Authors: Katy Regnery
He felt his mouth widen into a delighted smile at the same time his arms released her so that his hands could cup her cheeks. “Really?”
She grinned at him. “Mm-hm. You can renovate it. I get final approval on all plans, though, and I’ll pay you back in January.”
He laughed softly, a long-buried joy bursting to the surface of his consciousness like sunlight and bathing him in hope. “You’re sure? You’re positive?”
His angel in librarian’s clothes nodded.
And Cameron didn’t think. He should have thought. He should have fucking thought long and hard before doing what he was about to do.
But he didn’t think.
He kissed her instead.
Closing his eyes as he leaned down, he pressed his lips to hers, her short, surprised gasp stealing the breath from his mouth as she instinctively arched her back into him, pressing her breasts against his chest as he deepened the kiss.
She tasted sweet, like grapes, and her mouth, welcoming his, was sweet-hot and wet as he explored her with his tongue, groaning as the glossy slickness of hers slid against the hard length of his. He spread his legs and pulled her closer, pushing his growing erection into her belly, his heart pumping faster as she moaned softly, razing his tongue with her teeth and reaching up to cup his face with her hands.
“Meggie,” he panted, nuzzling her nose with his. He ran his hands down her back until he clasped them together, holding her body flush against his. “What are we doing?”
“You’re kissing me,” she sighed, her eyes closed, her face upturned, her breath soft and hot against his lips.
His chest pushed into hers with every labored breath, and he was dying to kiss her again, but common sense managed to wiggle its way into his consciousness. He pulled her closer, resting his lips on top of her head.
“I shouldn’t have,” he whispered into her hair. “I can’t . . . I mean, I can barely keep my business afloat, and now I’ve taken on this project for Jess, and I can’t . . . I mean, I can’t add something else to the pile.”
Something else.
To the pile.
He flinched, clenching his eyes shut as she stiffened in his arms.
What the actual fuck had he just said to her?
“Impulsive,” she said, answering her own question as she backed away from him, forcing him to loosen his arms around her.
The fuck he was. He’d wanted to kiss her for twenty years. It was just about the most premeditated move he’d ever made on a woman.
“Meggie . . .”
“I don’t need more complications in my life right now either.” She put her hands on her hips and looked up at him, squarely, unflinchingly, only her eyes betraying her hurt feelings. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”
Cameron didn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. He wanted to freeze time. He wanted to sort out the mess that was C & C Winslow, renovate The Five Sisters’ winery and tasting room, get Jess happily married, and then press Play and find himself still standing here in Margaret’s vineyard, holding her in his arms, bending his neck to kiss her once again. He’d kiss her all afternoon and all night long, and maybe even for the rest of his life.
Pretend it didn’t happen? He might as well pretend the moon didn’t brighten the night sky . . . that the tide didn’t steal the sand . . . that the woman standing before him wasn’t the woman of his dreams.
He nodded. “Fine.”
Over the next two weeks, Margaret did her level best
not
to remember, think about, or analyze the kiss at the vineyard, and, whenever possible, to avoid Cameron Winslow, which wasn’t easy, considering they lived in the same apartment building, they shared a contractor, and Cameron was renovating the winery and tasting room at the vineyard she owned. It didn’t escape her notice that Cameron appeared to be avoiding her as well. Twice she’d found stunning, flawless architectural plans, needing her signature, waiting with Franklin, their doorman. And Cameron had gotten into the habit of e-mailing short, impersonal messages instead of stopping by her apartment or coming out to the vineyard on the weekends. Shawn reported that Cameron had been out to Newtown several times during the week, in the evenings after work, but not once over the past two weekends, when Margaret had stayed at the cottage, hoping, fruitlessly, for a glimpse of him.
Her days at Story Imports had become almost unbearable, with her father’s stony, disapproving silence and Shane’s sheepish, apologetic glances. Finally she’d had enough and followed Shane into the elevator one evening after work.
He looked up at her, then took a step toward the door, like he was going to leave and wait for the next elevator, but Margaret wasn’t having that. She reached for the “Door Close” button and pressed it decisively.
“Shane,” she started, “we can’t keep avoiding each other.”
“I know. I just . . . God, Margaret. I feel like such an ass. I should never have put you in that position.”
“No argument there,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What were you thinking? You couldn’t have possibly thought I’d say yes.”
Shane shrugged, shaking his head. “Your father had all but ensured your complicity.”
She exhaled a deep breath and clenched her eyes shut for a moment before looking up at Shane and nodding. In her heart, she’d known it was her father’s idea, but part of her had hoped that Shane could somehow take some of the blame. “He had no right to do that.”
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” said Shane. “Truly I am. I must look like an ambitious asshole.”
“There’s nothing wrong with ambition,” she replied. “But I want more than a marriage built for the convenience of Story Imports.”
“Of course you do. You’re a terrific girl.”
But boring
, she thought, remembering the way he’d looked at Priscilla. He’d never looked at
her
that way, and even though she wasn’t interested in Shane, it chafed. There was more to her than a tight bun and glasses and the dutiful-daughter routine.
She lifted her chin. “I own a vineyard, you know.”
He looked surprised. “No, I didn’t know. Where?”
“About an hour from here. I go there every weekend.”
“Aha! So that explains the Hispanic man working in your apartment on weekends.”
She grinned, nodding her head as she preceded him out of the elevator into the light-filled atrium lobby. “Yes.”
“Is that what you want to do? Run a vineyard?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling the relief she always felt when articulating her dreams. “Eventually.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because my father expects one of us to work here. Alice tried, but left, as you’ll recall . . . Betsy works at my uncle’s branch of Story Imports in Boston. I have hopes for Jane, but she’s still in grad school, and Pris, well, is Pris.”
She watched, when she said Pris’s name, how Shane’s lips softly parted, how he flinched and subtly clenched one hand into a fist by his side.
“She isn’t exactly suited to an office, wouldn’t you agree?”
Shane dropped her eyes. “I really wouldn’t know.”
“Wouldn’t you?” pressed Margaret. “She worked here last year.”
“Right,” said Shane curtly. He took a deep breath and offered her a forced but polite smile before glancing at his watch. “Margaret, I’m so sorry, but I need to go. I have an appointment tonight that I can’t—”
“Of course,” she said, putting out her hand. “No hard feelings?”
“None at all,” he said, clasping her hand and pumping it gently. “Friends?”
“I hope so,” she said. “Just don’t ask me to marry you again.”
“Scout’s honor.” Shane chuckled with genuine warmth and dropped her hand to raise three fingers. “Oh, by the way, we still have those tickets for the Institute of Contemporary Art fund-raiser next weekend. You still up for going together?”
“I’d love it,” she said, feeling certain that Cameron would be there, since his sister, Jessica, was chairing the bachelor auction part of the evening. Even if he continued to avoid her, at least she could admire him in his tux from across the room.
Shane kissed her lightly on the cheek, and Margaret waved goodbye as he made his way through the revolving doors.
She felt a little better after talking to Shane—things between them had been tied up as neatly as possible—so to celebrate she stopped off at her favorite Chinese restaurant for takeout. Yes, she still had a huge unresolved conflict with her father, but she wasn’t quite ready to give up on him yet. Maybe his words to Shane two weeks ago were said out of anger and frustration. She
was
his child, after all. He couldn’t have meant what he said. He loved her on some level, didn’t he? Of course he did. And she certainly loved him. As much as she wanted to dedicate all her time to The Five Sisters, she didn’t want to resign from her position at Story Imports in an angry huff, as Alice had. She wanted peace with her only living parent.
Now that the situation with Shane was resolved, and she’d decided to wait out her father’s ill humor, Margaret had the space to turn her thoughts to Cameron—the very place her thoughts had no business at all.
Memories of their kiss had haunted her dreams, both waking and sleeping, for fourteen long days, but no matter how hard she tried to forget it had happened—as she’d stupidly and unrealistically suggested—she couldn’t. His strong arms holding her, the evidence of his arousal pressed against her stomach, the velvet steel of his tongue sliding against hers. She’d relived that kiss a thousand times, and it was still her favorite daydream.
Her assumption that he had feelings for her was, apparently, correct, but the extent or exact nature of those feelings was still unknown. As for her own feelings? She could barely articulate them beyond the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering about him, yearning for him. Despite the fact that she loved her vineyard with a fierce protectiveness, she’d easily acquiesced to his suggestion that he handle the renovations of a major structure. It shocked her, and yet it felt somehow organic and right. What was it about Cameron that made her trust him?
Perhaps it was the way he loved Jessica, doing whatever he had to do to make her dreams of a vineyard wedding come true. If he would go to the ends of the earth for his sister, what wouldn’t Cameron Winslow do for the woman he loved? It made the words
to be loved by you
circle endlessly in Margaret’s head.
Perhaps it was his impulsiveness. The way he’d shown up at her cottage and demanded use of the winery, or suddenly clutched her against his body in the vineyard, offering to pay for the renovations. Most of the parents on Blueberry Lane, including her own, had called Cameron hotheaded for various adolescent offenses, and she supposed he was in some ways, but he
owned
that impetuousness as a grown man and Margaret was drawn to it. She loved his passion. She loved his single-mindedness.
Perhaps it was the way he looked at her lately, with such desperate hunger. It made her want to soothe the ache inside him by offering whatever he wanted from her, whatever he
needed
from her. And what was it he needed? Her vineyard? Her friendship? Or . . . more? He didn’t seem to be able to offer more, hastily explaining that his business was floundering and his free time was nonexistent. And yet his eyes, his lips, his very body, told a different story—about a man who wanted much more than a business venture or a friendship. It felt like he wanted
her
, and it made her whole body tighten and flush to imagine him giving in to his desire and urging her to give in to hers.
Perhaps it was as simple as the deep rumble of his voice when he murmured such deliciously sexy things to her:
You’re fucking stunning . . . Because he was touching you . . . Say yes.
Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes as she heard the rich color of his voice in her head.
Meggie. Meggie. Meg—
“—gie? Meggie?” A strong hand clamped down on her elbow. “Are you okay?”
She blinked her eyes open, focusing, disbelievingly, on the very object of her fantasies. Just inside the door of Hunan Gourmet, staring at her with his head cocked to the side and his eyebrows raised like maybe he’d said her name a couple of times, stood Cameron Winslow.
“Cameron!”
“Yeah. Hi,” he said, releasing her arm.
“Oh, I was . . . I was a million miles away.” In a business suit and tie, he was too handsome for words, and her heart skipped a beat as she swept her eyes up and down his body. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting some dinner,” he said slowly, grinning at the way she’d checked him out and moving out of the doorway to stand beside her. “Are you okay?”
She gulped, still feeling flustered that she’d been in the middle of a full-on daydream when it had suddenly come to life. “I’m fine. Just . . . daydreaming.”
“Looked like a good one.”
You have no idea.
“Best Chinese in the neighborhood,” he said, reaching for a menu.
He wore a blue striped shirt under a navy-blue suit jacket and a blue and green striped tie that picked up the color in his eyes and made them greener than ever.
“So,” he said, “what did you order?”
“My favorites: moo shu pork, tangerine beef, pineapple fried rice.”
“You like pineapple,” he noted, grinning as he referred to the pastry she’d eaten at the cottage two weeks ago. Then he turned around the words she’d used on him when he’d bought out the pastry case at Swiss Haus: “That’s enough for an army.”
“I like the leftovers,” she said, then heard herself add, “but I wouldn’t mind sharing.”
The playful grin on his face faded a little, as he locked his eyes with hers. “You sure?”
She nodded.
He placed the menu back on the counter with the others. “Great. I’d like that.”
“Are
you
sure?” she asked. “Because it seems like you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Order up! Story!” yelled the woman behind the register, holding out a brown paper bag.
Cameron took it from her hands, nodded at the woman in thanks, then held the door open for Margaret. She preceded him onto the sidewalk, her awkward comment sitting heavily between them.
He sighed as he shifted his briefcase and the food to his outside hand and let his fingers brush against hers as they started walking home. It was the only invitation she needed to reach for him, entwining her fingers through his, butterflies winging back and forth through her ribs as his palm settled flush against hers.
“It’s true. I have been,” he admitted softly, “Avoiding you.”
“Because you kissed me?”
“Because I kissed you.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Even though it didn’t happen.”
Her lips wiggled immediately at his deadpan delivery.
“I guess neither of us was able to forget it.”
He squeezed her fingers gently. “How’re things with Olson?”
“Fine,” she said. “We’re over the worst of it.”
“Still complicated?”
She knew what he was asking. He was asking her if she and Shane still had unresolved romantic business, and though it wasn’t in Margaret’s nature to be willfully deceptive, she liked Cameron’s jealousy, so she decided not to answer his question directly.
“My father adores Shane.”
“And would adore having Shane for a son-in-law.”
Margaret nodded. It was the truth, wasn’t it?
“But how does Meggie feel about Olson?” He had to drop her hand to push open the door to their apartment building, but grabbed it again as soon as they were inside. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine.”
“Probably a good idea. Huicho said he needed one more week to finish, which means my bathroom’s still a bit of a wreck.”
“Wow! It’s almost done?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Close to it.”
Hmm. In comparison, her project was going as slow as molasses. It had taken three weekends for Geraldo to finish the demolition when she had assumed it would take only one. And he hadn’t even started framing the closet yet. Her future wine cellar was just an ugly, gaping hole in the corner of her kitchen.
“Miss Story!” called Franklin from the concierge desk. “You got that Saturday FedEx?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The package that came on Saturday. You got it?”
“No.” She shrugged. “But I wasn’t expecting anything.”
Franklin furrowed his brows together. “Huh, I thought it was for you, but maybe I’m remembering wrong. I’ll take a look at the book.”