by RJ Scott
He spent a good while focusing in with precision on the bold striations Mother Nature created. With each second that passed, he could feel the tension slipping from his shoulders, relaxing as the ocean lifted his melancholy. He was easily able to cancel out the noise of the people around him by humming under his breath and concentrating on his pictures. Before long he found himself away from the hotel and at a quieter spot, choosing that moment to sit on the sand Indian style to contemplate his situation.
He carefully placed his camera inside its case and laid it next to him, the strap wrapped around his hand—to be safe.
Maybe he could draw up a list of the pros and cons? That was how he should do it in his pragmatic, sensible fashion. The biggest thing in the plus column was Emma needed a momma. In the negative column it wasn't like Leigh showed any real signs of interest in being a mom. Added to that, Emma and Leigh were not exactly the best of friends. Still, Emma would have stability, someone to talk to, to do girly things with. Then there was the whole having more kids thing.
"I'm not sure I want to have babies," Leigh had said thoughtfully the day they had talked about it. "We have Emma; I want to be a good mom to her, but that doesn't mean I could deal with a new baby."
"We would have the nanny, and I would be there to help. I want to be there to help."
She looked down at her hands on her flat stomach and shivered delicately. "Maybe in a few years. Maybe."
He loved being Emma's dad; that role in her life was the very thing that made him who he was. From the very second he'd held her in his arms, he'd been lost. "You don't want to have our own child one day?" He wanted to share the miracle of a child with the woman he would marry. Not for one minute had he thought she wouldn't want to ever have kids.
"I don't need to." She had turned more stubborn at that point. He had backed off almost immediately. No point in rocking the boat. He had always been honest with her, had told her everything about how he felt, and trusted her with his attraction to other men. Theirs was a marriage of convenience and all she said was she hoped he wouldn't sleep around. She said she understood.
Who the hell understood their soon-to-be husband wandering off for possible illicit meetings or affairs? Still that was part of the bargain he guessed. She accepted Emma as her daughter, accepted his so called leanings, and he provided her with the money and prestige of the Wade name and ignored anything she may want for herself outside of the empty marital bed. What level of society did he belong to where this was even considered normal?
Surely she wanted more for herself? Hell, he certainly wanted more for himself and much more for Emma. She might not be his biological child, but she was a child of his heart. She couldn't be more his daughter, blood or no blood. He rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his face in his hands, closing his eyes and focusing only on the rhythm of the sea. How long he sat there he wasn't sure. His only indicator was the warmth of the day as the midday heat diminished around him. Why was he even here thinking he needed to make decisions, when the only really important thing in his life was Emma?
* * * *
Micah was sitting back comfortably against the storm wall, idly running sand through his fingers, and he'd been watching the blond guy for some time. The guy hadn't moved for a good hour. He'd started by staring out at the sea before bowing his head and covering his face with his hands. He was clearly meditating or some New Age LA hippy crap, communing with nature and all that.
From this distance, maybe twenty feet or less, Micah couldn't make out much in the way of features, but blond was one asset that was obvious. Fit was another, even if tending towards pale skinned. Micah's whole life meant spending time outside, which left him perpetually sun-kissed. He shouldn't really judge the poor New Age guy—he was probably some desk jockey or herbalist who never saw the light of day.
The tide was turning; the water stretching for the sands. Every so often the lacy foam would sneak a bit too close to the blond guy's feet, but he seemed oblivious. Micah stood, stretching tall, and then spent a few moments observing the situation from his newly vertical position. The guy had been taking photos by the hotel, and the camera he'd been using didn't look cheap. If he still had it with him and he got caught by the water… Someone should go warn him. He looked up and down the beach. His walk had taken him to a quieter place where there were not so many people, and certainly no one else seemed to be staring at the quiet figure hunched on the shoreline. That left him and his frustrating internal need to fix things pushing him down the sand and towards the shoreline. Stupid.
Whether the toned, introspective, fair-haired, pale-skinned hippy guy got wet was not his business. LA wasn't like the Finger Lakes, and he was sure people didn't just up and help others out for no good reason. Digging his hands in his jean pockets and coming to a stop, he considered instead whether he should ignore the situation. It should be easy enough to stop with the damn worrying he was doing and return to his room. The official opening of the wine convention was in a couple of hours, and he needed a shower and to make at least one call to his sister for an update.
Something untraceable in his thoughts, however, made him seemingly unable to move away from the train wreck he could see happening. Sea plus meditating guy plus expensive camera equaled something maybe he should be filming for Candid Camera. The encroaching sea was fascinating, and his inability to back away from saving others from potential embarrassment was guiding his actions. Also even not having seen his face, Micah knew this guy had one seriously hot body, and he wanted to stare. Whatever his reasons for getting involved he wasn't actually moving, and in fact, his brain was telling him to shout out a warning instead.
"Hey," he finally said as firmly as he could, then realized when the guy didn't move he wasn't sure what else to say. Hey, the tide is coming in, watch the camera, you seem hot any chance you are… Nope, not going there. He sauntered closer, one eye on the tide, the other on the camera, until only a few feet separated them. He got a better look at the man and the camera case, which was actually lying on the sand next to him.
"Hey," he said a bit louder, stumbling back as the man jumped and lurched to his feet, both disorientated and surprised.
"What?" the other man forced out, clearly startled.
"Your—" Micah saw two things before a sentence came out of his mouth—the camera and the next wave as it smashed towards them. In a sudden flurry of motion, he bent and grabbed at the camera, just as the water flooded the place where it had been. Hot guy stood there, his mouth open, the water lapping around his feet before retreating.
"My… shit… my camera. Thank you." Micah handed it back, and the stranger grasped it, pulling it to his chest like it was the most precious of things.
"I saw…" Rather overwhelmed, Micah was kind of lost for words. The slim figure, the broad back and the blond hair were nothing compared to the guy's face. He was handsome, beautiful, pretty, and all the other flowery adjectives that probably didn't do real justice to sex on legs. His blond hair was short and slightly spiky, and his eyes as blue as the sea behind him. His current expression was one of open-mouthed shock, but then suddenly, his lips quirked in a crooked smile.
"Thank you," he said, and Micah mumbled "'s'okay" as the man backed up, sketched a wave of thanks and then jogged up the beach and away from him.
Micah didn't move. He watched the other man go, eyebrows raised as he sifted through what had just occurred. New Age meditating guy certainly didn't look like a hippy. In fact he looked like he was not long out of college. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five or so, and he sure did love that camera.
Intriguing.
Chapter 3
Smart black pants and crisp blue shirt does not a businessman make, but Micah tried. He wanted to be seen as the responsible, successful co-owner and manager of one of the most established vineyards and wineries in New York State. He had wines he was showcasing alongside other growers and makers in the US, and a good impression of the business behind the taste
was always a good thing to show. "I hate this," he stated simply as soon as Rosie answered the phone. She chose to ignore him.
"Is your room nice?"
"It has a bed." He was grumpy and out of sorts, and as it was Abbey and Rosie's fault he was here, he was damn well going to make sure she knew.
"Is it a nice bed?" He sighed, glancing over at what was actually a very nice bed. Draped in white linens and cream and gray throw cushions, it was a solid bed, oak if he wasn't mistaken, with intricate carving on the headboard and almost big enough for three. He looked forward to sleeping in it tonight, although he didn't want to let his sister know that.
"Yes, Rosie. A nice bed, with throwy-type cushiony things."
"Throwy?" she said with that fond patronizing tone that only sisters could fully develop after many years of practice.
"Yeah." He waved expansively, even though she couldn't see. "And there's this huge sofa at the end with a table and fruit."
"Is the bathroom as beautiful as it looked on the website?"
He glanced in through the open door, still steamy from his shower. The bathroom was neat, polished, and white, with a large circular bath sunk into the raised floor.
"I had a shower," he supplied helpfully, and pulled the door closed from the habit of sharing a bathroom at home.
"Did you not try the Jacuzzi bath?" She sounded disappointed. "Abbey said she upgraded you to a room with one."
"I've only been here five hours. Later, I promise."
"Do you have a view?"
"The beach, the ocean and people. Lots of people. I don't like people." He heard her mutter something under her breath, which sounded like "ungrateful brothers", and it made him smile.
"Did you shave?" she asked. Micah ran a hand over the stubble on his face, feeling the roughness of three days' growth against his hand. He could shave in the morning and have five o'clock shadow in the space of a few hours. What was the point shaving all the time?
"I'm on vacation," he protested.
"Jeez, Micah, just shave already."
"Okay, okay." Damn his sister for wanting to add twenty minutes to getting ready. "How're things at home?"
"Since you left this morning? Everything is fine."
"What about the order from the Johnsons? Did you manage to track down—"
"Micah, stop. Everything is good. So, is it the welcome thing now?"
When she changed the subject, Micah knew he would not be allowed to ask about the business again. Idly he turned over the leaflet that included a list of events for the week.
"Champagne and strawberries," he finally said. "Tonight that is, and then…" He traced the list. "Wednesday is some beach thing, and Thursday is the company promotion."
"What are you wearing tonight?"
"Rosie—"
"Did you choose the blue shirt? Because it looks good with your eyes."
"Yes, I—"
"And will you shave?" Ouch, she wasn't leaving it alone. He normally left shaving to every other day or three, so sue him. His job didn't exactly demand he be suited and booted at all time. Hell, jeans and a T were his staple wardrobe.
"I'll shave."
"Okay then, big brother, do that and then get your sparkly ass out there and find a man."
"I hate you."
She laughed and finished the call with a kiss and a "good luck", and Micah placed his cell back on the bedside table. Every year he attended the wine convention, and every year it was the same old thing. His sisters and, by extension, his damn brothers-in-law, always expected him to get tail. He smiled, imagining the elderly Mr. Potter from the Elvendale Winery, or even Mrs. MacElhinney. She wasn't a day under sixty and persisted in pinching his ass every year, despite her husband of forty years standing next to her. Yes, there were younger guys that were new to the different wineries, especially the SoCal ones, but Micah was here to represent his business and then to relax.
Part of that relaxation was finding a club, usually the same one—Liberation—with pretty boys to stare at and music that made you dance. He pulled himself back to the here and now, moving back to the bathroom and wiping the mirror. The water was hot, the soap thick and creamy, the blade sharp, and before long he skimmed a hand over his jaw, smooth and stubble free. He then tipped a small amount of aftershave on his hand. Zach had thrown it to him as he left, promising it always worked for him. That thought alone, of Rosie and Zach at it, was enough to make a grown man cry, but given his sister and her husband now had a baby, they clearly did do it. Still, he decided what the hell and packed it anyway. He sniffed the air appreciatively. Whatever it was it had fresh swells of peppermint and lavender. It had combined with heart notes of what he thought was a spicy coriander, a hint of geranium and sandalwood, finally moving with the warm, sensual flow of amber and musk. When he realized what he was doing—analyzing the chemical composition of aftershave—he wondered who the hell did that. What an idiot. He was procrastinating; he clearly missed his wines and needed to go the hell home.
The stairs swept down, marble hard and gilt edged, to the foyer, which bustled with wine producers. Some he recognized, most he didn't, and as usual he imagined most had bussed in from cheaper hotels and hadn't made use of this one. He guessed that at seven hundred a night it might well be out of the reach of a sensible budget. He was smug. Clearly, melding his annual vacation with the festival had its good points.
"Micah! Micah Adamson!" Brilliant. Mr. Potter and his Elvendale contingent. "You must meet my great-nephew James. Spitting image of his mother, wouldn't you say?" Micah extended his hand in greeting while assessing the new person in their small group. James was clearly happy to be there, and it appeared from his inability to stand straight, he had imbibed more than one glass of something before arriving.
"James," the young man slurred every so slightly, and shook Micah's hand with strength.
"James is my protégé," Mr. Potter said by way of introduction. "It takes a grape grower to see the potential in another, don't you think?" Micah nodded his agreement, wondering privately if the self-medication that James had undertaken was due to inexperience or the fondest wish not to have anything to do with wine or grapes. He resolved to corner the young man at a later time to dig further and turned as he felt a sharp pull on his pants and the pain of an accompanying pinch.
"Why, Micah, how nice to see you." Mrs. MacElhinney was smiling up at him, and despite the handful of his ass she had grabbed, he smiled back at her fondly. He bent to place a kiss on her cheek and stepped back, looking around her for Mr. MacElhinney, who popped out from behind a tall decorative banana plant with the look of the long suffering on his face. They exchanged pleasantries, this small and very odd group, and finally Micah was left to his own devices. Wandering the crowd casually, he found himself at the display table with a variety of champagne and wines as well as plates of chocolate-dipped strawberries. He had a weakness for chocolate and a deep love for the luscious scarlet berries that it covered. Taking a glass of red and a small plate of the fruit, he wandered onto the verandah of the event room, the dark of the evening pulling in and smudging the sky with gray and mauve. The wine was a really nice example of the best of SoCal, and he savored each sip before focusing on the chocolate and strawberries one by one.
"I wanted to thank you properly." Micah turned to see who had spoken to him, blinking at sex personified standing in front of him. The blond guy from the beach stood there, in a suit that molded to every inch of him. Dark gray, almost black, it elevated him from meditating beach bum to CEO in seconds. His shirt was pristine white, and he had a cornflower blue tie knotted perfectly. God, yes, his eyes really were that same incredible shade that Micah remembered from the beach. Micah had words to say, he really did. Important and clever, yet completely casual, words that said it was fine and there were no worries. All that came out was one word.
"Sorry?" The guy looked flustered for a few seconds; clearly he was thinking maybe he had the wrong person.
"Earlier… you… m
y camera… It was you, wasn't it? On the beach?"
"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I was miles away. You're welcome, no worries." Blond guy thrust out his hand, the glint of a silver-colored watch on his wrist.
"Liam Wade."
"Micah Adamson."
"Can I get you a drink, Mr Adamson, to say thank you?" Micah frowned. Mr. Adamson sounded so formal he decided his guess about this guy—this Liam—working in business wasn't far off if he went round calling people mister.
"Call me Micah."
"Okay, Micah. I would offer to actually buy you a drink, but they seem to be giving it away tonight." He gestured to the layout of all the wines and frowned. "There is a bar here somewhere that probably has beer. I don't know about you—" He lowered his voice. "—but this wine is all a bit too formal for me, not really into it. I really need a beer." Micah nearly choked on his last strawberry, coughing and trying to get control of his breathing.
"It's a welcome party, for a small wine convention" he finally managed to push out.
"Oh, so that explains all the wine snobs sniffing their glasses." Liam nodded wisely, as if he had suddenly discovered the whole reason for being. Micah couldn't think of one thing to say. He was torn between being affronted at Liam's humor and agreeing with the absurdity of what some of these winery reps did in the name of knowing wine. Micah didn't need all the dramatic sniffing and tasting and use of incredibly meaningless long words. He knew wine, he knew grapes; he wanted to share that with others. That was enough.
"I'm a snob," he blurted out, cursing inwardly at the 'what-the-hell-did-I-just-say?' moment. To his credit, Liam said nothing, which left Micah enough time to correct his statement. "I mean I own a winery. My family owns a winery, near Rochester, a vineyard and a winery, Seneca Blue." Liam looked at him, then down at the glass in his hand, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as if in deep thought.