Page 28 of Love You Always

At the mention of the wedding, Archer’s eyes narrow and his mouth flattens into a hard line. “Sure.”

I say nothing, waiting for him to explain what has his bloomers in a bunch all of a sudden, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Okay, great.”

“Great.”

“You might want to at least taste them before you decide. We could do that now or set up another time, maybe when you’re deciding on the menu. I can have Beatrix take it from here.”

It feels like a dismissal, and even though I just told myself to stay focused on Callum and my future, I can’t help but feel like he’s shutting me down. And I know why—the mention of my wedding to another man.

It sends a warm flood of emotion through my heart that he’s honorable and has enough integrity to control himself around someone who’s supposedly taken.

“I ought to get back to work,” Archer says, his tone flat. Despite what I thought felt like flirtation a few minutes ago, he’s all business now.

“Of course. Thank you so much for showing me everything.”

“My pleasure.” He hesitates, his eyes roaming slowly over myface, tracing every contour with such intensity that I feel it in my bones. Then he extends his hand. It’s awkward.

“Oh, come on. I think we’re at least at the hug stage,” I say, flashing him my America’s sweetheart grin, cute but meaningless. I reach my arms toward him, but he hesitates before taking a step closer to me.

I’m expecting the kind of hug I get daily from guys I work with on set or husbands of friends—one step up from a handshake, friendly, easy.

Archer’s hug is nothing like that. He envelops me in a hug that I feel in every part of my body. It’s warm, protective, off the charts with sensory overload. I find myself unable to let go.

In each place that his hard planes of muscle meet my softer curves, we fit like the lost puzzle piece in a picture that’s been sitting unfinished.

Holy shit.

This was not a good idea. If this is what it feels like to get a gentle hug from Archer Corbett, all I can think about is what it would feel like to have more of him.Allof him.

I push him away with both hands, which land on his abs, and my brain does a quick calculation that there is indeed a six-pack under his soft shirt. Dammit.

“Thanks for…just thanks,” I sputter, backing away as though I’m touching lava. He cocks an eyebrow quizzically, but I don’t have an explanation for what I just experienced. I only know I need to get out of here before I launch myself at him and climb him like a tree.

You are engaged.

“I know!”

Realizing I’ve just answered my subconscious out loud, I blink hard. If I didn’t already seem like a loon, I’m a lost cause now.

“I mean…” I fumble, turning toward where I think the exit is. “I need to go.” I practically run from the room. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I don’t give him a chance to answer.

CHAPTER 13

Archer

Finally,I feel like I’m making some headway on the giant stack of papers in my office. Orders from sixteen new California wine shops confirmed. One new overseas distributor secured. Most of our numbers for the month look like they’ll add up, as long as we don’t have an unexpected cold snap that could freeze the vines overnight. I cross my fingers under my desk, newly open to things like manifesting and hoping.

I don’t want to think too hard about why I might have a slightly less gloomy outlook on the world, but I know. Just spending a little bit of time with the sunny Ella Fieldstone has been like sprinkling fairy dust around Buttercup Hill. I may be grouchy, but I’m not made of stone. My mood is lighter from the sheer delight she seemed to take in every aspect of the job I inherited and normally see as a chore. In a couple hours, she had me remembering what I used to find fascinating about the wine-making process before it became a daily grind.

Surprising myself, I pick up my phone, pull up my social media account, and enter Ella’s name like the stalker I’ve become. The usual string of photos pop up, most of them candids of Ella and Callum at one event or another. But this time, I zoom in, analyzing her expression, trying to find evidence that she’s as joyful with him as what I experienced with her in the wine cave. In most of the pictures, even though they’re not posed, she seems aware of the camera, tipping her head against Callum or giving her characteristic pixie grin.

But in a couple of the photos, she looks less guarded, more resigned to walking next to him hand in hand, like it’s a job. I’m clearly reading into the situation, but when I compare them to photos of Ella on her own, there seems to be a veil of something I can’t pinpoint when she’s with Callum, an effort to plaster on a smile. It looks like acting. And like a movie-goer who suspends disbelief for the sake of a story, I’m seeing what I want to see.

On that note, I go back to my pile. Enough daydreaming about another man’s fiancée.

I put in a call to Graham, making sure he’s growing enough sauvignon blanc grapes to supplement what we have so we can collaborate on a special edition next year. He assures me that we’ll be good to go, so I pencil that into my planner. Next month, next year—it’s all a blur of projections.

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