Falling for You
Page 15
Isla had homework in the watercolor painting class she was taking, and we decided to turn it into a date. Only we still weren’t calling it that.
I marveled at how she had time to fit a painting class in with everything else in her busy schedule, but I liked that she made time for hobbies.
Work wasn’t everything.
I needed more hobbies in my life. Which was why I agreed to come to the park and paint with her, even though I’d never shown a scrap of talent for painting in my thirty-five years.
To counter the idea that this was a homework outing and not a date, I brought food, a plaid picnic blanket, and a bottle of wine we could surreptitiously drink out of red plastic cups.
What can I say? I’m stubborn.
“Isla . . .” I was watching her paint. In theory, I was painting too, but I knew next to nothing about watercolor painting, so I was really just watching her paint.
“Yes?” She didn’t take her eyes off the paper in front of her. She’d shown me how we had to tape the watercolor paper to the stiff pieces of wood that sat on our laps to prevent the pages from curling when they got wet. Then we painted the paper with water before we started to take the coating off the paper so it would absorb the colors better.
I’d only drawn a few brown sticks that were ostensibly supposed to represent the cypress trunks.
She had a whole landscape going with the Painted Ladies in the background, each a different bright hue. It made no sense that she thought she lacked artistic talent. Her painting was beautiful.
“Any chance you want to take a break and eat?”
“Eat?” She said it like she didn’t understand the meaning of the word.
I laughed. “Yeah. I brought food.” I held up the bag, which she seemed to notice for the first time.
“Oh, wow. You’re amazing.” She put her brush down and turned to me, hopeful. “I forgot to eat breakfast. Bad habit. So . . . yeah, I’m hungry.”
I wasn’t surprised she’d skipped breakfast. I’d noticed that despite working around food all day long, she sometimes forgot to eat.
Hence, I supplied food when I got the chance.
When I started taking the items I’d bought out of the bag, a grin spread across her face. “You remembered I like Ruffles?”
“No weak potato chips here. Check. And you said sour gummies, not regular, if I recall.” Of course, I recalled. Nothing she did or said was lost on me. I tried to rationalize that I was just a good listener, but the truth was I was falling hard for her.
I spread the rest of the snacks on the blanket. Isla nodded approvingly at the Greek yogurt parfaits, the cheese selection, and the seeded crackers.
When I pulled out the wine, she actually blushed. “What if we get caught?”
Looking around, I saw no evidence of anyone who’d care if we were drinking wine from plastic cups. I shrugged. “Then I’ll happily share a jail cell with you.”
The wine had a twist-off cap and I poured a good amount into each of our cups. “To great art and days off from work.”
“Days off from work are key. Although technically, this isn’t a day off since I worked all morning,” she said, digging into the potato chips.
She dipped her brush into the water, which had become pretty muddy since she’d started painting. My water, on the other hand, was pristine. She assessed my brown lines. “Are you done painting?”
“I’m not sure. Can you tell what this is?”
She looked up at the tall trees and gestured to the trunks. “But they’re missing the tops and maybe some details around them.” She waved a hand at the landscape.
I shrugged. “I’m feeling pretty good that you could tell I painted tree trunks. I may stop.”
“You can’t stop. At least do the foliage. Or the grass. Something.”
“Fine. I’ll keep going.” I dipped my brush in the water and swept it around in the green paint, adding a little black to it to make it darker like the cypress greens, but the paint never made it onto my paper. I was more interested in watching her.
Squinting into the sun, she took her wine cup with her and stood up to get a better angle on the houses. When she sat back down, she dipped her brush in the yellow paint and mixed it with enough water that it was very faint.
“You’re good at this,” I told her. “Maybe I’m more of an art patron than an artist.”
Laughing, she pointed at my paper. “Quit avoiding. Paint some leaves.”
“Yes, dear.” She smirked and I dipped my brush in the green paint I’d mixed and swirled it on the page. I had to admit, it made my stick trees look better.
The truth was, I possessed some artistic skill, just not this kind. I had an ability to create and envision things that didn’t exist, but I generally needed someone else to put those ideas on paper.
Isla stopped painting and put her brush in the water jar. Her hazel eyes looked brownish gray today, and I would never get tired of waiting to see what color they’d be with the changing light.
Leaning back on her elbows, Isla closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.
“You’re beautiful,” I said. She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips turned up into a smile.
“You’re sweet.”
“Not sweet, just calling it like I see it. To hell with the damned trees—if I were a better artist, I’d paint you. That would be artwork worth hanging on any wall.”
She reached for my hand and interlaced our fingers without opening her eyes. Just knew where it was.
“C’mere,” I said, moving my paints and paper away and pulling her toward me.
I leaned back on the blanket. She shifted so her head was resting on my chest, her honey-colored hair splayed out around her.
I ran my fingers through the strands and tried to imagine a scenario where I’d be happier. I couldn’t think of a single one.
That’s when I knew I was in trouble.
Chapter 18
Isla
I tilted my seat back, took my hair out of the clip, and opened my window. It already felt like a vacation and we hadn’t even left the city.
“You could not have suggested this at a better time,” I told Owen as we drove north on Highway 101 toward the western corner of the wine country.
I hadn’t slept well for the past few nights worrying about some new aggressive moves Bread Artisan had made in the past few days. Their only objective seemed to be to squeeze me until I gave up. I wasn’t going to do that, but the stress of mounting a defense was starting to get to me.
“I could tell. You sounded tense,” Owen said, reaching for my hand and rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
“I did? You didn’t even hear my voice. How can a person sound tense via text?”
He smiled. “I know you better than you think.”
Maybe he did. I liked the idea that it was true.
Owen drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the stick shift of his navy blue Porsche coupe. We hadn’t had occasion to drive anywhere together so I’d had no idea what kind of car he owned. But for some reason, the sexy sports car surprised me when he pulled up to my house.
What did you expect? Lots of people drive nice cars.
Tom had driven two. He alternated between his Tesla sedan and a Maserati SUV he used to drive up to ski in Tahoe. Apparently, the Tesla didn’t do well in freezing cold weather and he didn’t want to deal with finding Superchargers in the mountains. At least, that’s how he’d explained it.
He also had a Vespa which I never saw him ride, and a very expensive road bike. He never rode that either.
I looked at Owen, trying to identify if he really felt comfortable behind the wheel of such an expensive car. He was so laid back, and his hoodie sweatshirts and plain button-downs made me think of him as a guy who’d drive a Honda Accord, not something whose tawny leather interior had me surreptitiously stroking the seat.
“You okay?” he asked. I realized I’d been silent for the last few minutes.
He reached over and stroked my cheek. “Take a nap for a few. I’ll listen to a podcast.”
“I can’t be that kind of passenger.”
“What kind? The tired kind?”
I sighed and sat up a little higher in the bucket seat, trying to wake myself up. “No, bad road trip company. I won’t do that to you.”
His eyes crinkled behind his sunglasses when he smiled. “Trust me, I make this drive all the time alone. I’m fine zoning out if you want to sleep.”
“Nah, I want to hear your podcast. What kind of stuff do you listen to?” I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to dig below the surface of Owen Miller when I had the opportunity. His podcast tastes might give me a new window into his brain.
He swiped across a few apps on the phone that was mounted on his dashboard until a radio voice came through the car speakers announcing the beginning of My Favorite Murder.
“You listen to murder podcasts?” I was surprised. He seemed so mild-mannered, not that he needed to be a killer himself to be interested in them.
He shrugged and paused the podcast. “I listen to a bunch of stuff. There are some good ones on the founders of companies and how stuff works. How about you?”
“I listen to music when I run, and other than that, I don’t have long spans of time to listen to stuff.”
“Not while you’re baking?”
I considered the question and realized I needed to explain my approach to bread in a way that sounded logical to someone other than me.
“I don’t like to be distracted when I’m working with the dough. I feel like it requires all my senses even though it probably doesn’t. Truthfully, I could bake just by feel and smell, but I have this weird idea that there’s a sound to good dough and baking dough, even though there probably isn’t.”
He turned to look at me before gluing his eyes back on the road. “Why do you think there isn’t a sound component? It sounds reasonable to me,” he said.
I was suddenly overwhelmed by how much I liked him. “I appreciate you, Owen. You always take what I say at face value, even if it sounds crazy.”
“Don’t you mean half-baked?” He rolled his eyes and grinned.
I laughed. He was so easy. Spending time with him never felt like work.
Getting dressed to the nines with men I used to date so we could jet set to five-star dinners with investors and their wives was never appealing to me. I did it because it was part of being a couple with the men I chose and I was a team player.
But now . . . this . . . I didn’t feel like I had to sell anyone on anything. I could be myself, and better than that, I could be with a guy who I liked for being himself.
It almost felt like the perfect relationship, even though I knew it wasn’t one. Owen didn’t seem to want anything more than the casual hanging out—with off-the-charts benefits—and I wasn’t going to rock the boat.
“So, do you come up here a lot?” I asked
“About once a week. There’s always a reason to come to one of the properties, but it’s usually meetings. I had a girlfriend once who lived in Napa so that commute was interesting.”
“Was she an earthy organic wine maker? A peasant produce picker?”
He cast me a side eye. “She was in marketing. Why?”
I shrugged. “Just curious what kind of women you date.”
“Only extremely beautiful and talented bread wenches.”
“Ah, but we’re not dating, remember?”
“Right. We’re friends. I do remember.”
I wrestled to get my hoodie sweatshirt off without taking off my seatbelt. Not easy. He smirked at my struggle. “You okay there?”
“Yeah. All good. Okay, so an ex in Napa, interesting. You seem like the kind of person who’s friends with your exes.”
“No. I’m not that kind of person at all.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Really? You’re so easygoing, I’d think you’d find a way to remember the good times and put a happy spin on the end of a relationship.”
“Eh, if someone’s done with me, I have a hard time finding it in me to keep something going.”
“I guess that makes sense.” It was less fun talking about his ex-girlfriends than I thought, so I decided to shut up.
Once I’d gone back into my head and started staring out the window, Owen started the podcast. I heard a vague description of a man who intended to rob a wealthy friend before his plans went awry.
Owen shifted gears, and the car sped up as traffic dissipated on the road ahead. For the first time in a week, I started to relax. This was great—sitting next to a good friend, listening to a guy with a funny voice talk about murders. It was the perfect escape.
Chapter 19
Owen
I defied anyone to have a bad day wine tasting. If one glass of wine wasn’t great, the next one would be better. If the sun went behind a heavy cloud, there was always a local restaurant with a great wine list and food raised and grown nearby.
There was always another picture-perfect vista, a mountaintop winery, a cool old wine cave, and seventeen more wines to taste.
The climate was perfect for growing grapes, which meant it was hotter in the Napa Valley than in the surrounding areas with miles and miles of vineyards, rolling hills, and mostly blue skies.
We spent the first part of our day in Sonoma, where I toured Isla through the new property I’d managed to get a realtor to show us on last-minute notice.
The plot of land was a partially cleared empty parcel situated right near the Russian River. It was the perfect spot for a romantic escape with wineries nearby, and importantly, the Sonoma County Airport for easy transportation.
“The fire took out most of the structures, except for what’s left of that one,” the realtor told us as we walked the property.
She looked to be in her mid-fifties and had blond hair sprayed into stiff bangs over her forehead and a high ponytail in the back. She wore a purple pantsuit and low-heeled shoes that were more suited to a political debate stage than the middle of a field. She pointed at a dilapidated dark brown hull of burned wood in the distance.
“That was part of the cask storage and fermentation house. The good thing is you can start fresh without having to do a lot of demo.”
“True,” I said. I’d happily forego the cost of demolition, and the property was big.
Beyond the property we could see miles of planted vineyards, the green leaves on the vines snaking around stakes and trellises and providing a backdrop of lush green.
“I have another showing at noon,” the realtor told us, looking at her phone.
It was already a quarter to twelve. We’d only been there for a half hour and I really wanted to walk the rest of the grounds.
“Oh. I was hoping for a little more time to get a feel for the property, see how the light changes later in the day. Can we come back?” I asked.
I was also curious about the structure and interested in how it had survived the fire.
She scrolled the screen on her phone and shook her head. “I’m booked this afternoon. But it’s not like you’re going to rob the place. If you put the padlock on the gate when you leave, you can stay as long as you like.”
“Great. Thank you. We won’t be long,” I said.
“Stay,” she said, shrugging. Then she shook our hands and tottered off toward the driveway where she’d parked her car.
I looked at Isla. “What do you think? Can you picture a new, healthy vineyard with bungalows spread throughout the property and maybe a food garden over in this area and a lavender field over here with an indoor-outdoor spa?”
I was pointing in all directions and Isla was laughing at me. “What?”
“You have vision. It’s awesome. I’m not sure I see it all laid out the way you do because I’m distract
ed by the weeds and the dead tree stumps, but I can see that it could be something special. I think people will be really happy to get away from everything here.”
She held her hand against her forehead to block the direct rays of the sun as she gazed out over the acreage.
I grabbed her hand without thinking about whether it was something friends with benefits—or whatever she’d decided we were—were supposed to do. “I’ll race you to that broken down shack over there. I’m dying to see what’s inside.”
“You think some wine survived the fire?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but here’s hoping . . . ready, set—”
I never got to ‘go’ because Isla pulled her hand from my grip and took off running.
Hell, she was fast. Her long legs chewed up the landscape and I struggled for a minute to keep up with her. Then my own speed kicked in and I blazed past her, feeling my lungs sucking air as I went—the structure was at least a few hundred yards away and I’d never been a sprinter.
I looked over my shoulder at Isla and saw she was grinning and dropping her pace a little. I slowed to a jog and she closed the space between us.
“It’s farther than it looked,” she said. Both of us were slightly winded from the sprint. The building was also a lot larger than it had seemed from where we’d first taken in its hulking shape.
The property was thirty acres of mostly-flat land butting up against a low hill with a manmade lake on the other side. We’d covered about half the field and still had a decent distance ahead of us.
We walked the rest of the way because we’d basically been given the keys to the kingdom—what was the rush?
“Wow,” Isla said as soon as she stepped through the doorway of what we expected to be a burned-out old building. It was anything but.
The only thing that seemed to have been damaged in the fire was the wooden double door that led into the space. Even that had only taken a modest beating. The two doors were charred but still hanging from their hinges and heralding the entrance.