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six
Bailey
It’s been four days since the kiss. I’ve relived the moment many times trying to analyze my reactions. How can I be so attracted to Mars so quickly? Even discounting the crush factor, any of my limited past relationships took much longer to get to the point where I actually longed for the guy’s touch. I was beginning to believe I’m not meant to be with anyone.
On the other hand, my attraction for Mars goes far beyond any simple crush. I want the man. I lust for his touch. And after that one kiss, I sure as hell want to experience more. More kisses. More touches. More everything.
After my initial embarrassment wore off, I still wasn’t ready to face him. Able to focus on my work that first day, I believed I had my emotions under control. Still, I hid in my lab and avoided the kitchen, making sure he wasn’t there when I hurried past the door to reach the stairs to my apartment. The second day went much the same except my attention wandered as I listened for any sounds that would alert me to his presence. Avoidance mode was still in place.
The third day, I took a chance and wandered through the kitchen. I noticed he’d placed Georgia’s meal list on a clipboard and drawn a line through one of the items. I checked the fridge and only one container was missing. A closer examination of the pristine kitchen told me he hadn’t used any pans or utensils to cook his own meal either.
A tiny knot of concern tightens in the center of my chest. Is he avoiding me, too? Where is he getting his meals from? I doubt he’s been eating with any of the ranch families, keeping to himself was the reason Alice set him up with kitchen access.
Shaking my head, I return to my workroom. I’ve almost gotten a good mix of fruit and honey for the wild plum mead. At least in the initial, pre-fermentation tasting. I’ll know more once the mixture has spent a few days in the carboy. Then it will be decision time. Do I continue with this process or do I switch to steeping the fruit in the fermenting mixture later? There would probably be more of the fruity flavor if I choose the second option.
In either case, it will be time to harvest those ripe, wild plums in a couple days.
Maybe as a peace gesture, I’ll ask Mars if he’d like to help. Even if he is here for a restful getaway, it can’t be fun for the popular man to remain shut away.
Making the decision to wait another day for him to come to the kitchen, I return to my work. I’ll be receiving a shipment of Brianna grapes soon and need to decide what level of sweetness I want for the end product. Alice requested a semi-sweet white for the winery’s first offering. Our own vines will soon produce Edelweiss and Frontenac grapes, both of which I’m looking forward to working with.
I make a note to visit with Cam, our vineyard manager soon about the progress of our crop, then spend the rest of the day reorganizing my notes and workroom.
My thoughts keep drifting to Mars and while I make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for supper, I repeatedly stare out the window toward his small building. It looks empty. He didn’t leave, did he? Without saying good-bye? Even though it was just that one glorious kiss, my heart aches knowing how little the moment probably meant to him.
How many women has he kissed like that? How many lucky fans received that brief moment of his attention? What famous women has he been linked with?
I’m not famous. And I am not a fan. I’m just a woman who can’t get over being kissed. I’m such an idiot. Just as I turn from the window, a light flashes on. So he is still there. The worry surfaces again. Tomorrow morning I’ll check on him with a peace offering. Maybe I’ll try my hand at a coffeecake or something.
Even with a plan in place, I have another restless night. I keep getting up and looking out the window. The light is still on and for some reason that fact concerns me. As a rock god—according to the magazine article I read again last night—Mars must keep odd hours. Maybe he sleeps during the day.
And now I’m worrying I’ll disturb him if I go over in the morning. No matter what I do, it’s not going to be the right thing.
It’s midmorning before I finally have an acceptable looking piece of coffeecake on a small plate. I’m not even going to think about the state of my tiny kitchen. Instead of taking a chance dropping my hard won baking while I walk the short distance to the guest houses, I set the plate carefully on the seat of the golf cart style ATV I use to get places on the ranch.
The cabin door is ajar, making me frown. It doesn’t seem reasonable he would leave the door open even with the extra security the ranch is providing for his stay. “Marcus?” I say softly as I push on the door.
There’s no response so I hover in the doorway. Even with the door open and the morning sun shining in, the room is dim. Knowing I should retrace my steps and leave doesn’t mean that’s what I’m going to do. This feels wrong. Not me invading his space. It’s the space that feels wrong. I call a little louder, “Mars? It’s Bailey.”
A muffled groan sounds from a far corner I can’t see from the doorway. Something is wrong. I rush toward the sound but jerk to a stop at the sight before me.
Mars sits on the floor with his back against the couch. A large keyboard is resting against one of his stretched out legs, the other is covered with large sheets of paper held in place with his hand. An acoustic guitar is on the couch, an electric one within reach past the keyboard. Empty water and soda bottles, along with crumpled snack wrappers surround him like tiny sharks circling for the kill.
“Mars, what…?”
His head turns slowly toward me and his eyes open. It’s creepy, like in a horror movie. Clutching the plate, I stand my ground.
“Bailey?” he whispers then clears his throat. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s been four days. You haven’t been over for food. I got… I’m worried.”
His eyes close and I notice how sunken they look with dark shadows like bruises marring his high cheekbones. His hair is flat against his scalp except for one side where it appears like he clutched a handful. In pain? What happened to him?
Kicking trash out of my way, I sink to my knees next to him, put the coffeecake on the couch and touch his shoulder. “Mars, what happened here? Happened to you?”
“You said four days?”
“Yes, it’s been four days.”
