Shameless (White Lies Duet #2)

“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?

Mine: Because I don’t see them but I feel them.

His: Huh, is his answer.

Mine: WTF does huh mean?

His: I guess lawyers are never wrong. And if you believe that, I have a million dollars I want to sell you for fifty bucks.

He’s obviously referencing my shirt, telling me he has eyes on me and us. But something still doesn’t feel right, and I discreetly scan, not just for his men, but for the source of my discomfort. An old lady to our right. A cluster of businessmen in deep conversation in the corner. A mid-fifties man by himself in the corner in jeans and a t-shirt. Another cluster of businesspeople. A college-age woman by herself, with headphones on. My gaze shifts to the hostess stand where a fit man in his mid-thirties is flirting with the woman showing people to their tables.

“The entire town is going to be talking about us now,” Faith announces, drawing my attention back to her.

“Hopefully they mention my shirt.”

She laughs. “I’m sure they will. You can’t hiccup and not have it be part of the story.”

“But you want to live here?”

“If I gave you that impression, it’s wrong. I love my house, because it was an escape, and my home outside of the winery. But I went to school in L.A. and stayed in L.A. for a reason, beyond my aspirations in art. I never wanted to live here.”

“And you do want to live in San Francisco?”

“I do,” she says. “You’re there.”

“But do you like it? Because if you don’t—”

“I do,” she repeats. “I really love it there, and I always have. The art. The food. The way it’s a small city but you can still get lost in a crowd. The views. The art.”

“Always the art. San Fran is a great hub for your craft. Why L.A.?”

“L.A. had wider opportunities for school, work, and a connection to agents and industry professionals.”

Our plates arrive and once we’ve tasted our food, and I’ve given the burger the thumbs up Faith is looking for and that it deserves, I focus on what she’s just told me. “You don’t want to be here. That means we need to make sure the winery is self-reliant.”

“I feel like I should offer Kasey stock.”

“I suggest you start with a large bonus plan. Make sure he really does handle things when you, or your father, aren’t looking over his shoulder.”

“I’m sure he will. Of course, he will. But what kind of bonus?”

“I have several plans I’ve helped clients set up over the years in my briefcase. You can look them over, but I’d suggest feeling him out tonight. We can send him whatever you decide on Monday. But, that said, I would like him to work with Rita on the accounts payable and have our CFO audit the books once a month.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I’ve seen people get screwed, Faith. And it’s always by people they trust. Additionally, you need someone to play your role.”

“That’ll be expensive.”

“The right person will grow revenues and more than pay for themselves. And since you don’t want to sell and you don’t want to work at the winery, the idea is to make it an investment. It pays you profit monthly. And when your art starts generating million-dollar payouts, you spend more money on the winery, and end up with tax write-offs.”

“I’d love to have that problem,” she says, despite the fact that her inability to see her own success and skill is a product of a past she hasn’t quite escaped.

But she will.

“Eighty thousand in a week,” I remind her. “Success isn’t an option. And I get to call you my crazy talented woman.”

“And I get to call you my arrogant bastard?”

I laugh. “I told you. Anything but Mr. Rogers. And you forgot that when you were drinking.”

“I didn’t forget. I saw opportunity.”