Page 72 of Just for Tonight

And in so doing, I would destroy her forever.

I don’t want to mislead her. I don’t want to argue either. I don’t want to smash this beautiful thing we have just so I can resist temptation. She moves beneath me and I could weep at how awesome every bit of this feels.

But this is it. It has to be it.

Tonight, I have to fall asleep afterward. I have to ensure that she goes to her mom’s and falls in love with Mr. Right. I have to get out of the way of Mackenzie’s future happiness. It’s the very best thing I can do for her.

It’s the only way to prove that I love her.

20

Mackenzie

The problem is that once wasn’t enough.

Twice wasn’t enough.

Even three times was doing absolutely nothing to diminish my craving for more of Jake Cavendish.

I know we have to have The Conversation, and I have a pretty good idea of how it’s going to go, but I can’t keep drifting along. I need to know. I would have talked to him afterward, on Friday night, but he fell asleep again.

I waited, but he didn’t wake up. Eventually I had to leave, but I thought he’d call.

No.

I know he’s left Havelock. The townhouse snitched on him. His last use of the key was at 8:16 Saturday morning. I keep expecting him to call, but there’s only silence.

My uncle and I are going to have a dispute this year over the timing of the harvest. I can feel the storm brewing. I want a bigger and bolder red, which means I want those red grapes on the vine as long as possible. Uncle Franz is fine with that, but his almanac forecasts an early frost this year. We are already circling over who will make the call. In the meantime, every day, we test the sugar level on the grapes. We’ll pick the grapes for our sparkling wines first, probably beginning in the middle of August. The real fight will be in October.

Every morning, I pray for more sun and the right amount of rain. Every morning, I walk between the rows of vines, starting just before dawn, just as Opa used to do. If I see a blight of any kind on a vine, I flag it for attention later in the day. I check the grapes, of course. I look for pests and vermin. And an awful lot of the time, I look up as I return to the house to see my grandfather watching me from those big windows. This is when I feel the weight of tradition and legacy, and I love it.

When Jake doesn’t call by Monday evening, I call him. I see no reason to be subtle, not after his very existence is mucking up my mother’s matchmaking – well, that wasn’t the only factor – and we had another round of incredible sex.

“Are we having a thing yet?” I ask as soon as he picks up.

He’s watching television. I can hear it in the background but not clearly enough to know what game is on. “No,” he says crisply, biting off the word as if he resents it.

I take his tone as a hint that he has mixed feelings about his reply. “When does a fling become a thing? Statistically speaking.”

“This will never become a thing. We have a deal.”

“Just for tonight,” I agree. “But there’s been more than one tonight.”

“Three,” he says, sounding like a lawyer. He waits, letting the silence grow between us, which he does much much better than I do. In any given negotiation, I know who will win, but still.

I can’t leave it be.

“I think you’re wrong.” I keep my tone light, playful even. I know him well enough to want to avoid him feeling cornered. Clarifying the situation is no cause for adversity. “I think we’re already having a thing.”

“That’s because you’re wrong.” His tone matches mine. Light. Indifferent. We could be discussing the probability of rain in the next forty-eight hours.

Except I’m never indifferent when discussing the weather. It always matters to the vines.

“In fact,” Jake says and I know enough to brace myself. “There’s no longer anything going on between us. You’re right that we had just a night, and we had it several times, and so we’re done.”

“You’re just deciding that for both of us.”

“No, I’m deciding for me. Remember?”