Page 25 of Love You Always

“You’re calling your wedding a crime?” I grit out, hating this guy more than I have any right to when he’s not doing anything particularly wrong.

Callum’s head swivels and he blinks at me as though he’s just taking note of my existence. He chuckles and runs his hand up and down Ella’s arm before kissing the top of her head. “What we do after the wedding might be a crime in a few states.” He shrugs, so fucking smug. I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to keep them from reaching for his thick neck and squeezing until the tattoos pop off.

Ella laughs uncomfortably and Beatrix looks from the happycouple to me. Her head tilt tells me to chill the hell out, but I can’t.

“Sure, I’m ready to see the inn. Most of our people will be coming from out of town, so they’ll be staying for the weekend. We should probably reserve all the rooms,” Ella says.

My stomach lurches. Somehow all the touring and talk about the wedding still seemed hypothetical until the mention of guests.

“Sure,” he says, tipping his head toward my sister, who starts leading them in the direction of the inn. I walk along with them, ready with an excuse about needing to meet with our foreman in the vineyard nearest the inn if questioned. But no one raises the issue.

“Do people send invitations five months out?” I ask.

Beatrix shoots me a questioning stare, but I return it with innocence.

“Oh, um, more of a save the date with lodging info and stuff. The actual invitations will go out two months ahead,” Ella answers, walking next to my sister and delighting at everything in our path. Callum galumphs behind them, eyes fixed on his phone.

Beatrix looks questioningly at me more than once as I tag along after the group. It’s true that I should be in my office—I should have closed that grape deal yesterday—but Ella in the grip of her fiancé is like a car crash I can’t ignore. Even if it causes a pit to form in my stomach each time he puts his hands on her.

When we reach the inn, the first stop is the honeymoon suite, which is a luxe cottage, complete with a chef’s kitchen and a massive living room. Beatrix feels like it’s the showpiece of the newly-renovated inn, and even I can admit that it sells the place better than anything we could put on our website. Ella oohs and aahs over the giant stone fireplace, the pale brown couches overstuffed with feathers, the white-tiled kitchen where our staff sets up an omelet bar and coffee station for guests.

Callum moves ahead of us to the bedroom and whistles at what I know is a king-sized bed under a smooth white duvet cover. Large fluffed pillows. Sunlight streaming in from the paned windows. Panoramic views of vineyards. “Ella, come see the bedroom,” he beckons. She shakes her hair out and follows him into the room. My gaze stays fixed on her until she disappears.

“What are you doing?” Beatrix’s harsh whisper matches her scowl.

“Nothing.”

She motions me farther away from the bedroom, walking us out onto the porch of the free-standing suite. “Not nothing. I’m pretty sure you’ve never accompanied me on a tour of the wedding facilities before.”

I shrug. “There’s a first for everything.”

She blinks at me, unconvinced. “I swear, Archer, if you derail this wedding, I will not forgive you. We need this. The exposure will keep this place booked for years. That’s income. It’s a no-brainer.”

“I’m not derailing anything.” I do my best to make my expression a mask of disinterest as she studies me. “Anyway, I should get back to the cellars. We have a big yield of cab today. Can’t waste more time here.” I leave with the sound of Ella’s laughter following me from the bedroom. It sounds like silver fucking bells.

CHAPTER 12

Ella

Callum hasthe patience of a gnat. Once he’d checked out the honeymoon suite, he had no interest in seeing anything else at Buttercup Hill and took an Uber back to the city. It took a lot of pleading to get him up here today, so maybe I should count myself lucky that he saw the venue at all. I guess guys aren’t as into all the wedding details—or maybe just this guy.

After confirming that I want to rent the entire inn for the wedding weekend, I leave Beatrix’s office and walk back to my car. At least, that’s what I should do.

I should not wander over to the winery and see if Archer will make good on his willingness to show me the rest of the wine-making process.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

Archer is standing outside the wine cave deep in conversation with two men in wide-brimmed straw hats. As I draw near, Ioverhear that they’re speaking in Spanish, but I only recognize every third word or so from my rudimentary high school classes. I don’t know why it surprises me that Archer seems fluent.

It’s so freaking hot hearing him roll his Rs that I feel a searing flash of heat shoot through my body. Which absolutely should not be happening. Not when I’m engaged to another man. Even if it’s fake, we have a deal, and I’m not about to jeopardize the adoption process by letting my lady parts run the show. But oh, how they want just a taste of Archer Corbett.

Before Archer notices me, I take him in from a distance. He has that rugged strength that doesn’t come from hours in a gym—or at least not only from that. He works with his hands, hefting bins of grapes from his truck, just as easily as he handles delicate glass beakers and looks at minute differences in sugar levels.

He pushes his hair back from his face with strong fingers and his muscles flex—all of them, from the bicep I can see to the shoulder muscles under his worn tee. The sun hits his face, kissing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw. Nothing about him helps stop the ripple of desire I feel spreading from my chest to my limbs. And lower, to my aching core, where it has no business going.

I’m engaged, I remind my parts.

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