End Scene

by Elise Faber

  But before I could work up any sincere worry, I saw legs.

  A physical shake, a mental push to get my brain to focus.

  Except, that had the effect of drawing my gaze up those shapely legs, taking in the sight of Maggie’s short and sexy dress, its hemline flirting at mid-thigh and threatening to drive me insane in the sum total of three seconds since I’d laid eyes on her.

  And maybe math was in my head because I’d looked up what an array was after she’d left, or more likely because I’d spent this afternoon and evening adding up all of the ways I could get her back into my life, summing them together and hoping and praying that the total would be enough to convince her to give me another shot.

  Dinner.

  I needed to start with dinner first.

  Shoving open my door, I hurried to meet up with her. “Mags,” I said, my eyes taking in the rest of her dress—tight on the curves of her hips, snug enough over her breasts to snag my gaze there for several seconds before I managed to not be a total pig and wrench my stare to her face.

  Her hair was down. Her makeup was pristine. Her lips . . . they were coated in bright red, and curving up in a sinful, confident female smirk that sent heat arrowing between my thighs.

  Holy hell.

  “Hi,” she murmured.

  “Nice house,” I blurted, too loud, to staccato, and not slick or refined in any way, shape, or form. I immediately cursed myself. Acting the part of a bumbling young idiot wasn’t part of my plan to show Mags I’d changed, that things were different.

  But instead of teasing me for my abruptness, she just smiled. “This is Pierce and Artie’s place.” A shrug. “Paying for my dad’s care meant my plan to save for a down payment for a house got a bit derailed. I actually live in the guest house out back,” she told me. “Luckily, I have some cool clients.”

  “They’re lucky to have you, too.”

  She smiled. “You don’t have to be charming.”

  A thread of stubborn wove through me. “I’m not being charming,” I said. “I don’t think you’d have four of the biggest clients in the world without being good at your job.”

  Mags tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Did you spend the afternoon researching my clients?”

  I laced my fingers with hers, started moving her in the direction of my car. “Well, I certainly didn’t spend the whole time studying arrays.”

  She giggled then stopped, heels clicking to a halt on the driveway. “Wait. Did you really study what an array is?”

  I lifted a brow. “An array is a data structure made up of a collection of elements, each of which is identified by at least one key, also known as an array index.”

  Mags blinked, started walking again. “Wow. I think my mind just froze over.”

  “Hey!” I nudged her lightly with my shoulder. “You’re the one who wanted to know,” I said. “I learned much more about data processing than I wanted to this afternoon.”

  She grinned. “You really want to do this, don’t you?”

  My hand had been reaching for the passenger door, readying to open it for her, but her question made me stop and look at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I—” She shrugged, started to reach for the handle herself. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  The hell it didn’t.

  “Mags,” I said, stepping closer, pinning her between the car and my body.

  Her hands lifted like she was going to push me away. I would have let her, of course, would have stepped back if she asked, if she nudged me back, but since she didn’t, since her hands fluttered in the air for a moment before settling onto my chest, the touch a hot brand of sensation, I didn’t retreat.

  I stayed in place, motionless, the scent of her totally overwhelming my senses.

  Her mouth opened, a shaking exhale glazing my lips like the sweet peach preserves our town was famous for in the summer months.

  Her fingertips were hot brands, soaking through the cotton of my button down.

  “Let’s go to dinner,” she breathed.

  I nodded . . . and look at that, my mouth was near the lusciousness of her bare shoulder, her throat, her exposed collar bones. Inhaling, I nuzzled at the spot where her neck met her chest, breathing in her sweet smell, letting it wash over me completely. “Yes,” I murmured. “Let’s go to dinner.”

  But neither of us moved.

  We stayed in place, bodies inches apart, breathing in the other’s exhalations, warmth spreading and growing the longer we remained close.

  My lips pressed lightly to her throat, to her jaw, to the spot just beneath it that had always made her shiver. “What did you mean, Peaches?”

  “Hmm?” she asked, hands slipping up from my chest, sliding around to the back of my neck, up into my hair.

  “Earlier, when you asked if I really wanted to do this.”

  She froze, dropped her hands, chocolate eyes drifting from mine to over my left shoulder.

  “I just—” A sigh, and now her hands pressed at my chest.

  I stepped back. Not far. But back a pace or two. “Peaches.”

  Her eyes flashed to mine then away again. “I can’t believe you remember that stupid nickname.”

  “I had wet dreams for years after that time in the orchard.”

  Cheeks flaring pink, she gaped at me. “Aaron! You can’t say that.”

  Closer again, not touching but near enough to soothe the burn of my need to be in her proximity, to smell, to listen to the slight increase in her breathing when I did so. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re past wet dreams and old memories.”

  “I will never forget the first time you let me make out with you, tasting the juice of the peaches we’d stolen on your lips, your sticky fingers winding into my hair.” I grinned, despite myself. “I swear, I didn’t shower for four days, just so I could keep the scent of you in my pores.”

  “I-I didn’t know,” she whispered.

  “I should have told you,” I murmured. “Should have realized how important you were, should have made you see that, too. Maybe then things would have . . .”

  Silence.

  Then fingers on my cheek. “You don’t know it would have made a difference.”

  “I know it would have changed things between us now,” I said. “And speaking of now, what did you mean?”

  To her credit, she didn’t back down or immediately give in. But that was my Mags, wasn’t it? Strong to her core. A stubborn streak a mile wide. Smart and tough and . . . mine.

  Now, I just had to convince her of that.

  A mulish expression pulled her lips flat, wrinkled her nose, and . . . I gave in.

  To her hands curling into my shirt. To the growing need between us. To the present and the past and the possibility of a future.

  I dropped my head, slanted my lips across hers.

  It was . . . coming home.

  That was the only way to describe her mouth against mine, the way her hands slid back up my neck, threading into my hair again without hesitation. She tipped forward on the sexy as shit heels, breasts coming to press against my chest, and her lips opened, tongue sliding against mine.

  A kiss we’d done a hundred, a thousand times.

  And yet, a kiss that was different. Deeper. Stronger. More.

  Mine, my brain blared again, releasing the hold on my control, my hands coming up to her face, cupping her cheeks in my palms, angling her head so her lips were flush against mine, so I could taste her more fully.

  Still sweet. Still earnest. Still the absolute best kiss of my life.

  She pushed back slightly, tearing her mouth away, sucking in air in rapid gusts. “Holy . . . shit,” she panted. “That . . . was—” A shake of her head, fingers coming to her lips. “I’d thought that I’d made this”—a wave of those fingers between us—“chemistry out to be more than it was.”

  “No,” I said, and it was more growl than disagreement.

  For some reason, that made her smile, rub her j
aw against mine, soft words in my ear. “Earlier . . . I’d thought this, that you wanting to take me for dinner, was mostly out of guilt.”

  Fury tore through me and I lurched back, lips parting, readying to disabuse her of that notion. But then she kissed me, cutting off the words, thrusting her tongue into my mouth, pressing her body to mine, and making me see stars from the intensity of the contact.

  “I get now I was wrong,” she said against my lips when we broke apart for air.

  “I—”

  Another kiss, leaving me rock-hard, hands clenched into fists where they rested on her hips.

  She gave me another little shove, nudging me back, tugging open the passenger door before I got my brain together enough to do it. Sinking into the seat in a move that sent the skirt of her dress scandalously, temptingly high, she blew me a kiss.

  “Let’s go to dinner, baby,” she ordered.

  Then she tugged the door closed, leaving me no choice but to follow orders.

  Luckily, that was an easy one to obey.

  Twelve

  Maggie

  How did a non-drinker get into the wine industry?” I asked as we sat on opposite sides of a small round table overlooking the ocean.

  That he’d taken me to this restaurant, a tiny hole-in-the-wall place known for fish tacos and margaritas, had pleased me to no end. He’d remembered my love of tacos—and apparently, I was still on the innuendo trend today because that made my mind giggle like a teenager—but more importantly, he’d chosen someplace not too fancy, with a gorgeous view, and quiet, so we could talk.

  He’d been deliberate in his choice. Thoughtful.

  Of course, I couldn’t know his intentions because I didn’t have the ability to read his mind. But if I thought of the boy from high school, the one who’d been the designated driver, who’d left ibuprofen and bottles of water on my nightstand, who’d lifted me onto his shoulders so I could pick the peach that was just out of reach, then yes, I could think he’d been deliberate in his choice. And if I thought of the man who’d held on to anger for a long time, but after my words had spent many hours pondering his reaction and finding room to grow, then, also yes, I could definitely imagine that boy who’d turned into this man being that thoughtful.

  It was a mouthful . . . or rather a mindful, but thankfully Aaron tugged me out of the maelstrom in my brain and back into the present.

  “What makes you think I don’t drink?”

  I tilted my head to the side, eyes going from his water glass to my margarita.

  The ghost of a smile. “I still can’t stand tequila.”

  Chuckling, I allowed my eyes to go to the horizon, darkened to shades of navy and gray and black now that the sun had set. “I’d forgotten about that,” I murmured. “I should amend my statement to: how does a one-time drinker own a winery?”

  “It started with a summer job and an eccentric Italian, who decided to grow something called ice wine.”

  My brows drew down. “Well, our little slice of Utah does have plenty of ice in the winter months.” I set my drink down and picked up my fork, scooping up a bit of lettuce and flaky whitefish that had fallen out of the tortilla. “But I always imagined that wine had to be grown in warm places.” I made a face. “I guess I didn’t really think that through, did I? France gets cold in the winter.”

  “That’s true.” He nodded. “Ice wine isn’t common to Utah. Hell, wine in the first place isn’t common in Utah. But Carlos had grown up in a wine family, and he was determined to experiment.”

  “Experiment how?”

  “With the types of grapes,” he said. “Chardonnay grapes aren’t traditionally used in ice wine, but he wanted to try.”

  “And did it work?”

  He grinned. “At first? No. It was a disaster. It takes about three years for vines to bear fruit, so there’s no income off the vines for that length of time. Plus, sometimes it takes several more years beyond that to produce a good vintage.” His eyes danced. “And ice wine in particular is finicky. You have to time the picking right, when the grapes are totally frozen but the sugars inside are not. You have to rely on the weather, on hoping and praying they’ll freeze fully before they rot on the vine.”

  “This might be a silly question,” I said, taking a sip of my drink and thinking that wine speak was a lot more interesting than arrays. To each their own, I supposed. “But why can’t you pick the grapes and pop them in a giant freezer?”

  He laughed. “Not silly. You’re right, but it wouldn’t be ice wine. There are regulations governing the temperature at which they need to be fully frozen in order to have the name.”

  “That’s crazy!” I exclaimed.

  “That’s the business,” he said with a shrug.

  A blip of guilt slid through me and I reached across the table, covering his hand with mine. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to discount anything you’ve worked for.” My tone went self-deprecating. “I’m just shocked that there’s this whole world of wine I didn’t know anything about.”

  “Something of an expert, are you?” he asked, one brow lifting.

  I buffed my nails on my shoulder, blew on them. “I take my wine expert status seriously.”

  “Good to know.” He flipped his palm over, capturing my fingers in his. “I didn’t think you were trying to discount anything, Peaches,” he added softly, thumb lightly tracing over the back of my knuckles.

  The simple touch had heat shooting up my arm.

  Probably a result of the margarita. They always went right through me.

  But even as I tried to justify that in my brain, I knew that it had nothing to do with the tequila and everything to do with Aaron.

  “Tell me more about your business,” I said.

  “Sure you wouldn’t rather hear about arrays?”

  I scowled and he chuckled, squeezing my hand lightly in the process.

  “I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes version because Carlos is really the visionary. I’m the numbers and facilities and spreadsheets guy.”

  “Not more numbers,” I groaned.

  A flash of white. “My work life is definitely all about the numbers, and the numbers are why we’ve focused on expanding our operations. Did you know that our ice wine grapes have to be picked at a moment’s notice, sometimes in as little as a few hours?”

  I shook my head.

  “And the conditions are tough. Our team often picks overnight or in the early morning, and the pressing takes place in unheated spaces, for obvious reasons.” He stopped, expression trending toward chagrinned. “Sorry, I’m blabbering on. Tell me about your—”

  I squeezed his hand. “No, Aaron. This is fascinating. Tell me more.”

  “Mags,” he said. “You can’t possibly be fascinated by wine production.”

  Except, I was. Because this was Aaron and he was passionate about something, and I found I wanted to know every detail he did. Not processing that too deeply, I just squeezed his hand again when he hesitated, and said, “I’m guessing everything has to be done in the cold in order for the grapes to not unfreeze? What else?”

  The cutest little furrow appeared between his brows. “Um . . . the fermentation process takes longer than a normal wine—months compared to days and weeks.”

  “Wow. That seems like a lot of work.”

  He nodded. “It is. But the wine is very sweet and because it’s such a risky and time-consuming process, the product also fetches top dollar.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, lifting my glass with my free hand and polishing off my margarita. “I’ve never had ice wine. What does it taste like?”

  “Very sweet, but not cloying. There’s an acidity to it that makes it refreshing instead of overpowering.” He used his free hand to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, and I had to say that I preferred his use of free hands touching me—to mine—drinking. “So,” he asked, golden-brown eyes warm on mine. “Have I finally bored you with the wine speak?”

  I found everything he was te
lling me utterly enthralling, not the least of which was how this man, who’d been so sure he wanted to be working a nine-to-five job in a small town in Utah, had ended up with an apparently global wine operation. “No. I have more questions,” I told him. “Namely, how did you go from ice wine to vineyards in California, France, and Italy?” His brows lifted, and I shrugged, admitted, “I might have met a man named Harry in the cellar who gave me inside information.”

  Aaron snorted but his lips twitched. “If anyone else said that grouping of words, I swear, I would have thought they were trying to pull a fast one.”

  “Is it the man named Harry part?” I teased. “Or the in the cellar who gave me inside information piece?”

  “Neither. Both.” His face went serious as he put his free hand skills to good use again, this time cupping my cheek, the slightly roughened callouses on his palm sensitizing my skin. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  I’d missed him, too.

  But part of me was still cautious. This man had hurt me once. Oh, I knew I’d hurt him, too, that our breakup had been a slicing agony for both of us. Because of that I’d punished myself, felt guilty, harbored regrets. Aaron . . . he’d been angry. He hadn’t sifted through the other emotions on and off for ten years like I had, and I was worried that his anger would flare again, and that I’d be on the receiving end of it once more.

  Because I’d spent the last month thinking, too.

  I’d spent the last month recovering from the interactions with my dad and with Aaron.

  I wasn’t going to be a punching bag any longer. I couldn’t keep doing that.

  No, I wasn’t going to abandon my dad. My conscience wouldn’t allow me to do that. I’d make sure to keep Claudette employed, ensure that the ranch was safe for him to live, but I wasn’t going to continue to put myself through abuse just because I still felt guilty for leaving.

  Emotionally, my dad had left me a long time ago. I’d needed and deserved so much more than I’d gotten.

  I was done martyring myself trying to fulfill those needs and desires with him.

  Aaron’s fingers convulsed lightly, his fingertips brushing my jaw. “I know that trust is earned, Peaches,” he murmured.