by Kenzie Reed
He emerges wearing jeans, sneakers, and a Ribaldi Winery T-shirt that molds over the swell of his biceps as if it were painted on. I try to ignore the flutter of my heart. Where did he get that? They sell them at the winery and at gift shops in town. It’s kind of awesome that he bought one.
We head over the vineyard, trudging through the dewy grass. In the distance, mists wreathe the hillsides.
“There’s our friend.” Carrie’s standing in the vineyard, chatting with Pietro and his sons. I’m sure she’s interrogating him, trying to get the dirt on Donovan and me, looking for any angle she can find, but there’s nothing that he could, or would, tell her. He doesn’t know about our fake deal, and if he did, he wouldn’t snitch on us.
We arrive at a circular, bare patch of dirt. Pietro hands us each a pair of gloves.
Carrie rakes her gaze over Donovan and me. “How’s married life treating you?” she asks, poison sweet.
“A dream come true.” I flash a look of gooey affection at Donovan. “Team Rilocke!” I hold up a fist, and he fist-bumps me.
“Team Rilocke?” Carrie spits out the word like it’s a bug that’s flown into her mouth, but she scribbles it down in her notebook. “So. I know we’ve covered this before, but just so I can have it in your own words. What’s this cow horn business about?”
I recite what my aunt taught me when I was younger. I’ve sat through easily a dozen of these interviews. The cow manure mixture is called Preparation 500, for reasons no-one is quite sure of, and it’s applied in the spring to encourage root growth. It’s based on a system created by Austrian philosopher Rudolph Steiner, who was active in the early 20th century, and is now practiced worldwide by farmers and vintners who want to employ Earth-friendly practices in their agriculture.
Donovan’s wandered off to talk to Pietro. I keep going on about the history of biodynamics until I see her eyes glaze over, and then, out of spite, I talk some more.
She leans in, her gaze intense. “This entire thing stinks worse than your cow horns,” she informs me.
“So you’ve said. Many times.”
“I’m not just talking about your obviously fake marriage. This whole property deal. There’s something very off about it. Have you investigated Ferguson Property Holdings? What do you know about Liam Ferguson?”
I sigh heavily. “My family and the Witlockes have both done their due diligence. I’ve looked over the subdivision plans. We all have. They’re on file with the planning department. It’s a sustainable, ecologically friendly, solar-powered subdivision that will bring five hundred families into the area, with minimal impact on the environment. It benefits absolutely everyone. The only reason you’re having such a hissy fit over all of this is because among those who benefit the most is your ex-husband. Get over yourself, Carrie. Move on.” I spin on my heel and stalk off to grab a shovel.
Everyone else grabs their shovels and starts digging up the horns. Carrie snaps some more pictures, her expression sour.
Finally she leaves us to our work, driving off in an angry squeal of tires. Pietro shows Donovan how to mix the cow manure with the rainwater that we’ve gathered and stored in a tank.
Before I know it, a couple of hours have gone by. Donovan and I are working side by side with the backpack sprayers, fertilizing the Vincent Van Goat block. “I really appreciate the show of fake camaraderie,” I tell him.
He winks at me. “For you, babe, I don’t have to fake it.”
“Oh my God. Tell me you don’t use lines like that in bars.”
“No, I pretty much just stand there and look handsome.” Then he smiles down at me, eyes sparkling. “Or I used to. Bachelor days are over now.”
That just earns him an eye-roll.
“Carrie’s gone,” I tell him. “You don’t have to do any more.”
“Nah, I got this. I like to finish what I’ve started.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
We fall into a rhythm, moving down the rows, soaking the roots of the vines with the fertile spray. The air is cool, and a breeze ruffles my hair, and the vines stretch out in endless rows. It’s easy to lose ourselves in the work.
Finally, I glance up at the sun and realize he’s going to be late to his presentation if he doesn’t get a move on. I tap him on the shoulder and remind him to go.
“Thanks for a fun day,” he says, and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m not even being a smartass. I mean it.” It feels sweet, and sincere, and it fills me with a warmth and a yearning that threatens to choke me.
I smile back at him. Being out here with him, just silently working side by side, has been the most restful experience I’ve had in a very long time. “Bonding over cowflops. There’s nothing like it.”
I head back to the house with him, and we lock Aceto and Ducktape up on the back porch so they can’t crash the presentation. “Behave,” I say to them sternly. “Or no treats.”
Donovan shakes his head. “They know you’re lying.”
“Well, now they do!” I smack him on the arm. “They have ears, you know!”
I have agreed with Donovan that I’ll stay out of the house until the presentation’s over. I go to the winery, where I take a quick shower and change out of my manure-fragranced clothing. When I walk out onto the winery floor, Pietro approaches me with the kind of apologetic wince that always foretells bad news.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You know your aunt’s wine bottling equipment was very old, right?”
“No,” I say faintly. “I mean, yes. I know that. I was just hoping not to have any more disasters this season. I assume something broke?”
“You assume correctly. And the timing is not great.”
I try to swallow my rising feeling of panic. “Can it be repaired?”
“It will cost about five hundred dollars. And really, you’d be better off putting the money into a new bottling system.”
Except that it would cost me five or six grand on the cheap end, if I can even find a used bottling machine that fits our needs. I simply can’t spare it.
I’ve just hired four new employees. That five hundred for repairs will be the last of my money. We’re already getting streams of new customers from the website and social media sites and the local ads I’m running, which is why we’re still able to keep our doors open, but I don’t have any wiggle room in my budget.
I cast my mind frantically over my assets. My car. I can sell my car. It’s almost new. It’s a Subaru – they have excellent resale value. That’ll tide me over and cover any new emergencies. I can get rides from Pamela and my family when I need them.
At the end of the summer, when the sale goes through, I can use that money to get another car.
I head into the office and start making some phone calls. The local used car dealership offers me a price; we haggle and finally come to an agreement. I’ll sell my car tomorrow.
After I tell Pietro to go ahead and arrange the repair of the bottling machine, I head back home. Donovan will be done with his presentation by now.
I see that a nice cushy living room set was delivered while I was out. It’s a tufted brown leather sofa, and two recliners with rounded, knobby feet. They’re arranged around a cream-colored leather ottoman. I hope the delivery of the furniture didn’t mess up his presentation.
I find him on the back porch, kneeling on the floor with Aceto and Ducktape. He’s had some furniture delivered there as well – a farmhouse-style wooden table with round turned legs, and four straw-backed chairs. He’s hand-feeding Aceto a sardine, and Ducktape’s diving into a bowl of mealworm duck treats.
“Who are you?” I marvel.
“What?” He grins at me. “We’re celebrating. And I’m luring them over to my side. You think they’re loyal to you, but they’ll sell out for treats in a hot minute. Be warned.”
I laugh, sitting down on one of the new chairs. “So it went well, I take it.”
The sun pouring through the window bathes him in a warm, gol
den light. He turns to face me, and I smile…then I see something on his forehead that wipes the smile right off my face. Should I tell him? Maybe I shouldn’t tell him.
“I think it went well. There were no barnyard invasions, and when I gave my pitch, I was on fire. I was the man. It was some of my best work, if I do say so myself.” He frowns in puzzlement. “The only thing was, Constantine Galatos, our buyer? He was staring at me the whole time and I’m not sure why.”
I grimace. “I think I might know why.”
He looks at me with alarm. “What?”
“You didn’t shower before your presentation?”
“Nah, I was running late, so I just threw on a suit. I mean, I did check myself in the mirror before I got in front of the camera. Why?”
“You, uh…have manure on your forehead. Maybe it fell out of your hair or something, after you’d checked yourself.”
The look on his face. In high school, I would have died to see it. I would have photographed him, printed the picture, stuck it to his locker with Krazy Glue, and shared the picture with all my friends.
Right now, I feel as sick as he does. He spent half the damn day helping me, and this is what he gets.
“Holy. Freaking…” His voice trails off. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I just did a hundred-million-dollar pitch meeting with cow shit on my face.”
A hundred million dollars? “If it helps any, it just looks like mud.” He stares at me blankly. “It might be mud,” I say hopefully.
He looks as if he’s about to lose his lunch. “I’m going to take a shower now.” He leaps to his feet and stalks off.
I look down at Aceto and scratch him behind the ear. He lets out a low, happy purr. “I don’t think it helped,” I say.
Chapter Sixteen
SIENNA
When Donovan comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, I do my very best not to ogle.
Instead, I call him into the kitchen and gesture at the drinks tray. “Black coffee, also some decaf in case it’s too late in the day for you to drink coffee, and a wheatgrass and bone broth protein shake.” I swallow the urge to throw up as I describe his Smoothie of Barfiness.
“No thanks.” He leans against the counter, steeped in gloom. “I’m too depressed to punish myself right now. I’m more in the mood for Nanny Sue’s cookies.” He sighs heavily. “I can just about smell them.”
I pull open a drawer in the butcher block counter. “And that’s because I made an emergency call to Jamie when you were showering, and she dropped these off.”
I hand him the box of cookies and watch his eyes go wide. He’s a little boy on Christmas morning. It’s a good feeling.
“Milk?” I say.
“Please.”
I hurry and get him a glass.
“You are a princess,” he breathes. He takes a bite of cookie, then a long swig of milk.
“Go on.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Tell me more.”
“You are gorgeous, thoughtful, and sexy.” He shoves the whole cookie in his mouth and chews. “You’re the besht,” he says, spraying crumbs.
He eats four more cookies and drinks half the glass of milk, then sets it down.
“Of course, I can’t do this every day,” he says regretfully, looking at the cookies.
“You need to give yourself a break,” I tell him. “You’ve always driven yourself so hard. I saw it in high school – you just got more and more intense. You always had to be the top of the class, the best at lacrosse, better than everyone else, but it never seemed to be good enough. The same thing with the running, and your diet. It’s like you’re constantly competing in some contest that you’ll never let yourself win.”
“Well, I… Yeah. You’re not wrong.”
“I’m not saying that you should gorge on chocolate-chip cookies all day long. You’re capable of moderation. It’s just that every time you eat something delicious, or relax a little bit, you beat yourself up for it. If you never let yourself enjoy the rewards of your hard work, what’s life for?”
“God, you’re so smart. How can someone who’s so pretty be so smart? One more,” he says, and grabs another cookie.
Then he looks down at the box. “I’m being a very bad husband.” He holds out a cookie to me.
I take a bite, and the chocolate gooiness melts and caresses my tastebuds like a lover. I moan aloud.
The look in his eyes goes heated. He reaches out and strokes my face. “There was a crumb.”
He feeds me the entire cookie, bite after melting bite, and then another.
“That’s good, thank you.” My body is flushed with arousal.
“Thank you for making me the coffee, decaf and shake. That was really nice of you, and I shouldn’t have been all pissy about it. I’m just really afraid I’m screwing up this deal.” He shakes his head. “It’s just turning out to be harder to do things from here than I expected.”
A chill rushes through me. “Do you need to go back to L.A.?”
He shakes his head. “No. Definitely not.”
I wait for more, but nothing comes. Why won’t he go back? Why did he commit himself to staying here if it’s so challenging?
For what feels like the millionth time, I ask, “Why did you marry me, Donovan?”
He arches an eyebrow, and his mouth curls up in a faint, sardonic smile. “Maybe it’s the final step in my evil plot to destroy the Ribaldi clan once and for all.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He smiles at me, warmth glinting from his eyes. “No, it isn’t,” he agrees. But he doesn’t elaborate. He’s clearly not going to.
“I’d offer you the winery’s office space, but the more I work there, the more I realize how cramped it is. We don’t even have enough room for our own people, and I don’t think you could get any work done there. Could you rent temporary office space in town?”
Temporary. Because he’s leaving at the end of the summer.
He nods. “I’ll look again. The town’s population is growing so fast that I wasn’t finding any options within reasonable driving distance, but with enough money all problems can be solved. I could buy a building, if necessary.”
“Oh, no. I hate to see you go to all that expense. You could maybe use your family’s–”
He shakes his head and shudders.
“I could call Pamela and see if their office building has any extra space.”
“As long as she doesn’t booby trap the office, I’d pay handsomely.”
“You do everything handsomely.”
He leans back in his seat, smirking. “Go on.”
“Oh, no. That’s all you get, and more than you need. You may have the body of a Greek god, but your ego is so well-nourished it’s got the BMI of a sumo wrestler.”
“The body of a Greek god?” he says delightedly.
I snort in exasperation.
“Of course that’s the part you chose to hear, not the part about your excessively corpulent ego.”
He grins at me. “I’m going to go warm up this coffee so we can continue this conversation about the finer points of my body.”
He stands up, and the towel falls and hits the floor. I bite down on my lip with a groan of frustration.
“Uhh…” he says.
“You did that on purpose!” I cry out.
“Did not.” He smirks. “And if you don’t like what you see, stop looking.”
I jump to my feet. “How can I stop? That thing’s enormous! Put it away – you could put someone’s eye out with that.”
He bursts out laughing. “Seriously? Yes, Sienna, it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”
I bend down, grabbing the towel, and as he turns, he accidentally thwacks me in the head with his enormous, erect phallus. I let out a startled yelp and rear back.
“Sorry!” he shouts.
“You did that on purpose too!”
“I did not! I can’t help it; it’s literally everywhere!
You just admitted it’s enormous!” He’s laughing so hard he’s nearly crying.
I snatch up the towel and try to wrap it around his waist. “Put it away!” I yell at him. “Hide that thing before somebody gets hurt!”
“It’s my house too. I can be naked if I want!”
We wrestle, and then I trip. He tries to catch me, and we both fall on the couch.
He lands on top of me, a wall of solid muscle, and I breathe in the clean pine scent of his shampoo.
“I’m sorry my dick hit you in the head,” he says. “Can I kiss it better?”
No. Bad Idea. This ends now.
“I guess so,” I say sullenly.
He kisses my forehead tenderly. “Is that better now?”
“That’s not where it hit me.”
He kisses another part of my forehead, then my cheek, then my lips.
A flood of emotions rushes through me, emotions I can’t even name. I pull back. “Donovan.”
“Yes?” His breath is warm and his gaze is so tender I think I might die.
“I need to know you won’t hurt me. And don’t say you would never, because you have before. And my heart can’t take any more. It just can’t.”
He blinks hard, and the sheen of moisture in his eyes is more telling than words. One large hand cradles my face. “I have made terrible mistakes and I would take them back if I could. But I’ve always cared about you, and when I screwed you over… I don’t care how cliché this is going to sound, it hurt me as much as it hurt you. At the time, I felt like I didn’t have any choice, but I was wrong. And I’ve escaped my parents’ orbit now. I am my own man, and that man wants you – not just now, but every single night.”
“You said this marriage was nothing. I heard you tell your friend that.”
He grimaces. “I did say that. I didn’t phrase it well. He was freaking out, and I was reassuring him, but it’s not nothing. It’s…” He trails off and chews his lower lip.
“It’s what?”
“It’s something I want very much.”
Well, that’s a vague half-answer if I ever heard one. “Are you keeping secrets from me?”