Page 18 of Blush Crush

“Whatever,” Ethan grumbles, putting a territorial arm around her.

I think by now he knows I have no romantic interest in Marisa, but I can’t help giving him shit. He makes it too easy.

Marisa spins out of his embrace. “I actually came to check the tasting room.” She coughs softly, cheeks flushing. “From the other night. I think I may have left something behind.” She gestures vaguely toward the hall. “So I’ll…handle that. You two have fun.”

Ethan smirks, watching her walk away.

Not sure what that was about, and I think I’d rather not know.

“We can head up to my office,” Ethan says once he tears his eyes off Marisa’s ass.

The upstairs closely resembles Benton’s, and I feel myself relax slightly.

A woman I recognize as Tawny smiles at me as I pass her on my way into Ethan’s office.

He shuts the door behind us and flops into a plush chair behind an ornate wooden desk as I claim the seat across from him.

“Okay, time to strategize.”

I groan. “Isn’t it a bit early for that? The tournament isn’t until the end of October.”

The Red Mountain Vintners Association decided to launch an annual charity golf tournament to celebrate the end of harvest. Since it’s the first year it’s officially happening, we figured we’d add a little friendly competition and team up against our dads, who also happen to be the association’s co-chairs.

The problem? Neither of us is a big golfer.

Ethan, being aggressively competitive, wants to start practicing immediately. I want to win too—but not enough to sacrifice all my free time chasing golf balls around the course. Meanwhile, our retired fathers have nothing but time on their hands to transform into scratch golfers.

This is, in all likelihood, going to end in embarrassment.

“We have to get in a few rounds at least,” Ethan says as he looks over a calendar.

Ethan and I are cut from similar cloth, heirs to the weight of our families’ legacies, but he’s relentlessly Type A and rigid as hell, while I prefer a more freehand approach.

“We should probably book tee times now,” he continues, tapping a pen against the desk. “Block them out before the tourists swipe them all up.”

I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. “Good call.”

He flips the calendar toward me. “Look. If we can get in two rounds these next two months, and at least one in September, we might have a shot.”

He launches into a breakdown of potential practice schedules, wind patterns on the back nine, and the unfortunate reality that neither of us has a short game worth bragging about. I half-listen, nodding at appropriate intervals, my gaze drifting around his office.

Through the wall of windows behind him, Red Mountain stretches out. It’s an incredible view, and I hate to admit I’m mildly jealous his is better than mine.

I stand, moving to get a better look.

Red Mountain looks especially red with the sun blazing overhead, the hills practically glowing beneath the light. But when my gaze drifts from the ridgeline down to the parking lot below, I spot a woman walking with her head bowed.

Even from this distance, I know it’s Ariana.

The blunt cut of her brown hair just below her chin is the first giveaway. But it’s the curves of her body that confirm it. Today she’s in the standard Ledger Winery uniform—a fitted polo, black slacks, the logo stamped over her chest—and for once, there’s no oversized cardigan swallowing her up.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, she tries to hide herself beneath loose layers, as if that could ever make her less noticeable. Still, I’ve caught enough glimpses—on the rare occasion she wears something that shows her shape—to have it burned into memory.

Full breasts, generous enough to make a man’s hands itch. Hips made for gripping. The sweep of her waist curving inward before flaring back out again. A body that begs to be worshipped paired with the face of an angel.

She’s way too young and innocent for my corrupt ass, but I’m just fucked up enough to subject myself to some sort of exposure therapy and keep ending up in her shop a little too often for a man who doesn’t even like coffee.

Except something’s off about the way she’s carrying herself right now. The usual bounce in her step, the upbeat sway of her hips, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, her shoulders are hunched, like she’s trying to fold in on herself.