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He’s not going to let this go, I can tell. “Well, you asked for my boring life story so here it is. I grew up in Cactus, Texas, a small town with one stoplight. Wait, there’s another, so make it two.” I tap my fingers against my lips, trying to decide what I can and can’t tell him. Not the bad stuff, which there’s a lot of. No-good daddy, and a too-young mama who never stuck around much or seemed to care. Gruff but lovable grandma who gave me lots of words of wisdom but wasn’t the best at showering me with affection.
This is probably why I seek out love in all the wrong places. My head is just flat-out screwed up.
“I was raised by my grandma,” I finally say. “My mom was real young and not around much.”
“That’s... too bad.” He looks a little uncomfortable, like he doesn’t quite know how to react.
Probably shouldn’t have told him that, damn it.
I make a face. “Don’t feel bad. My grandma is awesome. A real sweet old lady who makes the best church cake you’ve ever had.” Sort of. Kind of mean, actually. She’s the type that sits on her front porch with a shotgun and threatens strangers who come on her property that she’ll shoot their asses off if they take one step farther. No joke.
My life in Cactus is a cartoon cliché of epic proportions, I swear.
Matt frowns. “Church cake?”
“Oh, you know. A big ol’ made-from-scratch chocolate sheet cake that everyone at the church social can have a piece of. With some of the best, rich chocolate frosting you’ve ever tasted.” I sigh, missing Grandma’s chocolate church cake something fierce. Grabbing at a mint the restaurant provided, I tear off the wrapper and pop it into my mouth, but it’s a poor substitute for chocolate cake.
“Ah, now I see it.” When I look at him oddly, he smiles. “Your accent. I heard it when you were talking.”
I clamp my lips shut. I start talking about home and out comes the Texan like I can’t help myself. “I left Cactus when I was nineteen, and I’ve never been back.” And I don’t really miss it either. I talk to my grandma when I can, but it’s not like our relationship was super close. I had no friends. And I had a wife out to hang me by my hair for messing around with her husband though she thought we’d been up to much worse. She’d found out about me pretty quickly after I found out about her, and it had been such a nightmare dealing with her.
Thank God I never slept with him. I heard he got some other poor girl who worked for him knocked up, his wife promptly left him, and he ended up marrying the mistress.
That would’ve been me if I’d continued with him. My life stuck married to some loser insurance salesman who can’t keep his tongue in his mouth or his dick in his pants, fooling around with every dumb young girl who works for him.
A shudder moves through me at the thought.
“So how about you?” I ask, desperate to change the conversation. I push my empty plate away from me, the bread sitting in my stomach like a lead weight. Sure had been good though. “Tell me your life story.”
He smiles, stabs his fork in the last lobster ravioli standing. “Raised by my father after my mother died when I was four. Always loved baseball because he was a former pro, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps. So I did, got injured, was forced into early retirement, came to Napa on my friend’s recommendation, and bought the winery. That’s it.”
Well, didn’t he simplify that completely? I need to take lessons from him for the next time I get nosy questions. “You summed that up pretty well.”
“I figured you Googled me anyway, so you probably already know everything.” His cheeks turn ruddy, and I wonder if he’s actually blushing. “I sounded like a complete ass right then.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I did Google you,” I admit, my own cheeks heating. There’d been all the photos from his underwear ad campaign. Those had been rather... enlightening. “A while ago, after you took over the winery. I wanted to find out more about my new boss.”
“You hadn’t heard of me before, when I played baseball?”
“No, not really. I don’t pay much attention to sports, and if I do, the only one I care about is football.” At his raised brows, I shrug. “I am from Texas after all.”
Matt
Well, I guess I can forgive you for your football love, considering you’re from Texas and all,” I say, smiling at her.
She returns the smile, a brilliant, toothy flash, and then it disappears as fast it came. Disappointment fills me, but I ignore it.
The more I talk to Bryn, the more I like her. I’m fascinated with her being from Texas only because that’s the last place I figured she’d be from, for some reason. I assumed she was a local, just like everyone else who worked for the DeLuca Winery.
The more she spoke of Texas, the thicker her accent got. It was cute, hearing her talk about grandmas and chocolate cake. She didn’t drop too many other details though. Made me think there’s a lot more going on behind the scenes.
I wonder if she’s hiding something. I know I wish I could—my past, my entire life history is out there for all the world to read and see, thanks to Vinnie DeLuca and his escapades.
She’s actually a little feisty which I didn’t expect. But I’ve only known the other Bryn. The beige-wearing, never-looking-at-me version. This new Bryn, with the sophisticated yet sexy clothes, the gorgeous hair, and the mildly sassy attitude is a pleasant surprise.
I like that she actually ate a meal too. I’ve dated women before who pick at their plates or only order a piece of lettuce and a glass of water. Not only did Bryn down almost her entire meal, she also scarfed down on bread, just like I did.
Had no idea a woman with a healthy appetite was so arousing.
