Page 10 of How to Say I Do
“Do you remember accusing me of being a Texas Ranger?”
My chin hit my chest. “Wait.” My head crawled right back up. “You never denied that.Areyou a Texas Ranger?”
He laughed. “No, I’m no Ranger. My father was the county sheriff, but I’m a rancher.”
“A rancher. HowveryTexan. I bet you have a horse and chaps.”
“I surely do.”
“What are the cows called out there? Longhorns?”
“We have a lot of different cattle in Texas.” He was trying so hard not to laugh at me. “I do indeed have a herd of longhorns on my ranch, and I tend to them astride my noble horse.” He shook his head. “Those longhorns, though. Damnedest things. They got horns as wide as I am tall. They get all tangled up in a hurry, and I’m always having to get out there and un-tussle ’em with my lasso.”
I frowned. He had an extremely straight face, but that dimple of his was firing. “No. No they don’t. That’s not true. They don’t gettangled up.”
“No? You sure?” He looked like someone would if a kindergartener explained physics to them.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d Google it to prove it to you, but my phone is indisposed right now—”
“Your phone is in a diaper right now.”
I laughed into my champagne flute. I’d lost track of how many times Luis had topped me off. The day was mellowing, and I was, shockingly, enjoying myself. “What else do you have on your very Texas ranch?”
“Little of this, little of that. The usual. Horses. Hay. Fields.” He bit down on the edge of his lip and rolled it between his teeth. “And I have a vineyard,” he said. “A little winery called the Gran Cielo Viñedo. It’s just a little thing, off the Frio River and out yonder past nowhere. It’s nothing big, nothing fancy.” He held up his hands, slow-down style. “But my wine is in the local restaurants—both of ’em—and my Yellow Rose blend won double gold at a wine festival in Austin this year.”
“No shit? I didn’t even know therewerewineries in Texas.”
“You don’t know your history, then. The very first vineyards in the United States were planted by Spanish missionaries in the 1600s. In Texas.” He winked. “But it’s a small industry. Nothing like California or France, even though the growable land available in Texas is larger than all of France’s acres of vineyards combined. Texas winemaking is highly specialized. It’s a mess of hands-on hard work, but—” He stopped abruptly, swallowing down whatever he was about to say. “But I love it.”
There was a sudden silence between us. We’d veered too close to something when he spoke about his winery, and now he had the clammed-up, tightly-wound look of a man keeping his words in.
I worked with celebrities. I was an expert in body language. When a model’s nostrils widened, you had about six seconds before the big blow-up. A smile as she tucked her hair behind her ear? Run for your fucking life.
What did this mean from Wyatt?
“How do the longhorns fit in with the vineyard?” I went for casual, relaxed, trying to get back to the vibe we’d had. “I’m imagining something ridiculous, like elephants trampling through your vines, but that can’t be how you harvest.”
Wyatt let out a breath, and whatever momentary hitch we’d run into vanished. “Nowtheyprovide the organic fertilizer.” Another lopsided grin, this one maybe a little smaller than before. “The ranch part pays the bills while the vineyard gets going. I’m hoping to distribute a bit wider once I pick up production. I’ve done a handful of local restaurant tastings, but I want to open up an on-site tasting room. I’ve also been thinking about fixing up the barn and trying to host some small get-togethers. Little country weddings, maybe. It’s got that right feel.”
“Do you have that impossible-to-fake country charm? Rolling fields, sprawling oak trees, wooden fences, and gorgeous sunsets? A big barn, lots of shiplap, and miles of roses? Tons of twine bows and gingham?”
“Well, not so much on the gingham and bows, but yes with everything else.”
“Lord, Wyatt, you could make akillingif you hosted weddings. I had ten clients last year that wanted that exact aesthetic. I shipped most of them out to Long Island, which is just good enough to fake it, especially if you throw a cool million at the decorators. But a real-life ranchandvineyard? You’ll be printing all the money you could ever want.”
He went to work on another mango slice, tearing the fruit into bite-sized chunks. “Why don’t you come help me make sure I do it right?”
“I don’t think you could do anything wrong. Your ranch sounds like a dream.”
Wyatt’s eyes shifted again, softening like he was falling into a memory. “That it is,” he said. He popped a piece of mango into his mouth. “So, whatcha doin’ after this?”
My bravery before brunch, ready to take on the world as a party of one, had withered. Everything I’d planned out before sounded miserable and depressing now that I was alone, and I was looking forward to exactly none of it. “I need to cancel what I had reserved for this week. And after that…”
There were probably several bottles of alcohol with my name on them. I had an empty villa and a private beach, and a lot of time to devote to feeling sorry for myself.
“Why cancel?”
“Because I don’t want to do any of it alone. I’d imagined I would be here with someone. I thought this was going to be…” Well, amazing. I thought this was going to be amazing.
