Page 5 of Love You Always

“You’re my daughter. I’m always going to worry about you. Especially when it comes to relationships.”

She has a point. I have a trail of bad boyfriends in my wake. If there was a noncommittal, unreliable bad boy within a fifty-mile radius, I probably dated him. It’s no secret that my mom wishes I’d fall in love with a fabulous man and deliver her a passel of grandchildren so she can babysit to her heart’s content.

My version is proceeding nicely. I’ve filed my adoption application, cleaned up my image as a serial dater who can’t commit, and I’m getting married in six months to a great guy.

Fine. A decent guy.

Okay. A guy.

The wedding has gotten blown up into a spectacle made forTown and Countrymagazine, who arranged a story with my publicist. But…eyes on the prize. There’s a baby out there who needs me as a mom, and extra cameras won’t kill me. It’s just one day, and I’ll try to think of it like any other media event—I’ll smile and pose in my dress, looking like the America’s sweetheart everyone assumes I am in real life.

At least Buttercup Hill is a pretty place for a media circus wedding. Looking up at the towering trees that line the driveway, I inhale the sweet scent of plants and rich soil. It’s so beautiful that maybe just being here this morning will convince me I’m doing the right thing by marrying Callum Haywood.

Yes, that Callum Haywood, the country music star, who proposed on stage last year at the Stagecoach Music Festival. The story of the lovelorn princess landing the bad boy rocker was pure publicity gold. I wish I could say I fell hard for him, but… it’s a marriage of convenience, cooked up by our respective public relations teams, that will allow us both to quiet our wild reputations. Mine got particularly bad after an ex with a bruised ego shouted to every social media channel he could find that I’m unstable, reckless, and difficult. Adoption courts don’t look fondly on words like that.

Callum’s record label told him to clean up his reputation as a cheater or they’ll cancel his tour, and my adoption lawyer said my chances of being approved will be better with a stable partner. I’m not proud of the charade, but I’m willing to do it in order to adopt. The fact that I need a man for that bugs the crap out of me, but I pick my battles. He lives in San Francisco and I’m in Los Angeles, but we’ve made just enough appearances together—me flying to see him on tour and him staying with me and grabbing early morning coffee in LA—that we look every bit the adorable couple. Even I almost believe we’re in love sometimes.

But I have a niggling worry that Callum may have gone back to his old ways. A few too many nights when he’s been on tour over the past few months when he didn’t answer my calls after his shows. He always used to answer my calls.

A few too many times when his tour manager made excuses for why I couldn’t come to Callum’s house when I was in town. My best friend lives in Oakland, and I love staying with her, but I don’t like being told what to do.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid because I don’t want anything to derail our wedding.

So I focus on the doves.

“No dove release. Consider it done.” I say goodbye to my mom, and the caw of a bird catches my attention. It’s no dove. More like an angry starling swooping overhead and disappearing in the grapevines that sprawl into the distance.

I slip my shoes back on and take a deep breath. It will all be fine. As I walk toward the brown barn of Buttercup Hill, I step on the hem of my skirt. Again.

CHAPTER 3

Archer

I startfor the door of my office, forcing my sister to trail after me if she wants to keep nagging. Her legs are shorter than mine, and I hear her heels click-clack down the hallway as she tries to keep up.

“Beatrix will murder you if you’re not nice to Ella Fieldstone,” she calls after me. Her phone rings and she stops following before I make it to the bottom of the stairs. “Hi, yes, put her through.” She pantomimes that she has to take her call and points toward the driveway where Ella parked her car. Then she puts her palms together like she’s thanking me.

I mime flipping her the bird.

Her voice recedes as I cross the main floor of the barn, which has exposed ceiling beams, pale gray walls, and open shelves containing Buttercup Hill memorabilia—vintage wine labels, old photos of the property, vintner awards. In the time since I tookover as winemaker, we haven’t been within shouting distance of an award, but I plan to change that.

As I stride past weathered oak tables and leather chairs, the double doors fly open, and there, aglow in the morning sunlight, is Ella Fieldstone. Her untamed hair forms its own halo. Her cheeks flush naturally, no makeup needed. Clear blue eyes open wide like inviting mountain lakes.

Blood floods my veins and my skin tingles. I don’t understand why or how, but her presence slams into me like an addiction I won’t want to quit. One part irritating, one part extra strength magnet.

This sensation has only come once before. Back in LA. I couldn’t explain it then, either.

Same girl, different circumstances. I buried the memory back then, just like I will now.

I can’t believe the feeling dares rear up again when I know better. But here it is. Unwelcome, but here. If I doubted it was possible to feel something deeply for a woman I don’t even know, now I have double proof.

The air feels like it’s been sucked from the room. Sucked from my lungs. I stand there feeling unsure of whether my legs can support my six-foot frame.

I assume it’s not just me who feels it because she’s built a career as America’s sweetheart, making people fall in love with her on a screen. But it’s an illusion. It has to be.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful. I wish it was that because then I could accuse myself of being shallow and get over it. No. She’s an impossibly brilliant light. And I’m the unwitting moth, desperate to get closer, even if I burn.

Goddamn.

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