Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  In a flash, her expression softens. Apparently, my job as Jack’s housekeeper immediately whisks away whatever jealousy might have been building inside her. It’s as if I held up a sign that read, Don’t worry, you’re better than me—on the inside and out.

  Still, she can’t help but size me up. Her gaze scans over me quickly, clearly assessing as she goes. I wish I’d put on a little more makeup this morning. She’s decked out like a blogger at fashion week. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve been hauled out of the ocean after a year alone on a deserted island. I should be the least threatening female she’s ever met. Still, when she scans down to my jeans, her eyes go wide with wonder. “Are those the new distressed skinnies from J Brand?”

  I glance down. “Oh, umm…I don’t—”

  She walks around me so she can see the back pockets. “They are!” She jerks back around to face me, gripping my shoulders in her hands, shaking me gently. My brain rattles in my head. “Where did you get these?! They’ve been on backorder on every website I search.”

  I laugh, slightly embarrassed, slightly aware of the emphasis she put on the “you” of that question. “I got them back in California, actually.” Truthfully, they were just one of a dozen designer pairs hanging in my closet. I didn’t think much of them and now I feel slightly guilty that I wore them all week while scrubbing toilets. She’s so impressed, I think she’d rip them off me if she could. “I’d let you have them, but they’re kind of all I have at the moment.”

  She laughs and finally releases me. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I know what you mean,” she says while flipping her hair. “When you find the perfect pair of jeans, it feels like you can’t wear anything else.”

  Edith opens her mouth to inform her she misunderstood, to tell her these are actually the only pair of pants I own, but I beat her to it.

  “Preach it, sister.”

  She beams and I smile back.

  “California, huh?” she asks. “What are you doing in this hellhole?”

  Jack scowls behind her, but I do my best to ignore him.

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  Her manicured brows arch with interest. “Well, I’m dying to hear it.”

  12

  Jack

  Christine won’t stop talking about Meredith. We left the ranch thirty minutes ago and we’re supposed to be on a date, talking about us and our future. Instead, she’s going on and on about my new housekeeper. Don’t get me wrong, I love most any excuse to avoid talking about our relationship, just not this one.

  “Is it weird that I have a girl crush on her?”

  Not that weird considering every ranch hand on my property has an actual crush on her.

  “She’s really pretty,” she continues, a little too airily.

  “Hadn’t noticed.”

  I swing my truck into the first available parking spot outside of Hill Top Vineyards and kill the engine.

  She laughs as she unbuckles her seatbelt. “Thank you for that, but it’s not necessary. I’m not accusing you of wanting her, so there’s no sense in pretending you’re blind.”

  I know a trap when I see one.

  “She’s my employee, and Helen’s sister,” I point out, hoping that will force her to drop the issue.

  It does. We walk in silence up to the tasting room at the top of the hill. Hill Top Vineyards—aptly named for its location—has been around for a few years. They’re a leader in Central Texas vino, and I’ve been meaning to drive out and experience the place myself for a while.

  “It’s annoying, really. That whole fresh face, no makeup thing only works for like five percent of women.”

  So I guess we’re back to talking about Meredith. I want to groan.

  “I always say you don’t need that crap,” I tell her.

  She laughs and pats my shoulder. “That’s sweet of you to say, but you’ve never actually seen me without a full face of makeup.”

  I narrow my eyes, racking my brain. Surely… “How’s that possible? We’ve been together for two years.”

  She shrugs. “That’s what happens when you see someone once a month. We might have been together for a while, but in some ways it still feels like we just started dating.”

  I know what she means. There have been door-to-door salesmen I feel like I know better than I know Christine. It’s an unsettling thought, but I shake it off and usher her inside the winery.

  Since it’s a Friday evening, the place is packed, but I planned ahead. We have reservations for a tour and tasting, and we arrive just in time to go with the next group.

  My dad started the vineyard at Blue Stone Ranch nearly 20 years ago, and even though I have someone else heading the day-to-day operations, I try to stay as educated on the industry as possible. It’s not like I’ll glean any trade secrets from a public tour at Hill Top (unless I’m lucky), but that’s not my aim. I like tasting the wine, talking to the employees, checking out the atmosphere. It’s important to see how we stack up against our competition.

  I’m enthralled through the entire tour. Most people are there to get shitfaced while feeling superior to poorer people with Bud Light. The level of pretense and false interest is high, but by the time we’re out in the vineyard, we’ve lost half the group. Meanwhile, I’m glued to the tour guide’s side as if there’s a written exam at the end. The guy hates me, wasting my time with fluff. “And did you know one vine produces roughly ten bottles of wine?” No one cares.

  I chime in. “Are you guys administering the fertilizer after the vine has blossomed or closer to when the grapes are about a quarter inch?”

  He doesn’t know the answer and we move along to the outdoor receiving area where the growers deposit the freshly harvested grapes. From there, we head inside to see the fermentation vessels: the huge, stainless steel tanks that house the pulp while it turns into wine. They have a larger facility than we do (I ask the tour guide the exact square footage, but he doesn’t know), and I’m especially impressed by their aging rooms. We age our red wine in oak barrels as well, but from the looks of it, they produce nearly twice as much volume as we do. After that, I grab Christine and skip the part of the tour that leads through the bottling room—we just paid a branding company an arm and a leg to design our packaging. Besides, I’m getting hungry.

  Finally, I’ve found a weakness: their food is shit. I know it’s common to have light fare like fruit and nuts in tasting rooms, but at Blue Stone, we make sure there are better, more filling options available. After all, these people eventually need to drive home.

  While we’re sampling various white wines, the owner—a man about my age, named Vince Davies—comes to find me. He claps me on the shoulder and I turn to greet him.

  “My tour guide says you were harassing him,” he teases.

  “Just getting my money’s worth.”

  “You know I would have taken you around the place myself if I’d known you were coming.”

  I wave away his offer. “How am I supposed to steal all your secrets with you shadowing me?”

  His eyes sweep over to Christine and I introduce them.

  Vince smiles. “Ah, now I see the real reason why you didn’t want me around.”

  I laugh good-naturedly then go back to shoveling birdseed into my mouth. I’m starving.

  “Oh stop,” Christine says with a subtle blush. She’s obviously impressed with Vince, and I’m actually glad she’s so eager to talk to him for a while because I’m happier taking a back seat in social settings like this.

  “You have a beautiful winery,” she says with a flirtatious smile. “I think we’ll head out and watch the sunset in a little while.”

  “To be honest, the view is probably 90% of why people come out here,” Vince admits. “The wine is just the cherry on top.”

  “It really is breathtaking!” Christine continues, reaching out to touch his arm.

  That’s one of the things Hill Top has over us: location. From their large back patio, guests can look
out over a deep valley where all the grapes are grown. The view extends for miles, and it’s the reason their sunset tastings sell out months ahead of time.

  Vince motions to the patio. “I actually keep one of the best tables in the house reserved out there. I’d be happy to offer it up to you guys for the night.”

  It’s tempting, but I don’t think I’ll last through the sunset. My plan was to take the tour, speed through the tasting, and then find a place to eat with Christine on the way back to the ranch, preferably somewhere with a drive-through.

  “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “Yes! Please, that would be great.” Christine cuts me off. “But you must join us!”

  Vince chuckles and glances over to see what I want to do. I swallow a sigh. “Sure, yeah. Sounds great.”

  For the next hour, the three of us sit outside while the Texas sun paints the sky pink and orange as it disappears behind the horizon. Christine does most of the talking. Vince tries to keep up, and I mostly stay quiet, sipping my wine, ignoring the loud grumbles coming from my stomach, and trying to figure out why I’m not having a better time.

  It’s not the people I’m with. Vince is a great guy—we’d be better friends if I had the time for it—and Christine is always good company. They aren’t the problem. No, I feel uneasy, like I’m sitting here missing out on something.

  Yeah, something like a double cheeseburger with bacon.

  As soon as Vince excuses himself to get back to work, I sigh with relief and start to stand.

  “Christine, you about ready to go?”

  She jerks her gaze to me, and I get stabbed by a million tiny daggers. Oof. She’s pissed.

  “We haven’t even been here an hour!”

  “I’m starving.”

  “Then eat some nuts.” She shoves the nearly empty bowl toward me. “Jesus, do you even know how to relax? You’ve been sitting over there jiggling your leg under the table for the last hour.”

  I frown. “I can relax.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I will—at home. I’m hungry and ready to go.”

  She bites back a response, grabs for her purse, and storms off ahead of me. I have no clue what I’ve done to piss her off, and truthfully, I can’t muster the energy to care. I’m working on an empty stomach here. I just hope she’s not so mad that she’ll object to stopping for fast food on the way home.

  Tense silence fills the truck as we start the drive. She’s sitting over on the passenger side as far away from me as she can get, arms crossed and attention laser-focused out the window. I ask her if she likes this radio station, but she doesn’t respond. I ask her if she’s hungry, and she shifts more of her back to me. If we weren’t currently flying down the highway, I think she’d open the door and fling herself out.

  Okay then.

  Silence it is.

  We drive another thirty minutes like that, and while I don’t mind the quiet, I have enough sense not to pull into any of the restaurants we pass. The only thing worse than being inattentive to her needs would be attending to mine—and I don’t really want a milkshake dumped over my head.

  When we finally make it back to the farmhouse, I park my truck and turn to her, prepared to say whatever it is she needs me to say so we can continue on with our night.

  “Listen, I know I haven’t been the perfect boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?!” she snaps, throwing her hands in the air and finally turning in my direction. “We’re hardly acquaintances at this point, Jack!”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  Her eyes turn into angry slits, and I realize she’s way more worked up than I thought she was. On a scale of one to ten, she’s a twenty-five, and I’m hovering somewhere near a two.

  “It doesn’t matter what I mean. You’ve been checked out of this relationship from the very beginning, and I’ve been too in love with you to do anything about it!”

  My stomach tightens at the L word.

  Her face crumbles. “Do you know what it feels like to want someone who can’t even make time for you?”

  Shit. Now I feel bad. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Yeah?” she prods. “How are you going to do that? Say you love me? Move to San Antonio? Buy me a ring?”

  Sure…those are some really good options, but I know I won’t do any of them. I’m sitting here with a woman I’ve been involved with for two years. She’s crying and shouting and there’s still 40% of me that’s focused on getting some dinner. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s called me emotionless before, and maybe it’s true. Maybe I’m made of stone. Maybe when I lost my parents when I was younger, something inside me shriveled up and died.

  My silence is louder than any response she’s waiting to hear.

  She huffs out an angry sigh and turns to stare out the front windshield.

  “I drove three hours in Friday after-work traffic to see you, and you dragged me to a winery.” I open my mouth to defend my actions, but she doesn’t give me the chance. “You realize the last four times I’ve come up here, we’ve done the exact same thing? You aren’t taking me on dates—you’re dragging me around wine country on research trips.”

  That’s not entirely true.

  “What about a few months back when we went out to Fredericksburg? I took you to that little bed and breakfast.”

  “Conveniently connected to a vineyard.”

  Is that what that was?

  “To make matters worse,” she continues, “I sat there tonight, openly flirting with Vince, trying to work up some fire in you, and in the end, I got nothin’. Nada. Squat.”

  I shrug. That was a waste of her time. “I’m not the jealous type.”

  She laughs acerbically and shakes her head. “Of course you aren’t. To get jealous, you have to actually value something. You have to be scared of someone else having what you want. You’re not scared of losing me.”

  “C’mon, that’s not true. I know I’d be a damn fool if I let you go.”

  “Be that as it may,” she says, her gaze falling to her lap, “you know you’re doing it anyway. You’re just too comfortable to break things off with me for good.”

  “You’re a catch, Christine.”

  She pinches her eyes closed. “You say that like you’re a robot.”

  Do I sound cold? I don’t mean to. I don’t know how else to be, how else to sound. I don’t know what to say or how to act. I’m walking a tightrope here. I don’t want to lie to her and feed her more bullshit just to keep her, but I also don’t want her to leave this truck thinking less of herself. Objectively, she is a catch. I am a fool if I let her go.

  “You’re a great guy, Jack, but it’s time for me to move on.”

  “So you’re breaking up with me? Just like that?”

  She turns and offers me a wistful smile. There are tears in her eyes, and I reach out to take her hand and squeeze it once before she pulls it away.

  “Tell Edith bye for me.”

  “You don’t want to tell her yourself?”

  She shakes her head and pushes open her door to hop out of the truck. “Nah. She never did like me. Honestly, I’d rather just head home.”

  “Why don’t you stay the night? I don’t want you driving in the dark. You can stay in a guest room or have my bed if you prefer it. I can sleep on the couch.”

  She declines and we hop out so I can walk her to her car.

  She buries her face in her hands. “God, this is the weirdest breakup ever. We’re supposed to be shouting at one another.”

  I frown. “I’ve never shouted at you.”

  “I know.” She drops her hands and levels a steady gaze at me. “That’s exactly why we’re breaking up.”

  * * *

  No amount of urging can get Christine to stay the night, but she promises to text me when she gets home to let me know she got there safely. I watch her drive off, turn for the house, and promptly decide to get back in my truck. I don’t want to go in there and face E
dith. Besides, there are practical considerations at play: I’m still very hungry.

  I drive to the closest Whataburger, order my favorite combo, sit in the parking lot, and eat by myself. The food tastes so good, it makes up for the fact that Christine’s words have made a mess of my psyche.

  I’ve never shouted at you.

  I know. That’s exactly why we’re breaking up.

  I’m clever enough to read between the lines. Christine didn’t want me abusing her, she wanted me to give a shit. It was a running theme in all of our arguments, and ultimately it was the reason she broke up with me earlier tonight. Love, jealousy, fear, anger—those are all emotions she would have gladly dealt with from me, yet for some reason I just couldn’t give them to her. For two years, I was gentle and levelheaded, logical and distant. It’s the way I’ve always preferred it. A wiser man would take the problem to a therapist, but maybe I’m not ready to admit I need help.

  Besides, I do have emotions.

  I’ve experienced anger. Jesus, I’ve shouted at Meredith so much this week my throat should be sore.

  I’ve experienced love. It’s the feeling I get every morning when Alfred props his head up on my pillow and licks my cheek until I wake up.

  I’ve even experienced fear and loss, and maybe I’m not so eager to relive that pain any time soon.

  So, I process my breakup with Christine over a double cheeseburger and fries, and by the time I drive out of the parking lot, I’ve already come to terms with it, just like that.

  Damn, I am heartless.

  Maybe Christine really is better off without me.

  13

  Meredith

  I’m not spying, per se, when I hear Jack and Christine get back from their date. I just have the windows open because I’m still living without A/C (so far I’ve lost four pounds in water weight, and I’ve only had several hallucinations!). I hear them pull up on the gravel drive because there are no other noises in the country. None. I mean, there are cicadas and the occasional moo from a cow, an oink from a pig, but all in all, I’m shocked at how quiet it is out here in the evenings. I’m not quite used to it, and that’s why I get so excited when Jack and Christine pull up the gravel drive. It’s not that I think they will ask me to hang out with them. I mean, Jack definitely won’t want to, but Christine seemed really nice and she liked my jeans, and OH MY GOD I AM GETTING SO BORED IN THIS SHACK I’LL DISCUSS AMNESTY WITH THE SPIDERS IF THEY’LL JUST BE MY FRIENDS!