Matt

“YOU, MY FRIEND, are a grumpy asshole.” Gage points his beer bottle in my direction before he takes a swig, Archer chuckling and nodding in agreement.

Assholes. The both of them. Calling me a grumpy asshole. I have reason to be grumpy. I’m working my fingers to the bone trying to get this winery in top shape so I don’t become the laughingstock of the Napa Valley. All while they’re perfectly happy and content, living with their women, established in their careers. Hell, Archer’s getting married soon and having a baby.

I’ve had to start completely over. And it sucks.

“Both of you cheated,” I grumble, peeling the label off my beer bottle, shredding it to bits, and leaving a mess on the table for someone else to clean up.

And I really don’t give a damn.

We’re at the golf resort’s lounge, having a beer after an intensely sucky game on my part. I just want to go home.

Or drown my sorrows in plenty of beer.

“Hell, no we didn’t cheat, you sore-ass loser. I won fair and square. It’s not our fault you never have time to play golf anymore,” Archer says, his look pointed as he watches me from across the table.

Wasn’t that the truth? I have no time for anything anymore. It’s all about the winery. Makes me worry—and I’ve had this worry more than once since the moment I made the purchase—if I’ve done the right thing. The winery is a huge responsibility. I have a great staff helping me run it but damn.

I need a break.

Thought golfing eighteen holes with my best friends would be a great way to ease some stress. Instead, it seemed to stress me out even more. My game was bad. My focus shot. I took endless phone calls, texted more than I swung, and generally pissed everyone off—including the fourth guy we didn’t even know who was paired with us to play.

Now here we sit in the nearly empty lounge—it’s a Saturday afternoon, so I can only assume all the men have gone home to their wives—talking about my shitty mood.

I really hate when I’m the focus of their attention. I know my friends mean well but right now, I don’t want to deal.

“You know what your problem is?” Gage asks, interrupting my thoughts.

Looks like I have no choice but to deal. “Please. Enlighten me,” I drawl, preparing myself for some sort of insult. It’s how we usually operate together. We’re friends, we take care of each other, celebrate the ups, mourn the downs, but in the end, we always, always give each other shit.

We could count on each other for that.

“You need to get laid.” Gage jabs his finger in my direction. “And quick.”

Hell. He was close to the money, if not right on it. I can’t remember the last time I got laid. I’d been detrimentally injured over a year ago during practice, for the love of God—practice—and that put me out of commission for months. My career, as well as my mind, was blown.

I had no time for women during that dark period of my life. Hell, I’d been a fucked-up mess, mourning the loss of my career, my life as I knew it, and I even lost a little bit of myself. My relationship with my dad became even more strained—no surprise. He’d been so proud of me for following in his footsteps and playing in the major leagues. It was his only source of pride when it came to me. Once he lost that, he lost interest.

Completely.

When I became strong enough, I went through physical therapy on my way to recovery. I was so focused on that I didn’t care about women. And once I healed, I went in search of an investment, a new career, a new focus and that ended up taking all of my time, so now . . .

Here I am. Grumpy and . . . yeah, in dire need of some sexual attention.

Problem? Only one woman has snagged my attention, and I still can’t figure out why. Or figure her out. Bryn is a mystery.

And I want to solve it. Solve her.

Christ. Even thinking those two benign words makes me break out in a sweat.

“You’re right,” I finally say, deciding to own up to it. “I haven’t gotten laid in months.” Too many months to mention, the number was so embarrassingly high.

“Knew it,” Gage says grimly. “You need to get out more, my friend. Hit up a bar or something.”

Grimacing, I shake my head. That sounds like my personal nightmare. “The bar scene is not for me. I don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

“You’d have a flock of women surrounding you the minute you entered,” Archer says, his brows raised as he tips his head toward me. “I hear the gossip around this town. All the single women under the age of fifty are thrilled that former pro baseball superstar Matt DeLuca is living here. They want a chance with you.”

“You’re the most eligible bachelor in the entire area,” Gage adds.

Holy shit. These two have spent way too much time with their women. “You guys sound like a bunch of gossiping hens. Are you for real? Did you really just say I’m the most eligible bachelor?” I pause. “And that all the single women under the age of fifty are interested? I mean what the hell?”

“Hey, there are a lot of women out there who don’t care if they’re older than you. They’re looking for a man, doesn’t matter his age,” Archer says, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

That little smile makes me want to punch him. “And how do you know this?” Anger and embarrassment war within me. It’s bad enough the entire community is waiting with baited breath for me to fail in the winery business. Worse, there’s supposedly a line of single women desperate to get their claws in me?

I swear I’ll never have any respect in this town. None. Zero.

“I hear talk. I’ve lived in the Napa Valley for a while now. I have a lot of connections. Ivy’s gained a lot of connections in a short amount of time with her work. We’re in the know and things are definitely being said about you,” Archer explains.

“Marina has lived here her entire life. She’s heard plenty lately. There’s a lot of gossip that goes down in that little bakery of hers, especially in the morning when everyone’s grabbing a coffee,” Gage says. “She says the buzz is heavy about the winery, about you. Everyone’s curious.”

Holy hell. This just . . . sucks. I don’t want to be the mockery of the Napa wine country. I’m trying to start a new life here. Become a different person. Not be known as the hotshot player son of former hotshot player—and notorious hothead—Vinnie DeLuca. Dad played for the Oakland A’s years ago when I was a little kid and earned his reputation as a troublemaker from the very start.

Many in the profession expected me to follow in his footsteps. I showed talent early. I was a cocky asshole in high school because I knew I was damn good. But I wasn’t a mean asshole who always tried to get in fights. That’s more my father’s style.

I never wanted to be like him, not like that.

Ever.

“So everyone’s gossiping about me and my potential love life,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Well, yeah and so are we because we’re concerned, man. You’re working too hard. You need to relax and live a little. You’ve always been a little intense when it comes to your career,” Archer says.

I study Archer, see the worry filling his eyes. Yeah, we all give each other shit, but he’s being serious. He’s concerned for my welfare and I appreciate that.

“The minute this reopening party is done, I’m going to tone it down,” I vow, feeling like I’m making some sort of solemn promise. “You’re right. I can’t continue to work at this pace; it’ll drive me into an early grave.”

“Hell yeah, it will. You gotta find balance,” says the second biggest workaholic I know, Gage.

Balance. I really have no idea what it is or how to get it.

“And you gotta get laid,” Archer adds with a chuckle. “We gotta find you a woman. I’m sure Ivy has some single friends.”

“So does Marina. She knows everyone,” Gage says.

Now they want to set me up. Great. “I can find my own woman, thank you very much.”