You were born with that pretty body and that gorgeous face, my grandma told me long, long ago. It will bring you nothing but trouble girl. Y’all are too pretty for words.

I grimace, my fingers poised over the keyboard in mid-tap. Great. Now my grandma is haunting my thoughts. But those words she said—and what happened with my old boss—are the reason I began downplaying my looks. My face caused me so much trouble.

When I was a little girl, the known pervert who lived in the trailer three spots down tried to drag me into his car. I’d done what my mama always told me to do if someone ever tried to snatch me up—I spit in his face and ran away.

And when I was in high school and three jocks from the football team cornered me in the empty gymnasium, shoved me to my knees and were ready to take turns using my services—by sticking their dicks in my mouth—until their coach found us and told them to get lost. No one ever talked about it again.

That had been the absolute scariest moment of my life, beyond the town pervert.

So when my former sweet-talking boss worked his magic charms and somehow I found myself kissing him with all the pent-up desire of a naive, nineteen-year-old girl who’s read too many romance novels, it’s no surprise that my silly dreams were crushed in an instant.

My silly dreams were always crushed. And the one thing that always got me in trouble was my too-pretty face.

I moved away, left Texas and headed for California, the land of dreams and fortune. I tried my best to stick it out in Hollywood, thinking if I had the looks, I may as well try and use them.

Instead, I realized quickly I was one of a bazillion pretty faces. I nabbed one local commercial for a TV station that only aired during late night programming. I posed at a couple of car shows in a bikini and had to slap at all the men’s grabby hands when they tried to rub my thigh or pinch my butt.

Dejected, I started searching online for a job. Any job, anywhere, I didn’t care, I just wanted out of Hollywood. Yet again, my dreams were smashed into bits. No one wanted to give me a job unless I had sex with them. Or gave them a blow job. For some reason they all wanted blow jobs.

Perverts.

Finally I came across a help-wanted ad on Craigslist for a personal assistant in the Napa Valley. That would get me out of Hollywood but keep me in California so I wouldn’t have to return home and hear how everyone thought I was an epic failure.

So I transformed myself. I got the job and started wearing no makeup, pulled my hair into a bun or ponytail and found a new wardrobe that consisted of neutral-colored, downright baggy clothing. I was a shadow of my former self. I was quiet. And I was a damn good worker.

Unfortunately, the previous owner of the winery was a terrible boss.

When he lost all his money and the property went into foreclosure, I thought for sure I’d have to return to my dusty hometown, the place where dreams went to die. I’d started packing my bags, looking for a way to sell what little furniture I had in my crap apartment that I could barely afford when my very own personal hero came into my life and changed it forever.

Matthew DeLuca.

The sexy-as-hell former pro baseball player was forced into retirement with a career-ending knee injury. With his movie-star good looks and the easygoing smile, he walked into the building and declared in that deep, rumbly voice of his—the one that stirs my body to life every time I hear it—that he was going to change our lives for the better.

And he did.

Not only did he give us all the back pay that our former employer cheated us out of when the last few paychecks started bouncing, he gave all employees of the Chandler Winery, now under the name DeLuca, a raise and then asked if we wouldn’t mind working a bit of overtime the next few months in preparation for the winery’s reopening.

He didn’t have to ask any of us twice. We were more than willing to do whatever it took to make our new boss happy. And to put more money in our pockets.

Not only did Matt save my life, he was also a good boss. Fair, intelligent, generous, he pushed me hard to want to perform at the best of my ability. And he didn’t try and chase me around his desk so he could steal a kiss.

Though I wish sometimes he would.

“Miss James, could you prepare an updated list of who will be attending next week’s party?”

Matt’s crisp, business-like tone shakes me from my thoughts, and I glance up to find him standing in front of my desk, a concerned expression etched into his features. His brow is wrinkled, his head tilted to the side, as if he’s trying to figure out exactly what’s wrong with me.

Certainly can’t tell him that he’s what’s wrong with me, now can I?

“Yes sir.” I give him a close-lipped smile, my new standard since my old one was bright and toothy and caused way too many problems. Gave men the wrong impression.

“You have plans to attend, correct?” One dark brow rises as he waits for my answer.

My mouth goes dry, I lick my lips, and notice the way his gaze falls to my mouth for the briefest moment before he looks me in the eye once more. “Correct,” I say, mimicking him. I need to be there to make sure everything goes well. Even though I’m beyond intimidated to even show up.

What if . . . what if he brings a date? I’ll be devastated. I’ll have to pretend everything’s fine and carry on with my job, but inside, I’ll die a little.

Which is dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

“Good.” He nods once. “I need you there.”

“I’ll be there,” I say weakly, thankful I’m sitting down since my knees feel a little wobbly. Heaven help me, I like the fact that he said he needs me there.

That he needs me.

“Thank you.” Matt nods once and heads toward the doorway that leads outside. “I’ll be out in the orchard. Text me if you need me.”

“Will do. And have fun,” I call to him, my gaze dropping to his jean-clad backside. He’d dressed casually from the very start, considering he spent much of his time out in the vineyards, learning what it took to produce a quality grape that would, in turn, produce a quality wine. He wears jeans and button-down shirts that he often rolls up to the elbow, revealing those strong, tanned forearms that make my mouth water.

On occasion, he shows up in a suit. Usually when he has a meeting at the office with someone important. An investor, a wholesaler, and the like. Those days are the worst. My concentration is shot. The man can fill out a suit like no other. Those wide shoulders and broad chest, the dark hair that’s a little longish in the back—a throwback to his baseball playing days, I swear. His thick, brown hair waves at the ends in the most appealing way. As in, always making my fingers itch to comb through it.

I barely restrain myself. The man is like a drug, and I’m hopelessly addicted. Not only hopelessly, I’m happily addicted. It’s ridiculous, how much I think about him.

But he doesn’t seem to think about me whatsoever.

My cell phone rings, and I see that it’s Ivy, so I answer. I don’t like taking personal calls at work. Not that Matt’s ever said anything, but it doesn’t feel right.

And not that I get a bunch of personal calls. I don’t have a lot of friends since I’m still relatively new to the area. I don’t have a boyfriend because men are nothing but trouble, and my grandma certainly never calls me. She acts like I don’t even exist most of the time.

“You must come shopping with me this Saturday,” she declares when I answer.

Dread sinks my stomach to my toes. I wanted to. I let her talk me into it. But the more I’ve thought it over, the more I’ve realized I can’t afford the places she shops at. She’s loaded. I am definitely not. “Ivy, I appreciate you wanting to take me out, but I really can’t spend too much money on the dress,” I explain to her turning my chair, so I can stare out the window that faces the nearby vineyards.