod and the workers start emptying the bins from the back of the truck and lining them up in front of the de-stemmer.

“Why are you here?”

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