Once Upon a Wine (20 page)

Her saucy smile faded when Kat approached, brandishing two negligees like they were weapons.

“Black or pink? What do you think?”

Cammie backed away. “I don't have an opinion. You're the one who's going to be wearing it.”

“Black is so predictable.” Kat fretted. “Badass boarder girls wear black. Always. It's played out.”

“Okay, then get the pink one.”

Kat frowned, deliberating. “It would be a change, that's for sure. I can't remember the last time I wore pink.”

“The dress with the bow that your mom wanted you to wear for senior pictures, so you dyed your hair blue?”

“Oh yeah, that's right.” Kat smiled at the memory, then returned her attention to the pink negligee. “I'm not sure I can pull this off. I mean, I'm covered in scar tissue, and I have three piercings in my ear.” She held the gauzy material at arm's length. “This is made for someone sweet and shy.”

“That's exactly why you could pull it off,” Cammie argued. “By itself, it's demure. But if you wore it, it'd be subversive.”

Kat brightened. “I like subversive.” She must have picked up on Cammie's excitement, because she gave her a knowing smile. “So, have you changed your mind about spending a few bucks on some black lace?”

Cammie struggled to maintain a poker face. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw you talking to Ian out there.” Kat led her to the back of the store. “You guys were both undressing each other with your eyes; you might as well be wearing something sexy to take off.”

Cammie couldn't deny this. “Be that as it may, I'm not—” She
stopped as a bit of red embroidery caught her eye. “Hold on. Are those strawberries?” She picked up what turned out to be a pink balconette bra.

“They're strawberries, all right.” Kat ran her fingers over the little red berries dotting the silky fabric. “How fitting.”

“Do they have matching panties?” Cammie dug through the pile. “They do. The right size and everything.”

She tried to put them back on the shelf, but she couldn't bring herself to actually let go.

“If you don't buy those, I will,” Kat threatened. “I don't know why you're torturing yourself. Life is short. Buy the strawberry undies. Sleep with the swarthy farmer.”

Cammie stopped trying to resist and headed for the dressing rooms. A few minutes later, she stood at the cash register, strawberry undies in hand. Kat had opted for the pink negligee, but her debit card wouldn't go through.

Kat rubbed the magnetic strip on her shirt and tried again. Still declined. “That's weird.”

“I've got it.” Cammie charged both purchases on her credit card, figuring that a few more dollars of debt were the least of her problems at this point. “Consider me your relationship rebranding sponsor.” Saying the word “sponsor” stirred something in the back of her mind. An idea for promoting the vineyard started to take shape.

Finally out of stalling tactics, Kat dialed her phone and headed for the exit. “Hey, Josh. It's me.”

Beryl pulled out a shopping bag and tissue paper to wrap up the strawberry undies.

“Oh, no need for a bag.” Cammie grabbed her new purchases and yanked off the tags. “I'm going to wear them.”

C
ammie sauntered out of Retail Therapy and back into the Whinery. She spotted Ian immediately and slid onto the wrought iron stool next to his.

As soon as he looked her in the eyes, he knew something was different. “What's going on with you?”

She gave him a flirty hair flip and a knowing smile. “You'll find out soon enough.”

His interest intensified. “Did you buy anything?”

“Yes.”

“Anything leopard?”

“No.”

He looked disappointed. Cammie leaned even closer and whispered into his ear, “Strawberries.”

“What can I get you two?” Jenna asked. Cammie considered the staggering amount of time Jenna must spend at work—almost every afternoon and evening. No wonder she was burned out.

“Do you still have that peach sangria?” Cammie asked.

“No, but I made a new batch with lemon and blueberries.”

“Ooh, yeah, I'll try that.” Cammie did a little chair dance of anticipation.

Jenna brought her drink, and Cammie tasted the lemon sangria. “This is good.” She offered it to Ian. “Taste.”

He shook his head. “I'll wait for beer.”

“Taste,” she insisted. She handed the cool glass to him, and their hands brushed.

Suddenly, they were all over each other while still seated on their barstools. Their shoulders, arms, and thighs were pressed together. Cammie could feel his body heat through two layers of fabric. She felt buzzed even though she'd had only one sip of sangria.

They kept smiling, they kept touching, and then they were kissing, right in the middle of the bar, right in the middle of the day. Jenna cleared her throat loudly and put down Ian's beer with a clink. Cammie and Ian kept kissing. Her eyes were closed, but she could still see the golden glow of the sun pouring in through the plate-glass windows.

They took a break just long enough to agree that they should get the hell out of the Whinery and find someplace more private.

“You barely touched your drinks,” Jenna protested, as Ian threw down some cash and took Cammie's hand.

“Everything was great. Bye.” Ian hustled Cammie toward the door. When they reached the sidewalk, she automatically noted that the air was more humid than it had been this morning.
How will that affect the grapes?

Then Ian was pulling her close and murmuring in her ear. “Where should we go?”

Cammie considered this. If they went to the vineyard, they'd run into Ginger, Jacques, and assorted tourists. If they went to Ian's place, they'd be surrounded by all the land that kept them apart, the
land that he'd said he'd never ask her live on again. They needed an emotionally neutral location. Bonus points for romantic ambience and a comfy bed.

She tilted her head in the direction of the beach. “Hotel?”

He looked confused. “The heartbreak-tourist hotel?”

“Is there another hotel nearby?” She pressed her lips against the side of his neck.

“No, but—”

“They're can't turn us away just because we're not breaking up.” She slipped her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “I hope.”

Ten minutes later, they were standing in the snickerdoodle-scented lobby of the Better Off Bed and Breakfast, asking for a room with an ocean view.

“And you'll both be staying there?” Marla, the matronly, ruddy-cheeked innkeeper, furrowed her brow. “Together?”

Ian put his arm around Cammie. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“No.” But Marla kept staring at them. “It's just . . . You know what? Never mind.”

She handed them a key and pointed to the staircase. “Second floor, last room on the right. Room number seven. Do you have any bags?”

“Nope.”

“So . . . just the one night, then?”

Cammie nodded, even though they wouldn't be staying until tomorrow. With its historical charm, rustic furniture, and resident cat, the Better Off Bed and Breakfast wasn't the kind of establishment that rented rooms by the hour.

“I'm assuming you won't be needing a schedule of our yoga or breakup-support sessions?” Marla pointed out a stack of flyers next to the call bell on the desktop.

“No, thanks.”

The innkeeper looked discomfited. “Normally, I take new guests' phones so they can't call their exes. It's our standard policy.”

“Here.” Ian dug out his phone and handed it over. He looked at Cammie. “Where's yours?”

“Maybe we should drive to Bethany Beach or Rehoboth,” Cammie murmured as a trio of female guests entered the lobby and gawked at them.

He kept looking at her. “Right now.” The undertone in his voice made her inhale sharply.

She slapped her phone down on top of the flyers. “Here you go.”

Ian put his hand on the small of her back, urging her toward the staircase.

“I'll keep them safe for you,” Marla called after them.

Cammie and Ian rushed up the stairs, pausing on the landing for a quick kiss. They located door number 7, and she stilled while he fitted the old-fashioned brass key into the lock. Her anticipation was almost painful.

Ian opened the door, revealing a cozy bedroom that was dominated by an antique four-poster bed covered with a patchwork quilt. There were dried flower wreaths adorning the powder-blue walls and lace doilies atop the dresser and nightstand. The air smelled vaguely of fruit and spice, courtesy of a porcelain dish of apple-and-cinnamon potpourri.

They stepped inside and closed the door. The intensity of her desire, the strength of her emotions, overwhelmed her. This wasn't going to end well. They couldn't keep going the way they had been—all or nothing, total deprivation or overindulgence. They couldn't seem to find any moderation.

Which meant that this was going to be really,
really
hot.

As they tumbled down on the bed, Cammie had a fleeting hope that maybe this wouldn't go the way she expected. Maybe all the time apart had warped her memory. Maybe they weren't truly compatible, after all. Maybe the sex would be bad this time.

•   •   •

The sex was
so
good.

Cammie curled up next to Ian, still atop the soft patchwork blanket, listening to the slowing thud of his pulse. Her skin was bare, her strawberry underwear was on the floor, and her body, mind, and heart were all in agreement for once: This felt right. This was what she wanted.

He was so quiet, she wondered if he was asleep. When she lifted her head to glance up at his face, he was gazing intently at her. She smiled. He smiled. But neither of them spoke. What could they say, after what had just happened? After they'd bared their bodies to each other while keeping their hearts guarded?

Outside the window, she could hear the screech of seagulls and the steady lull of the waves. In the hallway, she overheard snippets of conversation as a pair of female guests loitered outside their rooms:

“It's a good thing Marla took my phone away yesterday. I wanted to call him so bad, but I didn't.”

“Good for you,” said the woman's companion. “It gets easier, I promise. This is the worst part.”

Still flushed and tingly from sex, Cammie reflected that this moment, lying here with Ian, was the best part—which meant the worst part was still to come. She hated thinking this way, but she couldn't see any alternative. Nothing had really changed since they were twenty-two. He was determined to stay in Delaware, stewarding his family's legacy, and she was more certain than ever before that she couldn't devote the rest of her life to farming.

“I knew it,” the guest in the hall said loudly. “I knew we were doomed from the first date, but I kept seeing him anyway.”

Ian threaded his fingers through Cammie's hair and nudged her head back so he could make eye contact. Then he shifted,
turning them both onto their sides and cradling her against him. “I liked the strawberries.”

“I noticed.” She kissed his wrist. With a soft sigh, she asked, “So, what now?”

“What's your hurry?” He sounded sleepy and satisfied. “We have all day. And all night.”

She lifted her head, surprised. “You want to spend the night here?”

“Hell, yeah. And tomorrow night and the next night.”

“Oh. Well, then—”

“I want to, but I can't,” he concluded. “I have to check the seedlings we put in yesterday.”

Cammie went perfectly still. “You're thinking about leaving already?”

“I'm thinking about doing what we just did all over again,” he corrected. “But what I'm thinking about doing and what I have to do are different things.”

She held her breath for a moment, then released it in a slow, silent exhale. She refused to betray any hint of disappointment or desperation. After all, what had she expected?

He sat up, gazing down at her face. “Or we could just spend the night.”

She turned her face away. “No, we can't. You just said the seedlings—”

“They can survive a few more hours without me. I'll call my brother and tell him to hold down the fort.”

Cammie thought about everything she was supposed to do today. The walking, the weeding, the soil checks. The promises she'd made and the people depending on her. “The vineyard can survive a few more hours without me.”

“Great.” He settled back down on the mattress. “I'm starving. Think they have room service?”

“Nope. But I saw a plate of cookies down there. Want me to go grab some?”

“No.” He was appalled at the very idea. “Why would I want you to put on clothes?”

Finally, when the moon rose high over the peaceful little bay, they managed to leave the bed long enough to get dinner at the Jilted Café, where everyone noticed their disheveled state but didn't comment. At least not to their faces.

“You realize that we're going to be the talk of the town,” Cammie whispered as a Botoxed summer resident gawked at them.

“So?” Ian looked much more concerned with the state of his burger than the possibilities of rumors.

“By tomorrow, people will be saying that I'm just using you for your strawberries.”

He looked totally unconcerned.

“Doesn't that bother you?” she pressed.

“I'll take you any way I can get you.”

•   •   •

When Cammie arrived back at the vineyard the next morning, sleep deprived but blissful, she saw Ginger pacing in the driveway, talking on her cell phone. Her aunt was wearing a billowy yellow bathrobe and ratty old slippers. Jacques trailed behind her, looking worried in a way only a neurotic French bulldog could.

Ginger hung up when Cammie got out of the car. “Where have you been, young lady?”

Cammie ignored the question. “What are you doing out here?”

“Canceling today's wine-tasting appointments.”

“What? Why?” Cammie started for the porch steps.

Ginger threw up both hands and tried to block her path. “You can't go in there.”

“Why not?” Cammie raced up the steps and opened the screen door, bracing herself for disaster: Fire. Flood. Flesh-eating zombies.

But the house was still and orderly . . . for about three seconds. Then she heard Kat and Josh yelling at the top of their lungs.

“I can't believe you didn't tell me!” Kat screamed from somewhere on the second floor.

“If I'd told you, you would have left me!” Josh screamed back. They sounded as though they were in Kat's bedroom. Even through the closed door, the length of the upstairs hallway, and the staircase, Cammie could hear every syllable.

“How could you have trusted that shady-ass slickster?”

“My friend from grad school recommended him!”

“Your friend from grad school?” Kat's laugh sounded almost hysterical. “You got a financial referral from a philosopher?”

“At least he was willing to give me advice—you couldn't even be bothered to go to any of the appointments!” Josh's voice, normally so calm and mellow, reverberated off the foyer walls.

“I was on the road!” Kat screamed back.

“Always with the excuses! You never want to take responsibility for your own life.”

Cammie retreated to the porch, her eyes huge.

“I told you not to go in there.” Ginger stood at the bottom of the porch steps, clutching the lapels of her robe.

“What the hell are they doing?” Cammie asked.

They both cringed at the muffled sound of porcelain smashing against a floorboard.

“Well, it's been hard to piece everything together, what with all the hysterics,” Ginger said. “But from what I can gather, the money manager Josh hired lost most of Kat's earnings.”

“When?”

“I think he's known for a little while, but Kat just found out.”

“Hence the hysterics,” Cammie said.

“Precisely.” Ginger tsk-tsked. “I had no idea Josh could yell like this.”

Cammie eased open the screen door and poked her head back inside for a moment.