I swallowed more whiskey. “You’re definitely not the only one.”
“Good. Any time you want to talk again, I’m here.”
I could think of plenty of things I’d rather do than talk with her, but I kept my mouth shut.
“So what are your plans for this week?” she asked brightly. “Since the inn and winery are closed, you’ve got time off, right?”
I nodded. “More or less.”
“What will you do? Go visit family?”
“No, I’m not planning any travel. I’ve got some projects around the house I’ve been putting off, but I’ll also probably come into work.”
“Work!” She looked at me like I was nuts.
“There are things that have to be done or checked every day, and I gave my assistant the entire week off, so . . .” I shrugged. “I need to do them.”
“Do you want help?” she asked, sitting up straighter in her seat. “Maybe you could teach me . . . some more things. I’ve always wanted to learn more about the winemaking at Cloverleigh, and I really enjoyed the lesson on tasting the other night. Plus I told Chloe I’d fill in while she’s short-staffed in the tasting room next week. I’d be happy to come in and assist you during the next few days—if you need the help, I mean.”
What I needed was for her to get out of my head, and spending more time with her—especially without other people around—wasn’t going to help whatsoever. But she looked so eager, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. “Uh, sure.”
Her face lit up. “Great! I’m excited. And it will be such a good distraction for me too.”
Distraction? How about the way she was crossing her legs toward me? Or the way her thick dark lashes framed those light blue eyes? Or the way her bare shoulders seemed to shimmer a little in the bar’s low light? My skin felt hot beneath my suit. My shirt felt too tight on my chest, and the crotch of my pants was definitely snug.
I downed the rest of my drink and set the empty glass on the bar. “Could I have another?” I asked the bartender, loosening the knot in my tie.
Sylvia laughed. “Is it the prospect of spending more time with me?”
That actually made me crack half a smile. “You have no idea.”
* * *
Sylvia and I pretty much hid out in the bar all night. Occasionally one of us would get up—I’d bring back a plate of food for us, she’d check on the kids—but mostly we just stayed on those two stools at the end of the bar, drinking whiskey and wine, pretending we were the only two people in the room, maybe even in the world.
We talked a lot about the vineyard, the upcoming season, what happens at the winery during the winter, but also about vineyards she’d visited in California and Europe. We’d been to some of the same ones in northern France, and I told her about how I’d adapted some of the techniques I’d learned from working the harvest there. She listened attentively and asked intelligent questions, and I knew she’d learn quickly.
“Did you ever think about going into the wine industry after college?” I asked her.
“Not back then.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “I was going to be a photojournalist.”
“Really?”
“I wanted to travel the world and tell stories with pictures,” she announced grandly, making a sweeping gesture with her hand.
I sipped my whiskey. “What happened?”
She sighed. “I got married. Had a family. I don’t regret it, because my kids are the best thing that ever happened to me, but I do sometimes miss that feeling of being creative.”
“Do you still take pictures?”
“Not too much anymore. Nothing artistic anyway. Mostly I took them for social media, so I could continue fooling everyone into thinking my life was perfect.” She shook her head. “So stupid.”
I’d seen her photos on social media, and they had made her life look impossibly perfect. But still, she had an eye for beauty. “You should get back into it. Even if it’s just to be creative.”
She smiled and laughed softly. “Thanks. Maybe I will.”
The hours flew by, and the more I talked to her, the more attracted I was to her. But Sylvia wasn’t the type to openly flirt, and I was careful to keep my words clean, even though my thoughts drifted. Her leg brushed against mine once or twice, which nearly made me lose my cool, but overall, there was nothing suggestive about either our conversation or our body language.
So when the party wound down and the bar was closing up, I was more than a little surprised when she asked if I’d like to come back to her house for one last drink.
“Don’t you have to put the kids to bed?” I asked.
“Yes, but then I have to wait for them to go to sleep, so I can play Santa.” She stifled a yawn. “If I can stay awake.”
“Ah. So my job is to make sure you don’t fall asleep?”
“Exactly. And to carry the heavy boxes in from the garage.” She laughed, squeezing my bicep through my suit coat. “I need those muscles. I don’t have any.”
“You’re going to get some, remember?” I said, growing hot under the collar at her touch. “You’re going to the gym.”
“That’s right.” She nodded defiantly. “Getting stronger is New Year’s resolution number one.”
“What’s number two?” I asked.
She thought for a second. “Find a way to be happy on my own. But I think they’re related, you know? I’m going to need strength—physical and emotional, to start over.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s true.”
“What about you?” she asked, getting to her feet. “Have you thought of any resolutions yet?”
“I’m not much for that stuff.”
“Well, I am. And I have one for you.” She lifted her chin.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. You should look into adoption as a single dad.”
“I think you’ve had too much wine.” I got to my feet and adjusted my tie.
She laughed. “That’s entirely possible. Come on, it’s almost midnight. Let’s get the kids and sneak out of here.”
* * *
While Sylvia was putting her kids to bed, her parents came in. I was a little embarrassed to be standing there alone in the kitchen.
“Sylvia asked for help playing Santa,” I explained. “She’s getting the kids settled.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Daphne softly, pulling off her heels. “I wish I could stay up and play Santa again, but I’m plum worn out. Plus I want to get up early and make waffles for everyone. That’s what I always did Christmas morning for our kids.”
“I don’t mind staying,” I said.
“Can I pour you a drink?” asked John. But he looked just as exhausted as his wife.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“In that case, I’ll head up too,” he said, yawning loudly. “Those parties are fun, but boy, they’re a lot of work.”
“It was a great party,” I said. “Thanks again for inviting me.”
“Merry Christmas, dear,” Daphne said on her way out of the kitchen. “If you’re not busy tomorrow, come for waffles.”
When I was alone again, I wandered into the family room. It was silent and dark, lit only by the Christmas tree in the corner. I switched on a lamp and went over to the built-in shelves lining the fireplace wall to study the framed photographs.
There was a wedding portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer and one of Mack and Frannie as well. Baby pictures of Keaton and Whitney. Graduation photos of all five Sawyer sisters. In addition, there were more informal pictures taken around the farm—three little blond girls swimming in the creek during the summer, a gap-toothed Chloe grinning down from a perch in a tree, April swinging tiny Frannie around by the hands with the vineyard in the background.
I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Sylvia coming into the room, still wearing her dress and heels, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. “Hey,” I said quietly, wishing more than anything I could reach out, put my hands on her hips, and pull her flush a
gainst me.
“Hey.” She smiled. “I’m glad you’re still here. Sorry it took so long—the kids made me recite The Night Before Christmas like I used to do when they were tiny.”
“You can recite it from memory?”
She shrugged. “One of my hidden talents. Here. I poured us a little scotch from my dad’s secret stash in the library. Don’t tell on me.”
I laughed, taking the glass from her. “Thanks. And speaking of talent.” I gestured toward the photos. “Did you take these?”
She glanced at them. “Yes. A long time ago.”
“They’re beautiful, Sylvia. You have a gift.”
“Thank you.” She sipped her scotch. “I was thinking of maybe talking to my parents about taking some photos for the website and social media. Do you know who runs those accounts?”
“At one point, I think Frannie, but after she left to start the pastry shop, I think social media has sort of been neglected. Talk to Chloe—I bet she’d know.”
“I will. There has to be some way to make myself useful around here, right? I’m just not good at too many things.”
She said it as a joke, but I got the feeling there was something serious in her words too. “Sylvia, you’re good at a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“You’re an amazing mom. You’re a talented photographer. You’re a fast learner. You’re good with social media. You’re good with social anything—and you can talk to anyone.”
She shrugged it off, like it was nothing. “Talking to people isn’t that hard.”
“Are you kidding? It is hard, and you make it look easy. The other night I overheard Noah telling Meg to make sure you get on the board of his Veterans and service dog charity because he’s positive you can talk people into writing big fat checks.”
She giggled and sipped her scotch again. “I am pretty good at that.”
“See?” I elbowed her gently. “So don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got a lot to offer.”
“I’m looking forward to working in the winery,” she said. “I’d love to be good at that. I know I’m not qualified to replace Chloe as the manager, but maybe in the future . . .”
“I can easily see that in your future. Your life here is just getting started, Sylvia. You can do anything you want.”
She looked up at me, and my blood rushed faster. My arm was still touching hers. I dropped my eyes to those sweet cherry-red lips and imagined the taste of scotch on them.
Her chin lifted slightly. I inclined my head and heard her quick inhale.
Then I came to my senses and lifted my glass, finishing my drink in a couple quick swallows. “Should we get started?”
“Oh. Yes. Good idea.” She seemed a little flustered as she set her glass aside.
Removing my coat, I draped it over one arm of the couch before following her through the kitchen and out to the garage. Together we brought in more than a dozen presents, already wrapped and labeled for her children from Santa Claus.
“What’s the big one?” I asked, pointing at a large rectangular box designated for Keaton.
“A telescope,” she said. “Keaton has been dying for one. He’s into astronomy. I think it’s the whole Star Wars thing.”
“Hey, if Star Wars gets kids into astronomy, that’s pretty fucking cool.”
“I’m just hoping I can figure out how to set it up. I’m not too mechanically inclined, and neither is my dad, no matter what he tells you.”
I laughed. “I’d be glad to help. Just let me know.”
When everything was arranged beneath the tree, we stood side by side, looking at it all.
It reminded me of my childhood, of coming downstairs and seeing the piles of gifts for my brothers and me—not as many, of course, and not as beautifully wrapped, but evidence that Santa was real and that I’d been good enough to deserve presents from him. We’d rip them open all at once, and the living room would be a chaotic mess of shredded paper and ribbon, but even my fastidious mom wouldn’t care. She and my dad would sit on the couch with their coffee and act surprised by every gift we opened, asking to look at it more closely, saying of course it was okay if we played with it now. Then they’d go into the kitchen and make breakfast together—she’d scramble the eggs and fry the bacon and he’d make hash browns from scratch. Best Christmas mornings ever. I fucking wanted that feeling back, and only family could deliver it. How the hell had Sylvia’s husband thrown it away?
For a moment, I allowed myself a little fantasy—Sylvia was my wife, we were in our home, and we were up late playing Santa for our children.
This is what it would be like, I thought, coming in from the party in our formal clothes, quickly and quietly getting the gifts under the tree, laughing a little because we were tipsy and it was Christmas and we had everything we could ever want. And when we were done, we’d go upstairs and I’d unzip that red dress and she’d unbutton my shirt and we’d make love even though it was late and we were tired and we’d be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to watch our kids open their presents in wide-eyed delight. Maybe her hair would be a mess and she’d have mascara under her eyes, but I’d look at her and know I was married to the sexiest, most amazing woman in the world.
I saw it way too clearly. That was fucked up. What was in that expensive scotch, anyway?
Next to me, Sylvia sighed. “I don’t even know for sure if they still believe in Santa Claus, but I’m not about to ruin it for them. They’ve had enough taken away from them this year.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey. Everything okay?” Sylvia tugged on my sleeve.
“Yeah.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I faced her. Spoke quietly but firmly. “What a good mother you are. How lucky your kids are to have you.”
She looked down at her feet. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” I put my fingers under her chin and tilted her head up. “I know a lot of things.”
“Like what?” she whispered.
“I know your husband was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world. I know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I know I should leave right now, before I do something stupid.”
Her lips opened. She sucked in her breath, her chest rising. “Like what?”
“Like this.” Sliding both hands into her hair, I crushed my mouth to hers. It was not the first kiss I’d imagined the other night in the winery—a sweet and gentle tasting of one another, a tentative meeting of wine-drenched tongues. This was a hot, searing, scotch-fueled, red-dress kiss that ate up all the oxygen in the room. My lips opened wide and slanted over hers, my tongue lashing between them. My body curved above hers, my heart thundering in my chest. Her spine bowed slightly, and I felt her breasts pressing against me. Her hands moved up my sides and around my back—then she shocked me by sliding her palms down over my ass and pulling me tighter to her. My dick was getting harder by the second, and she moaned slightly as she felt it pushing against her pelvic bone.
If there had been any doubt in my mind that she’d wanted this too, it was gone now—but did that make it right?
God, this was so fucking unfair.
I wanted to be the good guy for her, the patient gentleman, the anti-asshole. But I also really, really liked the feeling of her hair in my fingers and her tongue in my mouth and her hands grabbing my ass. It had been so long since someone wanted me this way—for no reason other than raw, unfiltered desire—and it felt so fucking good.
My mouth traveled across her cheek and down her neck. I inhaled the scent of her perfume and wished I could swim in it. Stroking her throat with my tongue, I reached down and hitched up her dress, bringing one of her legs up to my hip, gripping her thigh with my fingers.
“Henry,” she whispered. “I—”
But whatever she was going to say next was swallowed up by the loud chime of a clock on the mantle.
We jumped apart.
Seven
Sylvia
&
nbsp; “Oh my God.” I placed a hand over my racing heart, my lungs working overtime. “That scared me!”
“Me too.” Henry grabbed the knot of his necktie and loosened it. “God, Sylvia. I’m so sorry. That won’t happen again.”
Wait—he was sorry?
Before I knew what to say, he was grabbing his suit jacket from the couch and shrugging it on. “Fuck. I left my overcoat at the party.”
“I can go back with you to get it,” I offered, although my legs felt so wobbly I wasn’t sure I’d make it.
“No.” He put a hand out, as if to stop me from coming closer to him. “You stay here. I’ll go back and get it.”
“Okay.” I twisted my fingers together at my waist. My insides were all tangled up. “Can I at least walk you out?”
“I’m good. I know my way.” Clearly wishing to keep his distance—and for me to keep mine—he gave me a wave and headed for the front hall, where a door would lead him down the private corridor to the inn’s executive offices.
I heard it open and close softly.
He was gone before I could even say goodbye. Or tell him not to be sorry. Or beg him to kiss me again.
What the hell?
Left standing there alone on trembling legs, I wrapped one arm around my jittery stomach and placed one hand over my mouth. A minute ago, Henry’s lips had been on mine. His hands had been on my skin. The hard length of his dick had been trapped between the heat of our bodies.
And I’d loved every second of it.
My God, how long had it been since I’d been kissed like that? Touched like that? Wanted like that? Because there was no doubt in my mind that Henry had wanted me—I’d felt it. I wished I could have felt more of it.
I glared at the mantel. Fucking asshole clock.
Lowering myself gingerly onto the couch, I took a few minutes to catch my breath. As my pulse slowed, my senses returned.
Maybe it was for the best that we’d been interrupted. After all, it’s not like we could have taken it much farther. Were we going to take our clothes off in front of the Christmas tree? At my parents’ house? With my children asleep upstairs?
Unbreakable Page 7