Unfortunately Yours (A Vine Mess, #2)

“I like you, too.” Hallie winked and melted back into the darkness, whispering, “Let’s fuck shit up,” as she vanished into the black.

Natalie stared into the dark for long moments, guilt beginning to tickle her throat. Now she’d dragged her entire family and Hallie into her scheme? Was this going to be the lie that multiplied into a thousand more, when the whole charade could potentially be avoided with one humbling phone call to her father in Italy?

Yeah.

Her head fell back on her shoulders, a silent groan issued at the ceiling. One phone call. She could do it. Preferably before she did any more damage—or implicated any more loved ones. But man, was it going to suck.

*

Natalie doodled furiously on a notepad, dragging the tip of the ballpoint pen back and forth in a blue trench that slowly turned black. In her ear, the sound of a call connecting to Europe buzz-buzzed. She broke out in a cold sweat, glanced at the clock, and did the time-difference math again. Eight hours ahead in Italy. It would be early evening. She had no idea what her father’s schedule was like, no idea if this was still his phone number, even. But she didn’t want to look back in ten years and wish she’d made this attempt to avert catastrophe.

“Hello.”

Brisk. Gave nothing away. That was her father.

God, there was no one on earth more intimidating, and she’d come across some giants while in finance. Dalton Vos had judgmental eyes and no time. Always rushing, on to the next best thing, as if he had a fear of leaving the world without putting his mark on it. He’d been frantic in his desire for his to be the most lucrative winery in Napa. As soon as that was accomplished, he’d gotten . . . bored. With St. Helena. His family.

The fire four years ago seemed almost unacceptable, like he couldn’t admit a natural disaster had gotten the better of him. After ending his fraught marriage to Corinne and signing over Vos Vineyard, he’d shifted his obsessive focus to a Formula One team, no doubt investing a giant chunk of money that the winery could desperately use.

It was the reminder of what Dalton had done to her mother that made Natalie throw down the pen and sit up straight. “Hello, Father, it’s Natalie.”

“Yes. Your number came up,” he said, almost distractedly. “How are you?”

“Fine. I’m in St. Helena, actually.”

“Ah.” A short pause. “How is Corinne? Exhausted, I’m guessing. It’s not easy operating a vineyard, as I’m sure she’s realized by now.”

“She’s thriving, actually,” Natalie said without hesitation. Sure, there might be tension between her and Corinne, but there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d let this man think he’d been the strongest thing about her mother. Or that she was worse off without him. Any woman worth her salt would have done the same. “Better than ever.”

No response. In fact, she could hear him typing something on the other end.

Aloof and dismissive as always.

She needed to make the request before she started shrieking. “I’m calling because I have the opportunity to start my own investment firm in New York. My colleague, Claudia, and I are branching out—”

“I know you were fired, Natalie. The bad trade that almost tanked your entire firm earlier this year.” He cleared his throat. A chair creaked. “I’m still an avid investor. Your company might have kept it quiet, but my broker was able to track down the behind-the-scenes details.”

Nausea rolled into her belly like fog over a lake, a stabbing ache forming in the dead center of her forehead. He’d known about her getting fired and he’d just carried on with life as usual. Why would she expect anything different? Recover. Keep it together. “Yes, well. I’m down, but not out. I’m already on my way to recovering from that, actually, which is why—”

“Which is why you’re calling about money.”

“Yes.” She took a deep, silent breath, willing herself to keep down the coffee she’d drunk. “I am. Calling about my trust fund. I think you will agree that in this day and age, the language is wildly outdated.”

“I made the money, Natalie. It is up to me how to distribute it. If you’d made smarter decisions, you wouldn’t be having this issue.”

“What do you want me to say? I screwed up? I know I did.” Leave it at that. He just needed to hear he was right. Letting him score points would burn, but she had to keep the goal in mind.

But then he went there. He went there.

“Maybe the idea of getting married is not so wildly outdated after all. Perhaps you’re more suited to family life than business, Natalie.”

In other words, get back in the kitchen.

Every hair on her body stood straight up. “Frankly, Father, I don’t think a man who abandoned his own wife is in a position to extol the virtues of marriage.”

A snort from Dalton. Then the line went dead.

She closed her eyes and let the phone drop to her lap.

The wedding was definitely on.





Chapter Eight




August swiped a hand across his sweaty brow and tossed down a wrench.

One of the best parts of leaving this winery behind would have been never seeing this horizontal press ever again in his lifetime. After he sold the property, the antiquated equipment would become somebody else’s problem. Now here he was, fixing the temperamental piece of garbage for the eight hundredth time.

Giving winemaking another pointless try.

Maybe this time his Cabernet would actually kill somebody.

August took a few steps toward the worktable that ran along the right side of the barn and plucked up his water bottle, draining most of the contents in one gulp and dumping the remnants over the top of his head. Sighing, he leaned back against the table and scanned the barn, his gaze lingering on the row of oak barrels that contained fermenting grapes and their juice, which, in theory, should age into wine.

Truth be told, he’d been a little anxious about leaving those barrels in his rearview. He’d grown their contents from the soil, picked the grapes with his bare hands, and if he could just find the right manipulation of yeast, something would click. Right?

August snorted, remembering how many people he’d watched spit his wine up like babies after a full bottle of formula. He’d had such high hopes the first time he walked in. The place would be packed full of people drinking wine with his best friend’s name on the label. Somewhere, somehow, Sam would see that and do that clap and laugh combination that August could hear in his sleep.

Although his attempts to sleep had been interrupted by someone else entirely last night. Natalie. Memories of them sharing that Lovers’ Nest on the wine train.

Vivid memories that were making his cock a very unhappy camper.

God, her ass fit so perfectly into his lap.

August’s head fell back on a groan. Why couldn’t he just beat off and get it over with? He wanted to. Badly. The mouth of hell opening up in his front yard normally wouldn’t even stop him from stroking one out, if necessary—and Christ, it was necessary now. Weirdly, his upstairs brain seemed intent on bombarding him with nonsexy thoughts, though, interrupting the whole self-hand-job process in its infancy.

Mainly, he didn’t like the memory of Natalie deflating at her mother’s criticism.

He’d definitely enjoyed the way she’d curled into him for comfort—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t like the cause. Not one bit. Natalie being sad made his dick soft before he could get a good rhythm going. What the fuck.

When the source of his discomfort appeared in the doorway of the barn holding a notebook, looking like a young professional on her way into the board room, August could only stare. Was she still upset about last night or feeling better?

Because his dick had no idea how to act.

He got his answer when she wrinkled her nose. “God, I can smell you from here.”

Definitely feeling better.

With a humorless laugh, he swiped up the wrench from the ground. “This is what manual labor looks like, Natalie. Have you ever seen it in real life or just in movies?”

Her withering sigh filled the barn. “I grew up on a winery, moron. I know what manual labor looks like.”

“Nope. You know what it looks like when other people are doing it.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut just as quickly, avoiding his gaze. Immediately he wished to have it back. Why did he continue to fall into this trap with her? Why did they fight every time they were in the same room? Did she steer them into disagreements or did he continually put his foot in his mouth where she was concerned? “I came to discuss the . . . exchange of vows,” she said, presenting him with an unconcerned smile, even though her eyes were vulnerable in a way that made his gullet pinch together. God save him from his kaleidoscopic woman. “Unless you slept on it last night and decided to back out.”

“I’m not backing out.” That long breath she let out made him want to shake her. Or kiss her. Or something. “So we’re doing notebook-level planning, huh?”