He opens the trunk and pulls the two suitcases out before shutting it again. And then, together we roll the suitcases toward the house. “I’ll get them the rest of the way,” Nick says when we reach the stairs leading to the porch.
I hurry up the steps, key in the code to the door, and push it open. Nick joins me, and that charge between us intensifies the instant we are both over the threshold. He sets the suitcases inside the foyer, and drops his jacket on top of one of them. I shut the door. And suddenly we are facing each other, our eyes colliding, that word “home” radiating between us.
The air thickens, crackles, and I move. Or maybe he moves. Maybe it’s both of us but suddenly my purse is on the ground, and we are kissing, a deep, drugging, intimate kiss. His hand is on the back of my head, and God, how I’ve come to love the way he does that. I breathe into the kiss, sink into it and him, and it only seems to ignite us further. And of course, my phone rings. I ignore it. Nick ignores it. I reach for his tie. This time I’m getting it off and every inch of clothing he’s wearing. My phone stops ringing. I pull the silk from his neck, letting it fall to the ground. My phone starts ringing again.
Nick and I both groan. “You better get that, sweetheart,” he says.
“It’s not important.” It stops ringing again and starts again. “Okay. It might be.” I squat down to open my purse and remove my cellphone, frowning when I see the number. “Kasey,” I say, standing up and answering the line. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? The bills are paid. All is well.”
“You called three times.”
“No. I just called once.”
“Oh. The other calls must have been someone else. Hold on one second.” I glance at the caller ID. “Josh,” I mouth to Nick, and I don’t miss the tiny smirk on his face at the reference to my agent, who he clearly does not like.
“Rita was fantastic,” Kasey adds, pulling me back into our conversation, while Nick’s own phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, looking at the Caller ID. “I gave her the accounts payable list,” Kasey continues, “and within two hours everything was paid to date.”
Nick points to his phone and motions down the hallway off the foyer. “No more bill collectors,” I reply to Kasey, following Nick, but as he continues to the living room, I cut right into the kitchen, rounding the island to sit on a barstool.
“Are we sure?” he asks. “This isn’t a one and done kind of thing?”
“Not at all,” I assure him settling onto a barstool, “We’re past the challenges that started when we lost my father.”
“Then you finally got into the bank accounts.”
“Everything is now in my name,” I say, avoiding the topic of my mother and the bank accounts I won’t have access to until Monday, but I already know are empty. “That means I’m free to discuss the future with you, because I know we have a future and one worth your time.”
“Hiring Nick Rogers really made a difference it seems.”
“Nick has made an incredible difference,” I say as he appears in the doorway, his eyes meeting mine, as I add, “In every possible way.”
Nick’s lips curve slightly and he walks to the island, sitting down on the barstool across from me. Meanwhile, Kasey delivers a stilted, “That’s great news,” followed by an awkward pause.
Dread fills me. “Oh God. You’re quitting.”
“No. Of course not. This place is my life.”
Relief washes over me. “Then what is it that I’m sensing?”
“Full disclosure. I just had coffee with your uncle. And since I know how you feel about him—”
My gaze rockets to Nick’s. “Why did you have coffee with my uncle, Kasey?”
Nick doesn’t react and I have a sense that he knew before I did, perhaps from his phone call. “He bought a thousand bottles of wine for a weekend event,” Kasey says. “And not the cheap stuff. Once the transaction was complete he cornered me about you. He wanted me to try to convince you to talk to him. Apparently, he’s left you several messages you haven’t answered.”
“He hasn’t left me any messages,” I say. “Okay. Not recently. And I talked to him two days ago and have no desire to talk to him.”
“I know that your father had issues with him as well, but they did make peace in the end. And now Bill wants to make peace with you.”
I stand up with the impact of that statement. “My father and Bill reconciled?”
“They did. And just in time. It was only about a month before your father’s death.”
“Do you know what the falling out was about, Kasey?”
“No. Do you?”
“I thought I did, but I have a hard time believing they reconciled under the circumstances as I thought I knew them.”
“I can’t help you there. Your father never shared that with me and Bill didn’t either. All I know, is the man seems sincere in wanting to call you family.” He hesitates. “Look. I’m just the messenger and I wanted to talk to you about this now, not tomorrow night, simply because I didn’t want you to hear I’d met with him through another source. We do have some wagging tongues in this town.”
“I appreciate that and I’m sorry to put you in the middle of this. I’ll call him. I’ll make sure he leaves you out of this.”
“I’m not concerned about me, but I am concerned about you. You’re alone, Faith. He’s family.”
“He’s not my family,” I say, and suddenly I want to get the meeting with him over and done with. “Hold on a second.” I cover the phone and speak to Nick, “Dinner tonight?” He nods and I uncover the phone. “Nick and I actually just got into town. Can we move dinner back to tonight?”
“Of course. Where and when?”
“How about the Harvest Moon Café at eight? That gives you time to close up shop there.”
“That works. I’ll see you then.”
I end the call, setting my phone on the island. “Your uncle’s timing is suspect,” Nick says. “What did he want?”
“He bought a thousand bottles of wine and then convinced Kasey to soften me up and look at him as family.”
“On the day you now own the winery,” Nick says. “I’ve thought for a while now that he was behind the bank withholding your inheritance.”
“He’s filthy rich,” I say. “He doesn’t need the winery, nor has he ever approached me to buy it.”
“But he might have approached your mother.”
“Yes. He might have.”
“And she would have told him that you wouldn’t sell.”
“That’s true, too.”
“His wife is filthy rich,” he says. “And the word is that she treats him like a kept animal on an allowance.”
“So, he wants his own assets?”
“It could be that simple,” Nick says, “but I’m still of the belief that there is a hidden financial resource within the winery. And that call I got. That was Beck, letting me know about Kasey and your uncle. He didn’t like how familiar they seemed.”
“They’ve known each other longer than I’ve been alive,” I say. “And they were friends at one point. But I can tell you this. When my father shut Bill out, so did Kasey. He was my father’s best friend. And this is over now, anyway, right?”
“It is, but if I’m right and your uncle was behind this, expect him to try to buy you out.”
“You think he’s still a problem.”
“I think he upsets you and that’s a problem I’m going to make go away. Send him to me. I will bust the fucker’s balls. The end.”
My phone rings again. I glance at the number. “It’s just Josh.” I decline the call.
“We’re here for thirty minutes and you’re ignoring your agent who is suddenly ‘just’ Josh. Call him back.”
“You don’t even like him.”
“Irrelevant point, pulled out of a hat, and meant to deflect. He’s a horny piece of shit asshole, but he’s your agent and your career is connected to him.”
&nb
sp; “He can wait. Right now, I need to finish this conversation about my uncle, and talk about Kasey’s incentives.”
“Call your agent back.” He rounds the counter, snags my hips and pulls me to him. “The man wants in your pants. I don’t like it, but professionally he’s your agent and your career is taking off. Everything else can wait and will be far more tolerable if he’s delivering good news. Call him back.”
“You’re being obnoxiously pushy.”
“And this is unusual why?”
“Nick—”
“Faith.”
“Nick—”
“Faith. How many times are we doing this? Because I have all weekend, but just in case you’ve missed the obvious. If you won’t fight for your art, I will. That’s what I do. I fight. And you could have already called him back in the time we’ve had this exchange.”
“Fine.” I grab my phone and Nick releases me while I hit re-dial.
Josh picks up on the first ring. “You have another sale from the Chris Merit show, darling.”
I perk up, that ball of tension that had formed when we arrived, eases just a bit. “I do?”
“Yes. You do.”
I turn to Nick and mouth “another sale.” He gives me a wink that does funny things to my belly, while Josh adds, “And thanks to Chris Merit, and your amazing skills, your price is now twenty thousand a painting. After this show, we’re going to make it thirty. You need those paintings shipped out in a week. How are they coming?”
“I’m done. I copied you on the submission form.”
“Done? As of when?”
“Yesterday.”
“And you didn’t run the pieces by me?”
“I knew what I wanted in the show.”
“I need photos. Send me photos. We can still change them out if—”
“No. I’m not sending you photos or changing things out. I told you. I’m painting for me now, not for you or anyone else.”
“As you should be, but come on, Faith. I’ve been in this with you a long time. Send me photos.”
“On the condition that you offer no opinions.”
“Agreed. And get them shipped in advance. Don’t take risks. The details on how to ship, and where to ship, are on your forms.”
“I’ll pull it, and it will be handled.”
“You need to have all pieces there in a week.”
“I know, Josh. Deep breath. I’m not going to let either one of us down on this. And you know what. I’m not sending you photos. I don’t want you to freak yourself, or me, out over my choices. They are made. I stand by them. You need to just see them when I get there.”
“Faith—”
“No, Josh. No. And FYI. I’m working at the Allure Gallery with Chris and Sara Merit now.”
“What about the winery?”
“I have a staff.”
“You’ve always had a staff. That didn’t keep you painting.”
“My situation here has changed.”
“Here. So you’re finally back in Sonoma?”
“Actually. I’m moving to San Francisco. Sonoma will be my weekend home.”
“You’re moving in with Nick Rogers.”
“Yes.”
“I told you—”
“That he’ll fuck me and leave me? I think it’s pretty clear that’s not the case. I’ll get you the new address.”
“Okay. I get it. You want me to back off. And I will, after I say be careful, Faith.”
“I’ve done a lot of that all my life. It’s not worked out so well. I’ll see you in two weeks.” I end the call and face Nick, both of us settling elbows on the island.
“You sold another painting,” he says, warmth in his eyes. “You’re going to be famous before you know it.”
“I don’t want to be famous. It’s about being good enough and as is the case in many careers, money is one of a number of validations. I’ve made eighty thousand in a week, Nick. From my painting. That’s crazy good.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “It is. You told Josh you were moving to San Francisco.”
“Because I am.”
“What about here?”
“What about it?”
He snags my hip and walks me to him. “The minute we arrived here, you tensed up. I don’t like what this place does to you, but we’re both going to like what I’m about to do to you.” He scoops me up and starts walking and doesn’t stop until he’s laying me down on the mattress, and his big body is over mine.
“Now we celebrate. You sold another painting. And we won the war.”
“Are you sure we won?”
“Yes. I’m sure we won.”
“Why do I feel like there is more?”
He rolls us to our sides, facing each other, his leg twined with mine. “There is more. More fucking. More loving. More us.”
“Because you think you—”
He strokes hair from my face. “I know I love you, Faith.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then there’s more. There’s always more. But whatever it is, good or bad, we do it together. Say it.”
“We do it together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nick
More.
That word stays with me as I make love to Faith, and even afterward as we dress in casual wear—Faith in jeans and a V-neck blue t-shirt that shows off her necklace, which she keeps touching. I like that she keeps touching it, as if she’s remembering me giving it to her. As if she connects me to her art, and since she loves her art so damn much, I’ll say, paint me, baby, any damn day.
I dress in black jeans, boots, and a black t-shirt that reads: Lawyer—Let’s just save time and assume that I’m right, which gains me the laugh from Faith I’d been looking for. Because her laugh is sexy as fuck and damn addictive. Like the woman herself.
“You are not always right, Nick Rogers,” she proclaims when she sees it, stroking my cheek. “But don’t worry. I’ll catch you when you fall.”
“Don’t I owe you a spanking?”
“It really is starting to seem like you’re all talk and no action,” she replies, twisting away from me and giving me a sexy glance over her shoulder. “Come, my hungry man. I have the world’s most perfect burger for you.”
My man.
She’s learning.
I am her man.
I follow, but not for the burger. For the shake of her curvy and perfect ass in those jeans, and somehow my mind still works enough to ask, “Do you have the instructions for shipping your paintings? We need to arrange to have someone pick them up.”
She pauses at the door, and faces me. “I looked it up when I submitted my final paperwork. They have special arrangements with FedEx and there’s a location right up the road.”
“Then we’ll go after lunch,” I say, stepping beside her, and because I just can’t help myself, which is pretty damn unfamiliar to me, I give her a quick kiss and open the door.
“Food is literally three minutes away,” she says once we’re in the car and pulling onto the main road. “Just turn right, drive a mile, and we’re there.”
“Got it,” I say. “Food. One mile.” I glance over at her. “Dessert when we return home, and it’s not ice cream.”
“Oh. We need more ice cream. I have to have ice cream when I’m here. It’s kind of like Sonoma survival. A survival kit that is cream, sugar, and calories.”
“Why do you need a survival kit?”
“You’re about to find out,” she assures me, but doesn’t give me time to press for details. “So,” she continues, “we eat. Then we need to go by FedEx and the grocery store.”
“And to get boxes so you can pack some of your things to ship to San Francisco. We can arrange to have Fed Ex pick them up tomorrow with your paintings. Then it can all be waiting on you when we return Sunday night.” I pull us into the restaurant driveway and park.
“That’s expensive, Nick.” I open my mouth to
object and she holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me not to worry about money. You didn’t get rich by throwing away money. Don’t expect me to start throwing it away for you.”
“And I appreciate that, sweetheart, but the sooner you’re with me in San Francisco, the happier a man I’ll be.”
“I said yes for a reason. I’m already with you, Nick.”
I lean over and kiss her. “Keep saying yes. I like that answer.” She smiles, and I like that, too. I’m so fucking in love with this woman, it’s insanity, and I am happily insane. I have no fears. No regrets. No second thoughts. I want her. I need her. She’s mine. “I’ll come around and help you out,” I tell her.
“Because you have such good manners,” she teases, a reminder of our little bathroom encounter on the first night we fucked, when I promised to make her come about a half-dozen ways, but only when I thought she was ready.
“You know it, sweetheart,” I say, exiting the car, and the moment I’m outside, a sense of being watched hits me, right along with a blast of cool wind. And yes, logically, it’s Beck’s people. It had better be Beck’s people, but I don’t like how it feels. I round the car and help Faith out, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and holding her close. Making it clear she’s mine. She’s under my protection.
We enter the restaurant and that feeling doesn’t fade, even as the rush of attention falls on us, as people who know Faith greet her. By the time we are at a table it becomes apparent that pretty much everyone in this city knows her, and her mother. Her dead mother, who is connected to my dead father. And that sensation of being watched is magnified with that realization.
Faith hands me a menu. “Now you know why I need a Sonoma survival kit. Everyone knows your business here.”
As if proving her point, another guest steps to Faith’s side and after I am introduced, I text Beck: Are your men following us?
His reply: Of course. Why?