Page 8 of Love You Always

I shoot Trix a warning look, a scowl meant to communicate that she should not entertain this bad idea.

“Really?” Beatrix ignores me and flashes a smile at Ella. It bugs me that she’s buying into the whole celebrity thing and treating this woman like anything other than what she is—a royal pain. “I’m sure we could arrange that. Archer knows more than any of us about what we’re growing and how that translates into the wines we’ll sell all over the world. He’s your guy.”

I close my eyes in the face of the two-against-one battle and shake my head.

“A lot of what I do is more or less chemistry lab work. It’s not wine tasting, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I shrug, ready to see her eyes glaze over at the mention of science. Most visitors to Buttercup Hill are more interested in drinking the wine than looking at it under a microscope.

Her eyes go wide and she starts nodding. “Sounds amazing.” She bites down on her bottom lip almost shyly when she smiles. It’s the kind of smile that melts solids into liquid and sets fire to entire cities. The woman is good at her job.

Actresses.I shake my head.

“I read all this cool stuff on your website about viticulture and viniculture and the history of the vines here. I guess I just wanted to go further down the rabbit hole,” Ella explains, wiping sweat from her hands on her skirt. It’s the way I imagine people feel when they meet her.

“I’d venture to guess that very few people read that part of our website,” I say. It’s one more challenge, daring her to look at the floor and admit she only gave it a passing glance. I spent weeks writing and rewriting that part of our website even though PJ told me I’d drive our guests to drink from sheer boredom with all my farming details.

“I read it all.”

I raise an eyebrow, and somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I accept that Buttercup Hill needs this wedding, which means I need to toe the line. It’s what I vowed to do when I took over from my dad, so if that means letting Ella Fieldstone traipse behind me for an hour, I’ll do it. We need the publicity and the money, and I’m out of energy to fight everything and everyone all the time.

“Sounds like you two will have a lot to talk about, then,” Trix says, her stern look telling me I’d better not screw this up. “After Ella and I are done with our meeting, why don’t I bring her back and you can ply her with wine knowledge?”

“I can’t today. I have meetings with a grower off-site, and my day is packed.”

“I can come back another time. Whatever suits your schedule,” Ella offers, eyes wide and willing. Beatrix taps the toe of her pump on the wood impatiently, and I exhale the last bit of fight.

“Fine. Next week. Same time, same place,” I grumble, dreading it and looking forward to it despite myself.

“Great,” my sister says, beckoning Ella to follow her out of the barn toward the restaurant where she has her office. I watch as Ella looks down to navigate her way out the door without landing on her ass again. She and Trix move to the door, where there are two steps down to the gravel path.

Slipping past them, I stand next to the door and unobtrusively lift the hem of Ella’s skirt so she can walk down without stepping on it. She walks beside my sister, seeming not to notice my interference, which is a relief. Last thing I need is her thinking I care one bit about her.

CHAPTER 4

Ella

“He liftedthe hem of my skirt so I wouldn’t trip,” I say, arms akimbo, as though this reveals the meaning of the universe.

Tatum, my college best friend, turns from where she’s aiming a watering can at some wilting petunias and squints at me. “What?”

I gesture at the area near my feet where a long skirt would be if I wasn’t sitting in a deck chair wearing sweatpants and fuzzy boots. Tatum continues watering the plants on the redwood patio that stretches the length of her house in the hills. One of the best things about leaving LA for the Bay Area is that I get to spend more time with Tatum. I’ve been splitting my time between Callum’s house in San Francisco and Tatum’s house drinking coffee or wine, playing with her adorable four-year-old twins, and enjoying the panoramic view. It’s also an easier drive to Napa from here.

“He lifted my hem,” I say again, pushing my glasses back onto the bridge of my nose.

“Was he being pervy?”

“No! He noticed me stepping down a couple of stairs and just…lifted the hem a couple inches from the ground so I didn’t step on it. Didn’t say anything, didn’t make a whole gesture out of it. He just…did it. Like breathing.”

“That’s maybe the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It wasn’t hot. It was just…kind.” As I say the word it surprises me because all my impressions of Archer Corbett involved words like crabby, arrogant, and gruff. But looking out to make sure I didn’t trip was kind. Underneath the grumpy exterior, I think Archer Corbett is a kind human being, and that makes me want to crack a tiny bit of his façade to see more of it.

She puts the watering can down and comes to sit next to me on her own chair, tilting the back to recline.

“Can mine do that?”

She nods, reaching over to help me adjust my chair. Now we both sit at identical angles, looking out at the sun setting over the bay. “Now tell me, was that hot? Me adjusting your chair?”

“No, but that’s a weird question.”

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