“Pleasant flight?” Gen inquired inside the limo as she poured him a glass of Perrier and handed it over.
“Ugh. We were all shoved in there like sheep in a pen. And they don’t even provide a meal anymore—as though anything they might feed people would be edible in the first place. I should have insisted on first class, or at least business class. Why I let you talk me into flying economy, I will never know.”
“Ah. Well. I’m sorry it wasn’t more comfortable.”
Kendrick was an ass, but he was the ass who was going to get her back to New York. She looked out the window at the strip of blue ocean to the left side of the car, and reflected that this was going to be a long five months.
Thank God Rose hadn’t stayed mad at her, because Gen really needed a drink after she got Kendrick situated in the cottage. She sat at the bar in De-Vine, the wine tasting shop where Rose worked, and sipped a glass of pinot grigio as Rose leaned on the counter, listening to her moan about her day.
“And it wasn’t even the right damned yogurt!” Gen exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “I had to search for days to find a specialty grocery store that would order it, then I had to drive to goddamned Paso Robles to pick it up, and apparently, he wanted Icelandic style, with added goddamned probiotics. Did you even know Icelandic style yogurt was a thing?”
“No, I did not,” Rose said.
“Well, it is! And I didn’t get it! And now all he can do is bitch about the yogurt and how his goddamned digestive tract is going to be all atwitter without it. Good. I hope he’s backed up for days!”
Rose looked at Gen, her pierced eyebrow raised in question. “Did that rant make you feel better?”
“Not yet.”
“Would another glass of wine help?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Rose refilled her glass and went back to doing whatever it was she did behind the counter. She arranged bottles, washed a couple of glasses, opened a new case of merlot.
“How did Ryan react to your digestively challenged artist?” she asked while she worked.
“With bemusement. Yes. That’s the word. He was bemused.” Gen took another drink of her wine. “As anyone would be who was a normal, sensible person and not a self-centered pain in the ass.”
Rose pointed one finger at Gen. “You’re the one who invited the self-centered pain in the ass to Cambria. You didn’t just invite him. You ‘wooed’ him. I think that’s what you said at the time.”
“True.” Gen nodded. “I wooed.”
“And now he’s here.”
“Yes. And now he’s here.”
A couple had come in and sat down at the bar, and Rose explained the wine tasting menu to them.
When Rose returned, Gen had calmed somewhat, the wine relaxing her, making her feel loose and slightly tingly. “You know, that’s a nice place he’s got over there. Ryan. The guest house is gorgeous. And the barn. The old barn, he specifies, not the new one. It’s an artist’s paradise. God. I hope Kendrick appreciates it.”
“He won’t,” Rose said.
“Probably not,” Gen said with a sigh.
Chapter Eight
Ryan found himself wanting to call Gen, but he wasn’t even sure why. He just knew that he’d enjoyed talking to her—simply having her around—when she’d been to the ranch to get that Kendrick guy settled into the guest cottage. And he knew that he wanted to have her around again. His thoughts didn’t go any further than that. He didn’t try to make sense of the urge to see her—didn’t wonder what it meant. Why did it have to mean anything?
He was still pondering whether to call her when his mother pointed her fork at him that evening at dinner, scowling her usual scowl. “You should take that gallery owner around, show her the ranch. She’s only seen the guest house. You oughta give her the tour, show her some of the places where that artist might want to go set up his easel.”
Orin looked uncomfortable—as he nearly always did—and shifted in his seat as he stabbed at his steak with his fork. “Aw, now, Sandra, I don’t know that I want that artist poking around everywhere. Bad enough that he’s in the guest house in the first place.”
Sandra let out a burst of air that communicated her disagreement as clearly as any words would have. “He’s here, isn’t he? Why else did he come, if it’s not to have a beautiful place to paint? Might as well make it worth his while.”
“There’s that place by the creek where we had that picnic that one time,” Redmond said helpfully.
“Gen Porter’s a pretty girl,” Breanna said. “Don’t you think, Ryan?” She was seated on one side of the table with her boys on either side of her. She had to sit between them so they wouldn’t fight at the dinner table.
“I guess,” Ryan said.
Sandra let out the scoffing sound again.
“Show her around,” she said, as though the matter were settled. “Be a good host, for God’s sake.”
“Well, now, I’m pretty busy around here most days,” he said. He knew even as he said it that he sounded exactly like his father.
“You’ll find time,” Sandra said.
“Well.”
He felt the need, for some reason, to scowl as though he were being pushed into something unpleasant. In fact, he was satisfied with the way his family had neatly solved his problem of whether to call Gen, and why. Family could be useful sometimes.
She showed up at the main house early on a Wednesday. Now that the weather was warming up and the tourists were starting to show up in town again, the gallery was open every day. But it didn’t open until ten a.m. on weekdays, and that gave her time to take a tour of the Delaney Ranch with Ryan.
She’d been surprised when he’d called her to suggest it. She’d first talked to him about renting the guest cottage, what, three months ago? He hadn’t said a thing about showing her around then. She’d wondered if maybe the larger expanse of the ranch was off-limits to her and her artist, and she hadn’t really questioned it. Now, the thought of seeing the place—and seeing it with Ryan—pleased her and maybe even excited her. Until she learned she’d be doing it on a horse.
“Wait. A horse? I don’t know how to ride,” Gen told Ryan as the morning activities of the house went on around her.
“You’ll do fine,” Breanna called to her from the kitchen, where she was getting her kids ready for school—giving them breakfast, getting their backpacks ready. Gen had met Breanna and the boys numerous times around town. The boys were cute, with their noisy, happy temperaments and their thick shocks of dark hair, and Breanna had always struck Gen as being a solid sort of person—friendly and decent.
“Couldn’t we just … you know … walk?” Gen said.