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.
I can see Matt out there, talking to the field manager, his hair gleaming in the sunlight, his white button-down stretched across his shoulders in the most appealing manner. “I’m going to hit up Ross or someplace,” I go on. “That’s more the price range I’m looking at for this.”
“You are so not going to Ross.” Ivy sighs, sounding completely bent out of shape. “I have a plan and you’re a part of it so you must come shopping with me. And I’m bringing a friend. You’ll adore her. She’s my brother’s girlfriend and she’s a total sweetheart.”
Great. I know Ivy’s brother Gage Emerson is a high-powered real estate hotshot who helped Matt find the winery in the first place. He’s rich and gorgeous. Just like Matt. Just like Ivy’s fiancé, Archer Bancroft.
And then there’s me, little ol’ Bryn James from Cactus, Texas who grew up in a doublewide and was dirt-poor my entire life. I shed my skin like the snakes that lived beneath our mobile home and started a new life. Here, in California, the Golden State.
Some of the gold’s become tarnished since I got here but it’s nothing a little polish can’t fix.
“Sounds—”
“Like your worst nightmare?” Iv
y laughs while I sit there in shock. How did she know? “I like you, Bryn. A lot. And I think you like me too.”
“I do,” I say automatically, sounding like a robot.
Ivy laughs harder. “You just need to . . . loosen up. You’re too uptight. Do you have any friends? A boyfriend? Do you ever wear a color besides brown or tan?”
“Hey.” My feelings are hurt even though all Ivy’s saying is the truth. “I bought those bright tops at the Gap last month on your recommendation.”
“I know. And I’m proud of you for making the effort. But you need more color, Bryn. You’re so pretty—and don’t deny that you are because trust me, you so are. Let’s do your hair or take you for a makeover or something.” Ivy pauses. “Please? It’ll be my treat.”
“No way. Uh-uh. I don’t want your charity.” I turn away from the window and focus on my computer screen, my vision going blurry. Usually when someone wants to do something nice for you, they always expect something in return.
At least, that’s what always happens to me.
“It’s not charity, I promise. I just . . . I’ll explain everything to you on Saturday. We could all meet for lunch, I’ll tell you everything, and then we’ll shop around downtown. How does that sound?”
Like a nightmare. Like a handout. I should say no. I don’t want to feel beholden to anyone. Bad enough I feel that way toward my boss. I owe him so much and he hasn’t a clue.
I don’t want Ivy to feel like she has to take care of me either. So embarrassing.
“Just say yes, Bryn. Come on.” Ivy’s tone is cajoling, and I give in because I’m a weak suck, and I can’t help myself.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But I have final say on everything, okay? All the shopping options and whatnot,” I tell her, my voice firm.
“Yay! You won’t regret this, I swear.” I can literally hear the excitement in her voice. Maybe this shopping excursion means more to her than I originally thought. “Oh, and Bryn?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell Matt about this shopping trip okay?”
“Oookay.”
Well.
That was weird.
Chapter Two
* * *
Bryn
WE MEET FOR lunch at Ivy’s friend’s place of business in downtown St. Helena. The Autumn Harvest Bakery and Café is super cute and super popular, if the crowds of people in line to purchase sandwiches, baked goods, and coffee drinks are any indication. The moment I walked in I wondered if we’d be able to find somewhere to sit.
Until I noticed a pregnant Ivy waving frantically from a table on the far side of the café and relief flooded me.
I wind my way through the crowded restaurant, my gaze going to the menu, which is written in chalk on a giant blackboard hanging above the counter. The soup and sandwich options sound amazing and my stomach growls in anticipation.
Yikes. Hope that doesn’t happen when I meet Ivy’s friend. Talk about making a tacky first impression.
“Bryn! So good to see you.” Ivy hops up from the table and envelops me in a hug like I’m her long-lost friend. I return the gesture, oddly touched by her affection since I never really get that sort of thing anymore.
I withdraw from Ivy first and smile at the woman who’s now standing next to her. She’s young, with long blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and cool, assessing blue eyes. “This is my friend Marina Knight,” Ivy says, gesturing at Marina with a wave of her hand. “She’s the owner of Autumn Harvest and my future sister-in-law.”
“Stop, please.” Marina rolls her eyes. “Your brother hasn’t made it official yet.”
“Trust me, he will.” Ivy laughs. “Marina, this is Bryn James. She’s Matt’s assistant.”
“Oooh.” That long, dragged out sound is telling. “I’ve heard lots about you.” I both dread and long to know what they’ve said.
“Nice to meet you,” I tell Marina as I shake her hand. All formal and business-like, I sound good. Calm and collected when usually this type of stressful situation tends to bring my Texan out.
It took me over a year to learn how to talk without all those twangs and y’alls but it sure doesn’t take much for me to slip right back into it if I don’t watch out.
“Great to meet you too,” Marina says with a touch too much enthusiasm. “Ivy’s told me so much about you.”
Really? I’m stunned. I figured they might’ve gossiped about me in passing but that’s it. Why in the world would Ivy talk about me to her friend? I’m so in the dark this afternoon I’m scared I won’t survive it.
We all sit down and Marina goes over the menu, explaining what she thinks are the best dishes and expounding on their specials of the day. Once we’ve decided, she calls one of her employees over and he takes our orders—a special perk of being with the owner.
Everyone else has to stand in line and place their order at the counter.
“So Ivy said you want a makeover.”
“I never said any such thing,” I tell Marina, sending a surprised glance in Ivy’s direction. She maintains an expression of innocence, looking downright angelic. I see her devil horns peeking through her hair though.
“Come on, Bryn. You wouldn’t refuse a pregnant woman, would you?” Ivy blinks at me, the epitome of sweetness and light and my hard feelings at being pushed into something I didn’t want to do melt a little.
“You’re going to use that excuse as long as you can, aren’t you?” Marina asks, rolling her eyes.
I know right then I’ll like Marina.
“The entire pregnancy, absolutely,” Ivy confirms, smiling. “Bryn, I can tell you’re uncomfortable with this, but please. I’m a hormonal pregnant lady who wants nothing more than to have fun today. And having fun means finding you a gorgeous dress and going to the spa.”
Just the word spa has dread curling in my stomach. Spa equals expensive. I should know. I’ve never been to one because I can’t afford it.
“You’re scaring her, Ivy,” Marina says, her voice low. “Stop laying it on so thick. Maybe you should tell her the truth.”
The truth? That sounds ominous. But there’s no truth to be told, at least not yet. Ivy merely smiles at me, then changes the subject. We talk about everything and nothing while we wait for our food, Marina and Ivy chattering on while I interject when asked. Other than that, I remain silent, drinking in the cute yet hip atmosphere of the café.
Our lunches finally arrive and I dive right in, holding nothing back. I’m freaking starved and usually I eat at home, rarely going out, only because I know hardly anyone. And, since I don’t cook, I eat pitiful meals that consist of Lean Cuisine microwaved meals or premade salads I pick up at the local grocery store. After I finish, they always leave me feeling empty and unsatisfied.
Kind of like my life.
Halfway through my sandwich, I realize the other women aren’t eating. Glancing up from my plate, I catch both Ivy and Marina staring at me like I’m an alien who just landed on planet Earth.
I slowly chew what’s in my mouth then swallow, setting the sandwich carefully on my plate. “Um, do I have something on my face?”
Marina shakes her head. “Do you never eat? Because you’re acting like a starved woman.”
“I don’t get out much,” I admit, feeling infinitely stupid.
“Give her a break and take it as a compliment. Clearly she loves your sandwiches,” Ivy says, her smile kind.
“I’m not giving her a hard time. I just . . . we don’t normally see girls our age devour a sandwich like that,” Marina explains.
This makes me feel even worse. I’m an absolute pig. But I eat such crappy meals, and I really don’t think a soup and sandwich indulgence will do me any harm.
“Being pregnant is absolute freedom. I love eating without worry.” Ivy takes a huge bite out of her sandwich for emphasis.
“You’re not pregnant are you, Bryn? That’s not your excuse, right?” Marina asks.
I’m horrified at her question. Pregnant?
Heaven forbid. “Absolutely not,” I say with conviction.
Ivy bursts out laughing, pressing a hand to her chest. “Well, thank goodness. That would’ve torn our plan to shreds.”
Okay. I’m done with the mystery. I feel like I’m their little project, and I don’t like it. “What exactly is going on here?”
“What do you mean?” Ivy asks.
“I feel like you’ve invited me here for lunch under false pretenses.” I hate that I’m skeptical of everyone, but I can’t help myself. My entire life I’ve always felt like someone wants something from me. It’s made me throw up walls and become ultradefensive.
I have no idea what they’re up to and it’s making me uncomfortable.
“Just tell her Ivy,” Marina mumbles, making me even more nervous.
These women in the Napa Valley are weird. And I thought Hollywood was full of strange people.
“Oh fine.” Ivy blows out an irritated sigh. “I wanted this to be a surprise, but you’re getting too twitchy. We want to try and pair you up with Matt.”
I gape at her. Wait. What? “Are you talking about Matt—as in my boss, Matt DeLuca?”
Now it’s Ivy’s turn to roll her eyes. “Do you know another Matt?”
Well, I went to school with Matt Short but he’s still back in Cactus, running his daddy’s welding business last I heard. “But he’s my boss,” I stress, thinking of another boss I had. The one with the kids and the wife and the wandering hands, the one who literally chased me so fast around his desk we probably wore a path in the carpet.
“So?” Ivy waves her hand, dismissing my concerns. “I think he has the hots for you.”
I refuse to let that bit of information spark hope in my chest. Forget it. “I doubt that. I’m his assistant.” Who wears drab clothing and tries to be efficient but forgettable.
“So? Attraction is attraction.” Ivy shrugs, taking a bite from her sandwich.
I watch her and Marina eat, the both of them completely unaffected while inside my nerves are in chaos. It’s one thing to be attracted to my boss and keep my feelings secret.