Tangled Vines Read online

  “Good morning,” her voice takes on the quality of some bubbly teenager, which is really unbecoming considering she’s in her early fifties and is probably old enough to be his mom.

  Owen’s mouth pulls up at the corners revealing a gorgeously lopsided smile. There isn’t a part of my body that isn’t reacting to the soft, fullness of his lips. I wonder what they would feel like pressed against my own, how they would feel if he….

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Chiding my internal musings, I shake my head and straighten my spine. Business. We’re down to business and I can’t be anything but professional if I expect him to take me seriously.

  “Can I get you anything?” Rosie asks Owen as she walks toward the door, back out to her desk.

  “No, thank you.” She smiles and nods and he returns his attention back to me.

  Though the open-mouthed stare with which I’m currently gracing him is all about the beauty of the muscles that ripple and pull under the thin cotton of his T-shirt, he mistakes it for something else entirely.

  Shooting me a death-like glare, he pitches his voice low. “See? Even bastard farm boys have manners.” Before I can say anything, he angrily struts over to my desk and starts looking through the files spread across it.

  Even though I know I should apologize for what I said a few days ago, his attitude makes me want to do anything but be lenient on him. If anything, it makes me want to make his time here a living hell.

  “What are these?” he asks, holding the files for my morning meeting in his hand.

  Seething, I walk behind my desk and collect all my files, including the ones in his hand. Probably gave him a few paper cuts, too. “Those are nothing you need to worry about. They’re for an important meeting I have later on.” Purposefully, I avoid telling him the actual time.

  “Don’t you think as half-owner of this place,” his eyes scan the room angrily, “I have a right to be there for these important meetings?” The jerk actually air-quotes the word important almost as if he’s spitting in my face.

  With a loud thwap, I smack him on his broad and beautiful chest with the files. “You’re right.” A shocked look furrows his brows as he stares down at me. It takes every ounce of effort not to lick my lips as I steal a quick glance at him. Recovering with what I hope is some quickness, I continue, “You are half-owner. That half.” Pointing behind him, out the large windows of the office, I indicate the vineyards and field.

  He laughs, a humorless and sarcastic sound of disbelief. “That’s right. I’m just the clueless farmer.” As he walks past me, his shoulder grazes mine and a bolt of heat shoots down my arm, making my fingertips quiver with the need to touch that rough stubble on his hard jawline.

  Gathering my wits, I stalk up beside him. Grabbing his arm, I turn him back to me. “You need to learn how things get done out there,” I point back to the window again, “Before you can learn how they get done in here. We may be half-owners in this, but I’ve been here far longer than you. So, you prove yourself as more than a meager farmer and we’ll see how much sense you can make of the numbers,” tilting my head to the side, I add a sarcastic, “okay?” to the end of my little tirade.

  He tips an invisible hat at me, mocking me and my holier-than-thou speech. “Yes, ma’am.” His voice is laced with venom as he walks out of the office and out to the field where Peter, our head of agriculture is waiting for him.

  It takes me a full ten minutes to recover from our exchange, but I need to be at the top of my game for my meeting. It’s not every day you make a pitch to your largest investor, proposing a multi-year plan to build a bed and breakfast slash wedding venue on the estate, especially when your new partner has no clue about it.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Robertson. I hope you and your partners will take some time to consider my proposal.” Nodding at each of the three additional board members he brought with him, I smile brightly at Mr. Ethan Robertson, and send up a silent prayer that he’ll be interested enough in my plan to at least consider moving forward.

  “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Blackwell.” He stands and shakes my hand before ushering the rest of his team out of the office. My heart thuds wildly in my chest just thinking about the possibilities this plan could bring to the vineyard.

  Vincent had always dreamed of turning that small cottage on the estate into a place where couples could stay for the weekend. Over the years, and in his head, the cottage expanded to a full-on bed and breakfast with vineyard tours, wine tastings, and possibly even wedding receptions. Based on my early calculations, it would only take us approximately three summers, fully booked summers of course, to break even.

  As I stand in the doorway of my office, I’m struck dumb by the sight of a hot and sweaty Owen chugging down a glass of ice-cold water. When he swipes his forearm across his mouth to wipe away a few stray drops on his chin, I actually lose the ability to say anything intelligible.

  He catches me staring and a glint of something passes in his eyes. “How’d the meeting go?” he asks as he flops back into my chair, propping his dirt-covered work boots up on the desk.

  Involuntarily, I sigh at his obviously childish behavior. Refusing to let him get the best of me, I simply walk over to the chair on the opposite side and sit there. “It went well. Perfectly, actually.” After crossing my legs, I lean back in my chair and eye him up and down. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat mingled with dust. “How’d it go out there?” Angling my head at the window, I indicate the vineyard in which he spent most of the day.

  “Can’t complain,” he mutters, though I think complaining is exactly what he wants to do. His eyes fall to the picture of me and Vincent on my desk and a sad look passes across Owen’s rugged face. His knuckles go white with tension as he lifts the frame.

  “He was a good man,” I say softly, feeling like it’s necessary to defend who he was.

  Owen scoffs. “I’m sure he was. To you that is.” With no gentleness whatsoever, he drops the framed picture back into its spot and walks back over to the window. I’d love to know what’s going through his head, but when he turns on his heels and shoots me a look that says, “this topic isn’t open for discussion,” I shut my mouth.

  It’s been a week since I nearly snapped the picture of Elle and my father in half. Dealing with my anger over this whole screwed up situation hasn’t been easy, but luckily, I’ve kept myself busy working in the vineyards. Hard manual labor has always been my preferred method of letting off steam. I mean there’s always sex, but between taking care of Mom and then dealing with this, it’s been far too long.

  After a long afternoon of working in the fields with Peter and his crew, my muscles ache and I’m covered in a filthy mixture of dirt and sweat. Standing next to the garden hose, I pull my thin T-shirt over my head and toss it on the short fence next to me. With a quick twist of the faucet, the water begins flowing. Scrubbing my hands together under the spray, I wash away the dirt before cupping them together to splash the water on my face. There’s a small pail at my feet that I half fill. As I tip the pail back, I let the water flow through my hair and down my back. Feeling instantly cooler, I shake the excess water from my too-long hair. Getting a haircut every other week, like I did when I was at my desk job, flew right out the window once I moved home. Forgoing the neat and clean-cut look for an almost-never-clean-shaven face and hair that’s long enough to tuck behind my ears has actually been kind of liberating.

  Dragging my shirt across my face, I feel as if I’m being watched. As I crane my head around, I look over my shoulder slightly and see Elle standing in front of the window in the office. Immediately, she freezes and our eyes lock together. She’s close enough for me to see her eyes get wider, to see her chest rise and fall on a deep breath, to see her throat work to swallow back her obvious appreciation for what she’s just seen. Before the sly smile on my face even reaches my eyes, she turns quickly and walks away from the window.

  In the last few days, I haven’
t said much of anything to Elle, not even bothering to stop in to say goodnight to her as I leave each day. But maybe I will tonight.

  After helping Peter unload the last of today’s harvest, I make my way into the building that houses the offices. “Oh, hi, Owen.” Rosie’s warm voice greets me as I approach Elle’s door.

  “Hey, Rosie. How was your day?” I find that no matter what kind of day I’ve had out in the fields, no matter how frustrated I may feel about everything, I can’t ever be anything but nice to Rosie. She’s such a sweet woman; it’s impossible not to smile around her.

  Shuffling a few stacks of papers, she huffs a breath of air, moving a stray piece of hair from her forehead. “Busy, busy, busy, you know, the usual.” I want to say, “no, actually I don’t know because Elle doesn’t tell me about much of anything on this side of the estate,” but I bite my tongue.

  Not for much longer.

  “But it’s quittin’ time for me.” She stands from her chair and slings her bag over her shoulder.

  “G’night.” We exchange a smile and she’s out the door.

  Maybe it was the heated stare we exchanged before, but something in me makes me pause outside of Elle’s door. Opting for courtesy, I knock before entering, rather than just barging in, like I may have done last week.

  “Come in,” her soft voice calls from behind the thick mahogany doors.

  My eyes immediately go to the gigantic stack of papers on the desk. I’m assuming they’re the reason for the haggard and beaten look on Elle’s face. But, when she picks her head up from whatever she’s working on, finally taking notice that it’s me who walked in the room and not Rosie, her face brightens. Plastering on that how-can-I-help-you smile she’s mastered whenever I’m around, she eyes me suspiciously, waiting for me to explain why I’ve come here.

  “Everything okay?” Though the intent of my question is genuine, I can clearly see that something’s gone wrong; she still doesn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Her longer-than-necessary pause tells me all I need to know: everything is most definitely not okay.

  “Of course,” she answers professionally, but I hear the quiver in her voice. I wonder if I put it there. Only one way to be sure: move in closer and see if I can make it quake even more.

  Leaning over the desk, I scan the papers. “Anything I can help with?”

  “Um, well…uh… no.” Her stammering forces a wolf-like grin to curl at my lips. I’m definitely affecting her and I love it. “Is there something you wanted?” Her arms fold across one another on her desk and she leans closer. It’s impossible not to notice how the tops of her breasts push against the lacy line of her top as she does so.

  She catches me staring and laughs as she says, “Up here, Owen. My eyes are up here.” Recovering as quickly as I can, I pull my eyes away from her rack. Her eyebrow is arched at me in a mockingly sarcastic way, but there’s a touch of triumph there. Damn her. She did it on purpose and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

  As she sits back, a smug look spreads across her face. Forcing her attention back to whatever she was working on before I walked in, she clicks away at a few things on the computer. She’s intentionally ignoring me, excluding me from the work she doesn’t even know I’m more than qualified to do. Not one to miss out on an opportunity, I take her state of disinterest as a chance to stare at her.

  When I told Nick she wasn’t unfortunate looking, I hadn’t given her beauty the credit it deserved. She really is quite beautiful. Pieces of her light brown hair frame her heart-shaped face. A few strands have fallen from her low bun, cascading down her long, delicate neck. Her caramel-colored eyes are almost hidden behind her glasses, but I can see the fire in them. When she pulls her glasses off her face, she slips one of the end pieces into her mouth. Watching her run that little piece of plastic back and forth over her full, plump lip makes me wonder what her lips might feel like elsewhere.

  “Oh, shit!” She clicks on a few more things and I try to tame the erection that’s just sprung to life behind my zipper. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she repeats and it’s actually kind of funny watching her become so frazzled.

  “What?”

  “Crap, it’s nothing. Nothing you need to worry about.” With more force than is necessary, she slams the lid of her laptop closed. On a loud, exasperated sigh, she stands from her chair and walks over to the window. Damn! She’s wearing those stockings with the dark seam running down the back of her legs. So much for taming that erection.

  And of course her ass looks perfect, too.

  She twists her neck from side to side. The sound of it cracking and popping as she stretches it out makes me cringe. Her hand goes to her neck as she tries to rub out some of the tension.

  Hmmm…wouldn’t mind her rubbing out the tension in my pants right now.

  This is when I decide to make my move. Standing from my chair, I walk up behind her and drop my hands to her knotted-with-stress shoulders.

  She startles slightly, before straightening her back like an arrow. She turns her head slightly, eyeing me cautiously. “What are you doing?” There’s a breathless quality to her voice.

  “Calm down, Elle,” I say as I begin kneading her shoulders and upper arms. Her name rolls off my tongue, dripping of the sweetest honey.

  Feeling her melt under my hands is more satisfying than I care to admit to. The subtle moan that passes her lips makes me want to nip and bite at her neck, kissing my way up to her ear. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself enough to say, “Now, please tell me what’s got you all worked up.”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she defends as some of the tension returns under my fingertips.

  Digging my thumbs deeper into the knot at the base of her neck, she drops her head down and lets out a long “ahhh” as I work my magic.

  “It doesn’t seem that way.” Another piece of hair falls from her bun. With a light graze of my fingertip, I swipe it out of the way. Goose bumps dot her skin in the wake of my touch. The coconut scent of her shampoo billows around me. My hands move to her arms, bracing her at the bicep. Pulling her a step back, I hold her against my body. “Let me help you relax.” My desire is sudden and sharp. In all of five minutes, the woman who has done nothing but frustrate and insult me for the last two weeks, has me more turned on than I’ve been in months. Even though my initial intention was to seduce her, take advantage and manipulate her, things suddenly change.

  As she leans against me, her head lolls to the side. Running my nose along the length of her neck forces both of us to shiver. “Elle,” I groan her name.

  The vibration of her “hmmm” rumbles against my chest, making me even more turned on than I already am.

  The second before I could press my lips to the peaches and cream skin of her neck, a loud bang makes both of us jump where we’re standing. As she busies herself with straightening her jacket, I cock my head. Staring down at her, I can’t hide the cynicism in my voice. “Expecting someone?”

  “Come in,” she calls out to the door. A pang of jealousy I did not see coming hits me right in the chest, right where Elle was just pressed ever so softly. A very well-put-together man in an expensive three-piece struts into the office as if he owns the place. At first glance, he looks to be about my age, maybe slightly older, but as he stands in front of me, introducing himself as Ethan Robertson, I notice his hair is peppered at the temples with more than a few grey hairs.

  “Are you ready, Elle?” Ethan asks without paying all too much attention to me. Elle nods and moves back to the desk to gather her things.

  “Yes, of course. Let’s go.” Her voice is suddenly rushed and frenzied. The desire to get out of the room quickly is clear as day.

  Ethan escorts her to the door, his hand on her lower back. With his other hand on the doorknob, he turns back to me and shoots me a look that screams, “Aren’t you leaving as well?”

  “Owen?” Elle extends her hand to the side, indicating that she expects me to walk out with them.

 
; “No, that’s okay. I have some things I need to catch up on in here.” I walk around the desk and sit at her chair. Kicking my heels up on the desk, Ethan shoots daggers at me. “Catch up? On what, exactly?” Elle asks, taking a few steps back into the room. Her eyes bore into mine, pleading with me to just leave already. I drop my feet to the floor and fold my arms over my chest as she approaches. Her smug attitude about my humble beginnings makes me keep a tight lip on my background. I’ll let her think I know nothing for a bit longer; besides, it’s kind of fun watching her get all up in arms over my involvement in things that don’t include dirt.

  From the stack of folders at my right, I swipe a pile of papers and quickly recognize the documents. “Well, these quarterly P&L statements still need to be reviewed and balanced. Then,” I grab for another document, “these tax dividends look like they still need to be sent out to the accounting department.” Elle’s jaw nearly drops to the floor, but before she can say anything to me, Ethan clears his throat from the door. Completely unaware of the exchange we’ve just shared, he taps the face of his gold and rather hideous watch. “We’re going to be late for our reservation.”

  Elle manages to close her mouth and make her eyes look like they’re no longer bulging out of her face. She leans across the desk, waggling a stern finger at me. Pitching her voice low, she seethes, “Not funny, Owen. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”

  Just to piss her off, I lean all the way back in the chair, lace my fingers together behind my head, and kick my feet back up on the desk. Ethan barely notices me through the whole exchange, but I know I’ve done something to get under her skin.

  There’s no ignoring she’s under mine, too.

  “So, how’s the S.U.B doing?” Nick asks, saying each letter of his made up nickname for Elle with no little meanness.

  “You’re really proud of yourself for that stupid name, aren’t you?”

  “What?” he laughs, holding his hands up, palms facing me in mock protest. “It’s funny and true. You said it yourself; she’s a stuck-up bitch. I’m really just saving you time in shortening it.”