“I bet she sure is hot though, when she’s the efficient, no-nonsense Miss James,” Gage says with a shit-eating grin.

Jealousy flaring, I throw a fry at him aiming for his face, but he dodges it just in time. “Shut up, dickhead. You’re acting like a child.” What the hell, I feel like lately we’ve reverted to college talk—when we were young and dumb and talked crudely to and about everyone, especially each other.

“Who’s the child here, throwing food and calling me a dickhead?” Gage shakes his head. “I don’t know if any of us are going to survive these new terms. The longer you go without getting some, the grumpier you become. I bet your Miss James lost interest because you’ve become such a tyrant.”

That can’t be the reason. Can it? I doubt it. I think it has something to do with Dad. I have no idea what he said to her; she’s not talking and neither is he. I called him up a few days ago and flat out accused him of saying something shitty to Bryn but he didn’t give an inch.

Leaving me to conclude that he’s guilty as hell.

“The DeLuca Winery is all anyone’s talking about around town,” Gage says, thankfully changing the subject. “Your reopening was a huge hit.”

“Yeah, it went pretty well, didn’t it?” I’m trying to downplay it more for my own sake than anything else. There are still some deals and transactions in the works—trying to get some regional markets to carry the DeLuca brand, pushing out and growing our distribution list. More publicity opportunities too, ones that I’m hopeful will come to fruition and take DeLuca wine to a national level.

Going to Savor will get the DeLuca brand out there even more. I’ve realized quick, especially after meeting with the local Vintners group, that I need to be constantly pushing the name, constantly talking to people in the industry. Creating a good wine is key, but networking is a necessity to selling good wine. Growing, learning, taking it all in—especially at conferences where I meet others in the business, so I can bring it back to DeLuca and apply everything I’ve learned—is important.

Do I really need to take Bryn with me to Savor? Probably not. I would’ve been exhausted running around that conference for two days, and missed a few talks or workshops I wanted to check out, but I could’ve done it all on my own. It’s just so much more fun having her with me. And easier, of course, since she’s beyond capable and will keep me on schedule.

Spending time with her on a plane, in the city, at a hotel. It’s all ripe with possibilities.

If the woman I’m interested in actually acted interested in me, that is.

Bryn

Two weeks later, New York City

I SIT ON my cushy king-size bed with my laptop, glancing over my hand-scribbled notes taken from the endless amount of workshops I went to all day. I have never, in all my life, stayed in a hotel like the W New York at Times Square. Of course, the biggest city I’ve ever been to before was Los Angeles and that’s just a sprawling metropolis with crowded freeways and shopping malls everywhere.

New York City has a completely different vibe. All the buildings are so tall, the sidewalks packed, and everything is open so late. I’ve never seen anything like it. In my hometown, the sidewalks rolled up and shops closed around eight o’clock, nine on Saturdays.

We arrived last night, and Matt had wanted a slice of pizza at one in the morning. We’d promptly gone out and found a place open—not only open but packed.

It thrilled my small-town-bumpkin-self right down to my toes.

While I attended workshops today, Matt went to a discussion symposium, a special wine tasting, and currently he’s at a keynote dinner. He tried to get me to go with him, but I declined, saying I’d rather call for room service and type up the notes I knew I’d have.

He’d reluctantly agreed, telling me I could order whatever I wanted from room service since he was paying for it.

It’s funny, considering how hard I’ve seen him work and how many hours he’s put in at the winery, a lot of the time I forget Matt’s wealthy. As in billionaire-wealthy. The guy is loaded, thanks to both his father and Matt earning a bundle from his baseball contract and various endorsements.

And those are just the most recent ones.

It wasn’t until we stepped on the plane and sat in first class that I saw how the other half lives. Talk about star treatment. I’ve flown once in my life and that was when I went to California—on a shitty little crowded plane that made me pay for a soda, for the love of God. I declined, sitting in my cramped little seat between two large, sweaty businessmen who leered at me the entire flight.

I hated it.

But flying first class in the wide comfy seats, being served constantly, and sitting next to Matt? I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven.

That was until I saw the hotel. Oh, my word, it was the prettiest, most modern hotel I’ve ever seen in my life, not that I’ve stayed anywhere beyond a Motel 6. I made sure Matt had a two-room suite with a gorgeous city view and since my room was right next to his—which he’d asked for—I had the same.

I didn’t even care that I wasn’t outside amongst the hustle and bustle of Times Square. I was perfectly content sitting in my suite with the gorgeous white bed and shocking pink comforter. The sleek glass furniture and the blooming hot pink orchids everywhere. Me, the Cactus, Texas-supposed-slut, feels like a real life fairytale princess.

All thanks to Matt.

What sucks? I have to give my notice when we return. There’s just no way I can continue working for him. I’m pretending to be this certain type of quiet, demure woman when I’m not. My real self is bound to pop out sooner or later, and I don’t want to do that in front of Matt. He thinks I’m a good girl.

And I can’t seem to let go of my old, bad girl insecurities.

It’s bad enough we’ve kissed a few times. The last thing I want to do is hurt his reputation, so I try my best to avoid him, but it’s near impossible. The tension between us is still there though we never talk about it. I see the way he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I want to return that longing stare. Worse, I want to lock myself away in his office, plop myself on his desk right in front of him and beg him to kiss me.

I think he’d take me up on the offer. I know he would.

But then I’d become the slut everyone accuses me of being. Sleeping with my boss to get ahead—at least, that’s what it would look like. Indulging in a heated affair with the man who signs my paychecks is not smart. Didn’t I learn anything after my failed attempt at a minor affair with Brian Fairbanks?

Leaning against the fabric headboard, I stare out the window at the city lights that surround me. I hadn’t thought of his actual name since I don’t remember when. I prefer to think of him as this faceless, nonentity, otherwise known as my ex-boss. It’s just so much easier that way, not thinking of his name.

Now it all comes back to me. Brian would flash that charming smile as he whipped his thin blond hair away from his eyes, his gaze always eating me up. He had this way of making me feel like I was special, despite the ridiculous way he talked to me about titties and ass and how much his palm itched to give me a spanking.

Yes, he said that. He said a whole lot more too, plenty of which I wish to banish from my brain forever.

When I told my grandma what happened with Brian—how it turned out he had a wife and kids—she’d read me the riot act. Chewed me out for what felt like hours, though it probably only equaled about fifteen minutes. Told me if I continued flirting with these men who were in positions of authority, I’d never get ahead unless I had sex with them. That was all they thought of when they looked at me.