Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
No response. In fact, she could hear him typing something on the other end.
Aloof and dismissive as always.
She needed to make the request before she started shrieking. “I’m calling because I have the opportunity to start my own investment firm in New York. My colleague, Claudia, and I are branching out—”
“I know you were fired, Natalie. The bad trade that almost tanked your entire firm earlier this year.” He cleared his throat. A chair creaked. “I’m still an avid investor. Your company might have kept it quiet, but my broker was able to track down the behind-the-scenes details.”
Nausea rolled into her belly like fog over a lake, a stabbing ache forming in the dead center of her forehead. He’d known about her getting fired and he’d just carried on with life as usual. Why would she expect anything different? Recover. Keep it together. “Yes, well. I’m down, but not out. I’m already on my way to recovering from that, actually, which is why—”
“Which is why you’re calling about money.”
“Yes.” She took a deep, silent breath, willing herself to keep down the coffee she’d drunk. “I am. Calling about my trust fund. I think you will agree that in this day and age, the language is wildly outdated.”
“I made the money, Natalie. It is up to me how to distribute it. If you’d made smarter decisions, you wouldn’t be having this issue.”
“What do you want me to say? I screwed up? I know I did.” Leave it at that. He just needed to hear he was right. Letting him score points would burn, but she had to keep the goal in mind.
But then he went there. He went there.
“Maybe the idea of getting married is not so wildly outdated after all. Perhaps you’re more suited to family life than business, Natalie.”
In other words, get back in the kitchen.
Every hair on her body stood straight up. “Frankly, Father, I don’t think a man who abandoned his own wife is in a position to extol the virtues of marriage.”
A snort from Dalton. Then the line went dead.
She closed her eyes and let the phone drop to her lap.
The wedding was definitely on.
Chapter Eight
August swiped a hand across his sweaty brow and tossed down a wrench.
One of the best parts of leaving this winery behind would have been never seeing this horizontal press ever again in his lifetime. After he sold the property, the antiquated equipment would become somebody else’s problem. Now here he was, fixing the temperamental piece of garbage for the eight hundredth time.
Giving winemaking another pointless try.
Maybe this time his Cabernet would actually kill somebody.
August took a few steps toward the worktable that ran along the right side of the barn and plucked up his water bottle, draining most of the contents in one gulp and dumping the remnants over the top of his head. Sighing, he leaned back against the table and scanned the barn, his gaze lingering on the row of oak barrels that contained fermenting grapes and their juice, which, in theory, should age into wine.
Truth be told, he’d been a little anxious about leaving those barrels in his rearview. He’d grown their contents from the soil, picked the grapes with his bare hands, and if he could just find the right manipulation of yeast, something would click. Right?
August snorted, remembering how many people he’d watched spit his wine up like babies after a full bottle of formula. He’d had such high hopes the first time he walked in. The place would be packed full of people drinking wine with his best friend’s name on the label. Somewhere, somehow, Sam would see that and do that clap and laugh combination that August could hear in his sleep.
Although his attempts to sleep had been interrupted by someone else entirely last night. Natalie. Memories of them sharing that Lovers’ Nest on the wine train.
Vivid memories that were making his cock a very unhappy camper.
God, her ass fit so perfectly into his lap.
August’s head fell back on a groan. Why couldn’t he just beat off and get it over with? He wanted to. Badly. The mouth of hell opening up in his front yard normally wouldn’t even stop him from stroking one out, if necessary—and Christ, it was necessary now. Weirdly, his upstairs brain seemed intent on bombarding him with nonsexy thoughts, though, interrupting the whole self-hand-job process in its infancy.
Mainly, he didn’t like the memory of Natalie deflating at her mother’s criticism.
He’d definitely enjoyed the way she’d curled into him for comfort—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t like the cause. Not one bit. Natalie being sad made his dick soft before he could get a good rhythm going. What the fuck.
When the source of his discomfort appeared in the doorway of the barn holding a notebook, looking like a young professional on her way into the board room, August could only stare. Was she still upset about last night or feeling better?