Page 36 of Love You Always

“What that’s like, the celebrity. It doesn’t bother you to have people point at you and sneak pictures for their social media accounts? That would drive me crazy.”

She laughs. “Now, why am I not surprised that Archer the Grouch doesn’t like people?”

“I don’t dislike all people,” I clarify. “Just most people.”

Ella shakes her head and points to the bottle. “That label’s pretty.” I take a look at the silver letters etched on a pale, cream-colored label with the Buttercup Hill flower underneath. It floats over a faint outline of the old brown barn. If you glance quickly, the barn doesn’t stand out, but the longer you stare, the more details emerge. It really is a work of art.

I lean an elbow on the bar and gaze at the label in my hand. “Isn’t it? I remember my dad telling me how he came up with the idea for the logo and the barn behind it. He said it all starts with family. Hence, the barn. And from that, the fruit of the vine can grow.”

Ella puts her chin on her hand and listens as I speak, her eyes flitting from the logo to my face. It’s intoxicating being this close to her in the intimate space, somehow even more so than when we were in the wine cave. Out here, dozens of people sit just a few yards away, but we’re alone here, almost like we’re insulated in a bubble, suspended in time.

“I like that,” she says quietly.

The sharp ring of Ella’s cell phone startles us both. She leans away from the bar top and searches her purse for her phone, and I go back to wiping down the bottle, which has a new layer of condensation on it. She checks the screen, where I can see Callum’s album cover mugshot smiling through fog. If the ringing phone didn’t jar me out of my fantasy—the one where Ella and I are meant for each other, and this is the moment she realizes it—the appearance of her fiancé’s face is the record scratch that sends me back to reality.

Ella sends the call to voicemail, which surprises me. “Feel free to get that. I can wait.”

“No, it’s fine.” Her brow creases, and she looks at the phone screen again. The call has already gone to voicemail, but she hesitates before putting it back into her purse. She opens her mouth, then shakes her head and looks down at the counter.

“Doesn’t seem fine.”

She inhales a slow breath and blows it out again, equally slowly. “It is.”

I wait, hoping she’ll say more, but she blinks a few times and forces a smile. “Where were we?” She reaches over and taps the bottle in my hand. “Tell me about this one.”

Carefully cutting the foil capsule from the top, I recite Ruby’s list of tasting notes and insert some of my knowledge from the growing side. “This one is unusual for the Rutherford area because it’s a sauvignon blanc grape that behaves like a cab. It’s slightly more finicky than the other whites we grow, and we think that’s because it was grafted onto old vines that probablyhave cabernet origins. The grapes are a bit more fragile than the other whites, so we only grow a limited amount, hence the private reserve. We only produce a few dozen bottles in the years when we produce at all. So this one that you’re about to taste is pretty special.”

“I feel like a wine snob considering something so valuable for my wedding day.”

“What better occasion?”

She flattens her lips into a forced smile and nods, but something’s off. “Guess you’re right. That’s the whole reason I’m here, after all.” And just like that, the whiff of real emotion is replaced by a movie-set version, where everything is suddenly kissed by a golden glow. Ella wraps her delicate fingers around the stem of a glass and tips it toward me. “Let’s open ‘em up.”

It’s not my place to ask about her relationship, especially as an owner of Buttercup Hill. My job is to play the professional, help my family hang onto a celebrity client, and make sure her wedding is every bit as worthy of the social register as possible. That’s how we’ll grow our business in the face of dwindling wine orders. That’s how I’ll ensure my family’s legacy. Not by intruding on the personal details of a client or her feelings about her fiancé.

I keep that in mind as I plunge the spiral screw into the cork, only letting my imagination veer slightly to where the cork is instead wedged in Callum’s carotid artery. Pulling out the cork with a clean pop, I lay it on the counter with the moist end facing Ella. “You should test to make sure it’s not dry. Means it’s been stored right.”

“Oh, I trust you know what you’re doing,” she says, tapping the wet end with her index finger. “Yep, it’s wet.”

I hold the bottle up to the light, so the sun’s rays are refracted by the pale yellow liquid, making rainbows dance on the countertop. “The color’s a little darker than a lot of sauv blancs because of the fruit. It’s a green grape with pink flesh.”

I keep thinking back to the day when she was here with Callum and the way she almost flinched when he put his arm around her. The way he barely seemed interested in the wedding—toher. My hands ball into fists and I fight to unclench them.

I should find something to talk about, tell her more about the wine, teach her something. She always wants to learn. But we’ve spent time together over the past weeks, and I’m feeling honest with myself about how much I like her. And I want honesty from her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my glass down. “I’m just not seeing it. I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t give a shit. If I don’t ask about it, I’ll regret it.” I grind my teeth and suck in a breath as though I can retract the words.

“What?” She looks up from studying the labels, and her eyes bore into me like lasers.

“You…Callum. As a couple. I don’t see it.” And there goes my chance.

She goes absolutely still and looks up from the bottles. “Archer…”

I wait for the rest. Her defense of how much she loves him. Her explanation of all I can’t possibly know about the depth of their love. But she doesn’t finish her sentence. She shakes her head and looks at the ground.

I start pacing in a circle, needing to move my body to give the pent-up energy and irritation someplace to go because I feel like hitting a punching bag, and last I checked, we don’t have one in the tasting room. At the high table where the wine bottles are lined up, Ella sits motionless like a statue. Her inertia acts like a vacuum, forcing me to stop moving.

I stand across the room from her, intensely aware of each one of my senses. Eyes flooding with the sheer beauty of this woman who has no idea she’s been the subject of every goddamn dream I’ve had for two months. Ears aware of the hollow silence in theroom, that pregnant beat before she crushes my dreams forever by telling me to go to hell.

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