Intensity.
Yes, he had mesmerizing brown eyes that looked right through to her soul. And impressively broad shoulders that most women would love to cling to. And, of course, half his chiseled face was covered with that rough, sexy beard that only drew every eye to the soft, full lips it surrounded.
But none of those handsome attributes had an effect on Grace Donovan. It was something much more raw and terrifying that kept Grace at a distance. Maybe it was his easy humor or that bubbling passion for life that sparked in his eyes. Maybe it was how not casual his casual touch was, or the way he drew her closer so she could hear every nuance of his deep voice.
Maybe it was just that it had been eons since Grace had been with a man. And she’d sure never been with one who somehow made her think he could take off her clothes and take down her walls.
Walls and clothes would stay in place, thank you very much. All that chemistry was just nature’s way of reminding her that she was thirty-two and had better start procreating, stat.
Well, nature could suck it. And so could Alex Santorini. She had a winery to run and the biggest opportunity of her professional career right around the corner.
So, she’d best go talk to her high-maintenance chef to remind him that they had a very important meeting on Tuesday, which might mean he’d have to work Monday to prepare, like it or not. Knowing Desmond Landsdown? Probably not.
But this wasn’t any meeting. It was the meeting. The advance team for the event that would change the trajectory of this little winery and seal her success. Desmond damn well better give up his day off to prepare, because without him, she’d never make the short list for Scooter and Blue’s wedding.
She still couldn’t believe Overlook Glen had even made the long list for first review. But apparently, Blue, a capricious and unpredictable celebrity if there ever was one, wanted something small, understated, personal, and far enough off the beaten path that the paparazzi couldn’t stalk the nuptials. Overlook Glen hit every one of those requirements.
But Desmond was nowhere to be found in the empty, but sparkling clean, kitchen.
“Desmond?” she called, opening the door to dry storage, hoping to find him in that pantry. No luck. She tried the walk-in cooler, which was freezing and empty. Then the laundry, which was humming with linens being washed and dried, but no chef in sight.
Finally, she opened the back door and prayed he was chilling outside.
But it was quiet back here, the only sound the ambient noise of the last of the wedding-goers, the die-hards laughing and talking and refusing to leave even though the music had stopped and the bar had closed.
Desmond must have gone home, Grace decided. Fortunately, his home was a small cottage on the edge of the vineyard, just a few minutes’ walk away. Grace was wearing the wrong shoes for a stroll down a stony path, but she didn’t want to go all the way back up to her third-floor apartment in the winery house to get flats. And she didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to make sure every perceived slight that had been inflicted on Desmond tonight was smoothed over and forgiven.
Yep, she often had to suck up to the moody chef, apologize for seventeen different people who pissed him off, promise to never again buy second-rate fontina, and stroke his massive ego. And still he threatened to walk at least once a month and twice during every wedding.
She wouldn’t have minded, especially now that the season was just about over and most of the remaining events were smaller and held indoors. She could use freelance chefs for those. But she needed Desmond to win the big one, since he was far more talented than anyone she could hire locally.
She stumbled on a rock, but caught herself just as she came to the split in the path at the perimeter of the vineyard. The steps up to the terrace were about twenty feet in the other direction, close enough for her to still hear that last group of guests, but she headed the opposite way, toward the cook’s cottage.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a light in the window, hoping Desmond was having a late-night scotch and soda to calm down after a huge few days of banquet cooking.
“Des?” She knocked on the door, taken aback when it opened immediately.
The middle-aged man stood like he was about to step out and leave…with a suitcase in one hand. Oh no.
“Will you be back by Tuesday?” she asked, unable to hide a little note of fear and desperation.
“No. I won’t ever be back.”
“Desmond Landsdown.” She put her hands over her mouth. “You can’t.”
“I can and I will. I’m meant for bigger and better things than North Carolina hick weddings with braised beef, and holy hell, were they dancing like Zorba the Greek out there? I thought the Hokey Pokey was bad.”
Disappointment strangled her. “They’re Greek.”
“And the jig?”
“Also Irish.” Did she really have to defend this big, loving, nice family who’d paid a lot of money for the pleasure of dancing however the hell they wanted? “Desmond, please. I know the sous chef I brought in didn’t julienne the carrots to your liking and that those two new servers were a little pushy, but—”
He held up a hand. “It’s just not enough for me. And you’re not enough for me.”
She felt her jaw slip open. “Excuse me?”
“You’re so…crispy.”
She was crispy? She just stared at him.
“Like bacon. Without the fat, of course.”
“I’m…bacon?” She looked at the hand not holding a suitcase, half expecting an empty scotch glass. “What are you talking about?”
“I need to bond with my work family. It’s one thing not to bond with minimum-wage servers, but tonight I realized that I just can’t work for you, Grace.”
She felt her back stiffen and bristle. “I thought we were…” Okay, not friends. “Doing fine.”
“You are all wrapped up in your science and logic,” he said. “Do you realize you refer to the seasoning with salt as an enzymatic reaction?”
“Well, it is, technically.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I just can’t connect with you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”
Hasn’t anyone ever not told you that? would have been a better question. An age-old pain wrapped around her chest, squeezing so tight she could hardly breathe. “I do my best,” she said on a rough whisper.
He just stared at her, his expression clear: Her best was not good enough.
She was going to have to pull out the big guns if she had a snowball’s chance of keeping him on for another week. She took a deep inhale, lifted her chin, and looked him in the eyes.
“I was raised by foster families, Desmond. And never adopted. So, I admit that has made me…well, I’m guarded. And, of course, I hold a degree in oenology, which is a science, and I tend to think scientifically, which might explain the enzymatic reaction. But I run a business, and you have a job here. How much do we need to have in common?”
He managed a shrug. “I want more from my life than a small-time mountain winery that makes its money on local weddings. I left a note inside where you can send my final paycheck.”
“Desmond! You know what’s happening this week. There’s nothing small-time about Scooter Hawkings and Blue. Your name will be in People magazine. This will change everything for us. Blue is a household name.”
“Blue? Pffft. A gimmicky one name. And her cotton candy music makes my teeth itch.”
“Well, millions of people love her songs, and another bunch of millions love Scooter Hawkings.”
He curled a lip. “Rednecks who drive pickups with gun racks and drink Jim Beam.”
She closed her eyes, digging for composure in the face of his callous, bigoted generalizations. “This wedding is within our reach, Desmond. Nothing like it has ever happened here, and if we don’t get selected as the venue, nothing like it ever will. I need you at that meeting on Tuesday.”
“It’s not just the meeting. You’ll need me for the dry run, whenever th
ey schedule it. And then for the actual wedding next year, with no date set yet. I literally will die if I can’t get to a real metropolis by then.”
“Just stay for the meeting, please.” She sounded desperate. Well, she was desperate.
He shook his head and stepped all the way out of the cottage. “Not happening, Grace. I’ve got an interview at the Ritz-Carlton in Miami on Monday. I’m driving down there tonight.”
He brushed by her and took a few steps, then turned back to her. She braced for one last chastisement, one more reminder that she was…crispy. Less than worthy of anyone’s loyalty or love.
She swallowed, knowing that no matter what he said, it would be some version of the same thing she’d heard her entire childhood.
We’ve loved having you, Grace, but the system says it’s best for you to move to another family now.
“You should know I’ve been feeding a pack of dogs.”
She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“They started coming around here, and I…” He shrugged. “Anyway, if you see them, they’re not mine, but they’ll need food.”
“Who do they belong to?”
“Beats me. They just showed up. Someone must have dumped them.”
She closed her eyes. She sure knew what that felt like. “Okay. I’ll keep an eye out for them.”
He lifted a hand. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch, Grace. But it’s better for both of us.”
Wasn’t it always?
She stood there and watched him walk up the hill toward the winery, tamping down an old sensation of…loss. There was no other word for it.
“Except this is business,” she muttered to herself. “And most of the time, Desmond was a grade A douche, so it’s not a loss at all.”
Clinging to that thought, she headed back, following the path as best she could in the dark. But just as she reached the turn toward the back kitchen entrance, her high heel slipped on a stone, and she slipped, falling to her knees and landing hard on her palms.
“Damn it!” She bit back a small cry, hating that tears of frustration sprang to her eyes like she was a toddler who’d face-planted. Gritting her teeth, she pushed up and checked her knees and hands, which were bruised but not bleeding.
She could make it up the steps and across the terrace, the very shortest and safest way home. Except she still heard the strains of laughter and conversation of the last of her guests who were just unwilling for a perfect night to end.
But her imperfect night had to end, and soon.
She’d wait them out. They had to leave any minute, so she limped to the bottom step and dropped down with a heavy, noisy sigh just as a hoot of laughter rose from the group.
“Shane! How can you say that?” The man’s voice echoed from the terrace. “Dad made us clean the storage barn and the kennels for a month just because you thought it would be hilarious to take some chick muddin’ at midnight.”
“You did?” a woman asked, not sounding too surprised.
“Of course he did, because that’s how he got laid.”
“Still works,” the woman replied, cracking everyone up.
“Only if someone will take the baby for us.”
“I got you covered, bro.”
There was more laughter and some conversation she couldn’t pick up, but she prayed this family’s reminiscing and teasing would come to a blessed end. Closing her eyes, she pulled her bruised knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, curling into the stone stairs, listening to the sounds of a family. A close, loving, large family with so many memories.
The lump in her throat was unwelcome, but no surprise. What would that have been like? To share a history with siblings like…
More tears threatened. Siblings like Bitsy and Jack.
“Is it that bad that you have to hide?”
She pushed her legs down and squinted into the moonlight, right into the face she’d been avoiding all night.
“Oh, hi. No, it’s…not…bad.” God, no. Nothing about Alex Santorini was bad. Especially since he’d lost the tux jacket and tie, and his shirt was open at the collar. “I just didn’t want to interrupt the flow of their conversation.”
“I think the only thing that flowed was the wine, which is why you’ve got campers on table six.” He put one foot on the stair where she sat and leaned close enough for her to smell spice and the vineyard air on him. “I can get rid of them for you. Want me to?”
She almost said yes, looking into his impossibly dark eyes. She’d almost say yes to anything this man offered. “That’s all right,” she said, then she frowned and looked around. “What are you doing down here?”
“I’m the DD for this crew.” He pointed up to the terrace and then sat onto the stair next to her. “They had one last bottle left, and I decided to take a walk through the vineyards while they finished. Is that okay? Against house rules?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“And you? Do you frequently lurk at the bottom of the stairs during events?”
“I had to talk to my chef.” She pointed in the direction of the cottage. “He lives…” Lived. “Right there.”
He angled his head, a question in his eyes. “Ah, yes. The thorn-in-your-rose-garden chef.”
“Not a thorn anymore,” she said dryly. “He’s on his way to Florida for an interview at the Ritz-Carlton.”
“No loss,” he said, far too cavalier to understand just how much of a loss it was. “I thought that guy had ACS when I met him.”
“ACS?”
“Asshole Chef Syndrome. Sadly, it’s all too common in the business.”
“He had a bad case.” She dropped her head back with a grunt, thinking of nothing but that meeting on Tuesday. “Any idea how I can find a replacement without ACS really fast?”
“Full time? For this gig?” He squinted up toward the winery. “Shouldn’t be too hard. There are chef job boards. Want me to email you some links?”
He did cook in a Greek deli, so maybe he knew someone qualified. “Yes, that’d be great. Just send it to the winery website. There’s an email contact.”
He leaned a little closer, just enough for their thighs to brush and send heat curling through her. “Or I could give it to you in person. Over dinner. That I made.”
She didn’t answer right away, mostly because the thrill that traveled through her was a little irresistible, and she wanted to hold on to it before common sense wiped it away. “Thank you, but I don’t think so.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Got a great reason? Like another guy, or you hate beards, or you’re still pissed about me sending back the wine? Because that was just a really lame excuse to try and get your attention.”
Her eyes flickered in surprise. “It was?”
“I’m slick like that.”
“You wanted to hit on me by insulting my wine?”
He shrugged. “I crashed and burned on all the standard attempts at humor and flirting. But dis the wine? Whoa, the woman notices you.”
Another zing shot through her at the thought of him seeking her out or feeling the same attraction she did. “I noticed you the first time you walked into this winery, for a fundraising event with dogs.” She couldn’t help smiling. “There were oodles of cute dogs and hot firemen, but I noticed you.”
“Then what’s stopping you from saying yes to dinner?”
She was way too tired to lie. “You scare the hell out of me, Alex Santorini.”
He drew back, obviously surprised by the answer, but then he broke into a wide smile. “Really? Okay. I like that.”
“You like scaring me?”
“It’s better than you not knowing I’m alive,” he admitted. “What scares you?”
“Your…passion. I prefer to avoid it.”
“Why? Passion is good. It’s creative fuel. It’s sexual fire. It’s—”
She put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Passion is the opposite of science and logic, which I use as my guideposts to life.”
“Your…guideposts. Not sure I ever thought about those. Might not even have them.”
“You probably don’t.” She searched his face, taking in the angles of his cheeks, the near blackness of his eyes, her heart slamming her ribs now, while everything much lower sort of melted.
“And you have guideposts aplenty, I bet.” He inched closer, forcing her gaze to drop to his mouth. “You know what I do to guideposts?”
“Mow them down?” she guessed.
“With passion.” He leaned a little closer, and she didn’t move away. Because all it would take was one more inch. One more second out here. One more—
“Alexander the Great!” A woman’s voice cut through the tension stretched between them. “Where is our safe ride home?”
They both stayed completely frozen for a moment, then he slowly drew back. “I’m being paged.”
And she was being saved from a big, big mistake. “Then you better go, Alexander the Great.”
He grinned. “We’re not done yet, Gracie.”
The nickname cut right through her, forcing her to stand. “Yes, we are.” She smoothed her skirt, ignoring her stinging palms. Sometimes, it hurt to build brick walls, but she knew when and how to do it.
“I’ll call you?” he suggested as he stood, too, making her look up at him.
“Just send that email. That’ll be good enough.”
“Good enough is never good enough.”
“In this case, it’ll have to be.”
He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face toward him. “Want my secret recipe for a good life?”
“Now that, maybe I could use.” Tonight, anyway, when life felt anything but good.
“A little less logic and a lot more…passion.”
She just stared at him, a little lost in those deep, dark eyes. “I’ll…think about it.” And she would. All night and tomorrow, she imagined.
He tapped her chin and turned around, taking the steps two at a time. “All right, you drunkards. Let’s call it a night.”
Three Dog Night (The Dogmothers Book 2) Page 2