AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The light red wine flowed across the floor like my life’s blood.
Then when our argument rose above the music to catch the attention of the winery owner, the bastard blamed me. Said I came on to him. The open buttons on my shirt didn’t help my case.
My anger exploded when he showed the owner his notes. I hadn’t been careful about protecting my observations, tweaks, and recipes. I thought we were partners. But no, he’d copied every page from my journal. When I tried to show the owner the original notations, the prick had obviously altered or erased what I’d written.
There aren’t enough expletives and bad names to use for him.
Next thing I knew, he was cozied up to the winery owner’s daughter and I was out of a job. With no positive recommendation from my first position, no one was interested in hiring me for my second.
Until I met Alice. She’s got an obvious soft spot for hard luck cases. And I was clinging desperately to my last hopes. The Turquoise Creek Winery gave me a chance and I’m not going to ruin this opportunity.
Nor will I break Mars’ unspoken trust.
Enough thinking about shit I can’t change. I pat under my damp eyes with a napkin and glance toward the bedroom door. I can, and will, go forward from now on. I wouldn’t mind moving forward with him.
Another internet search last night gave me little more information about the man than I already knew. All the bio posts were essentially the same and obviously taken from a single source. Even though he’s a very public personality when he performs, there isn’t much truly personal info available about him, his family, or his past. It must be extremely difficult to keep that kind of information private. No wonder he’s hiding out here for a few weeks.
If he doesn’t get up soon, I’m going to wake him, if for nothing more than to make him eat again. To that end, I preheat my seldom used oven and follow the instructions on another of Georgia’s meals, this one a beef casserole topped with neat rows of potato puffs. It’s a blast from the past. This was one of my few favorites in my grade school lunchroom.
While the casserole is baking, I attempt to actually work on the wine I’m creating. I’ve already filled pages of my journal with notes and possibilities. All I need to get started is that shipment of grapes. Once again I set my work aside and with my chin resting in my palm, just watch the bedroom door.
My thoughts are floating aimlessly through sensual possibilities when the door opens and Mars pauses to look around the room. His gaze lands on me and he smiles. My world brightens like a switch has been turned on. My heart rate speeds up and my skin tingles with excitement.
How does he do that? No wonder he’s a star with thousands of screaming female fans.
“Bailey,” he says, his voice rough and gravelly. “How long?”
Even though I know pretty much down to the minute, I glance at the clock on my stove. “Almost thirty hours.”
His brows arch. “No wonder I’m starving.”
With a wave, I invite him closer. “There’s a tater tot casserole in the oven that’s almost done. I was planning to wake you then.”
He sits at the island, braces his elbows on the quartz surface and scrubs his face with both hands. Still holding his head, he glances sideways at me. “Thanks for keeping watch.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I felt you there sometimes.” He straightens and faces me. “But I couldn’t make myself wake up. Like when you brought fresh water. Brushed back my hair. I knew when you just stood there watching me sleep.”
Determined not to blush at being caught staring, I busy myself putting plates and silverware on the counter.
“It didn’t bother me,” he says, his voice gaining strength and clarity. “Made me feel cared for. I’m not accustomed to that. Usually I’m alone when I come out of those creative spells. And I’ve never felt this good, this whole and… repaired I guess is a fairly accurate word. Again, thank you, Bailey. You helped me feel human again.”
How does someone reply to that kind of a statement? I should say something rather than just stare at him. Sadly, I don’t have the words. I’m not creative like he is. His lips press to a soft, flat line and I feel I’ve disappointed him. I know that’s silly, but I still don’t know what to say. Or do.
“Come here, beautiful.” He holds out one hand and I take it without question. With a gentle tug he pulls me closer until I’m standing between his legs, his inner thighs pressing against my hips. After encouraging me to hold my palms against his chest, he rests his hands at my waist. “One of the things I thought about as I drifted in and out of sleep, that thing that helped me stay grounded, was kissing you again.”
“Stay grounded?” I say then catch my lower lip between my teeth at such a stupid sounding response.
Watching my face, he nods. “When the song writing force fades, sometimes it’s difficult not to slide away with it. So hard to open my eyes to reality again. There is a comfort in madness, you know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I’m lost, being controlled by the compulsion to create, it doesn’t matter what’s going on around me. There have been times I wished I remained unaware of life. Times I tried to force myself into the creative madness.”
His sad smile breaks my heart. “But you’ve always come back?”
“Yes. Always.” His expression eases. “And now, I know I’ll always want to return. I have something, someone to return for.”
