“All too well,” I assure him, joining him on that side of the bar and helping him load the tray with pizza. “I can just imagine what your courtroom must be like,” I say, lowering my voice to imitate him. “Tell me, Mr. Murphy. Right before her death were you fighting with her or fucking her?”
“First,” he says, grabbing the other two pizza boxes. “My voice is much deeper than that. Second, I usually make those kinds of statements long before we ever get to court, and then we don’t go to court.”
“How often are you in court?” I ask, setting an empty pizza box on the counter beside me.
“A lot of my work is done for contracted, long-term clients, which means I negotiate and litigate on their behalf as needed. But overall, only about ten percent of my time is spent in court, while another thirty percent is spent in mediations.” He sticks the pizza in the oven and sets the timer, his mood turning serious. “Let’s sit and have that talk so you can get to painting. And to bed. You now have work tomorrow.”
It’s then that realization hits me. He starts to move and I grab his arm. He turns back to me, arching a brow, so very tall, broad, and bigger than life in too many ways to count. Bigger in my life than anyone else has ever been. “What’s up, sweetheart?”
“I just needed to say something.”
“You have my full attention.” His hand settles at my waist, and I swear I don’t know how it’s possible, but I feel this man everywhere when he touches me in one spot. “You always have my full attention, Faith,” he adds, his voice low, intimate.
And what’s really amazing to me is that I believe him. I feel his interest, his engagement, and not just now. Always. He is more present in my life than people I have known for years. “It just hit me that I didn’t even consider saying no to Sara and rushing back to Sonoma.”
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to decide.”
He tilts his head toward the table. “Let’s sit and figure it out,” he urges.
I nod and we both claim our barstools from earlier, and face each other. “Why don’t you know?” he asks, returning to the point rather than moving past it, his hands bracketing my legs, our knees touching. “Just say whatever comes to mind, and you’ll have your answer.”
“I’m excited about working with Sara and painting and my show in L.A. and so many things, but the moment that I forgot to worry about the winery because of those things, tells a story.”
And instead of telling me what I mean, he asks, “And that story is what?”
“That I’m counting on the winery running without me, and that means that I’m counting on your help.”
“Good. I want you to. Because you can. I’m not going anywhere, Faith, and clearly, I’m doing my best to make sure that you don’t either. I owe Sara for the assistance on that one.”
“I’d already decided to stay,” I remind him, wanting him to know that I’m here for him.
“I know you did,” he says. “But let’s face it. The winery comes with a long history of pulling you there. I have a short one of pulling you to me. I’d like to help you find a way to cut off the drain it has on you.”
“You mean by paying off the debt and rewarding Kasey for taking charge.”
“Among other things,” he says, “but before we talk about money. I want to go over the documents with you, and with full disclosure, I drafted them for Abel.”
I laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. You have to be the driver.”
He doesn’t laugh with me as he usually does, not this time. “I do,” he agrees, his tone serious. “It’s who I am. You need to know that. My instinct will always be to take control.”
“Type A personality on caffeine,” I say, “and the truth is that I can pretend to be a type A, but I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that you get to be in charge.”
He gives me a shrewd look. “Unless you’re naked.”
A knot forms in my chest with what is clearly an observation and a question I’m not ready to answer yet. “That’s a different topic for another time,” I say, cutting my gaze from his, and because I need to do anything but look at him in the next thirty seconds, I reach for my bottle of water and unscrew the lid.
Nick’s watching me, I feel his scrutiny—heavy, intense, and it makes my throat dry. I tilt the bottle back, drinking deeply, and when I lower the bottle, Nick takes it from me, holds my stare and the bottle goes to his lips. I watch him chug the liquid, my fingers curling on my leg, acutely aware of the intimacy of sharing my water with him.
He sets the bottle down, and I don’t even mean to, but I’m staring at him, and the look in his eyes tells me that his thoughts are with mine and I suddenly realize his message even before he says, “You can be naked with your clothes on or off, Faith.” He reaches up and caresses my cheek. “And I do like you naked, but as you said to me, tell me whatever you want to tell me, whenever you’re ready to tell me. I’ll still be here.”
“I just—”
“No pressure.” He eases back in his seat. “For now. You were telling me my control has to have limits.”
“Are you capable of limits?”
“Control is all about limits. Is that what you want, Faith? Limits?”
I’m instantly aware of where he’s leading me and I go there. “Control is about limits. Possibilities are not. But me owing you money feels like a limit. It might not change you, but it will change me. I need to pay you back. And I need to give you that money I got from my art as a down payment.”
He studies me for several beats, his expression unreadable. “You need this.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“I won’t agree to ever taking any portion of the winery. Period. No conversation. And no interest, Faith. I don’t need the money. I won’t take extra.” I open my mouth to argue and he says, “Compromise. I’m agreeing to a payback for you, not me. Agree to my terms for me.”
“Compromise,” I repeat. “Okay. Yes. And for the record, I actually like that word. I like it a lot and perhaps I was unfair earlier. I know you just want to help and protect me. Just please communicate, Nick, and I think that makes all the difference.”
“This seems like a good time to tell you, that if I have to spend money to take care of the winery situation, I’m going to spend money.”
“And if I say I don’t want you to?”
“I’m going to take care of this for you and for us. You can’t be who you really are while being forced to be what you aren’t.”
That statement punches me in the chest with my mistakes, and pretty much defines a huge portion of my life. “I don’t know how to take your help and not lose myself too.”
“You’re putting too much emphasis on the money. Eventually you’re going to have to accept that is part of who I am. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a large bank account. I work too damn hard to get it. And I’m going to spend that money on you and with you.” He leans closer, softening his voice. “Make me understand why this is an issue. Who used money against you? Your father? Macom? Both?”
“Am I that transparent?”