by HELEN HARDT
I clear my throat. “Go ahead.”
“Both the blood test and the cheek swab show a 99.9 percent chance of paternity with the subject Floyd Jolly.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. I already knew. Floyd’s eyes told the tale better than DNA ever could.
Still, it’s a jolt to my psyche.
After all these years, I have a biological father. One I know. One who’s a drunk and a derelict.
I have to call Dad. Then we have to tell Donny. He doesn’t know anything about Floyd Jolly yet. Dad and I decided to wait until we had actual proof.
Fuck.
“Thank you for getting back to me so promptly,” I say in a robotic monotone.
“You’re very welcome. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, there isn’t. Bye.” I lay my phone down and look up.
Ashley.
She’s still here, standing in my office, looking like a feast for all senses.
Here comes that ride into hell.
“Close the door,” I tell her, my voice still monotone.
She lifts her eyebrows but doesn’t move.
“Close the door,” I say again.
She edges backward, never dropping her gaze from mine, reaches behind her for the doorknob, and pulls the door shut.
“Come here,” I say.
“What do you want?”
“I think you know.”
“Wait, wait, wait… You leave me in a hotel room with money on the night table. Make me feel like nothing more than a common whore, and then you—”
“You want to talk? Fine. Go talk to someone else. If you want to fuck, you can stay here.”
“Dale, I—”
“It’s a simple question, Ashley.”
“It’s anything but simple. We need to figure out—”
“I don’t need to figure anything out. I already know what’s happening. I’m on a ride into hell. You want to come along?”
She wrinkles her forehead. “What?”
“I can’t explain it. I don’t want to anyway. If you want to be with me, you have to take the bad with the good. Otherwise, there’s the door.” I gesture.
She bites her lower lip, and all I can think about is how much I wish those were my teeth instead of hers. I want to bite her there gently.
I want to bite her there not so gently.
A cool rush of breeze flows over my flesh.
There are things… Things I’ve let linger in the dark recesses of my mind. Things that I think I might like to try in the bedroom. Or here. In my office.
I never let my mind go there, but now it’s been unleashed.
I gave myself permission to experience pleasure. Fuck. It was more than pleasure. I was…
Dare I say it?
I was happy.
Happy during those hours with Ashley in that hotel room less than twelve hours ago.
Fucking happy.
A smile tugs at my lips at the memory.
A smile.
“Go ahead,” Ashley says.
“Go ahead with what?”
“You want to smile. Do it. Why do you resist it so much? Especially with me?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do want to know. I care about you, Dale.”
“I don’t want you to care about me.”
Her pretty face falls. I’ve hurt her. I don’t want to hurt her, but my words are no less true.
She whips her hands to her hips. “Maybe life isn’t always about what you want. I care for you, and you can’t stop me. In fact, I…”
No, Ashley. Please, don’t say it. If you say it, I’ll have to say it back, and I can’t. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.
“…admire you,” she says.
Thank God. She didn’t say the L-word.
And though I’m relieved, another emotion supersedes it.
I’m disappointed.
I wanted to hear her say she loves me.
Because I love her.
I love her so much it hurts. It’s like my heart is being squeezed so hard it may explode at any minute. And it’s ice on the back of my neck, tingles across my flesh. And that tightness in my groin, only it’s different, because the physical now has an emotional component.
I’m a mass of fucked-up feelings, a kaleidoscope of chaos.
Yes, I gave myself permission to experience happiness.
Now, without permission, my darker side comes along with it.
And I want Ashley White so much, I may just walk through fire to have her.
Chapter Three
Ashley
I love you.
In the end, I couldn’t say the words, because I couldn’t bear the possibility—the probability—that Dale wouldn’t return them.
I admire you.
True, no doubt. The man’s a genius with wine. Probably with other things too, if he’d only let me in.
Don’t push.
Jade’s words echo in my head.
But it’s not in my personality not to go after what I want. I had to. My mother taught me that a long time ago when she scrimped and scraped to get us out of tent city. In the end, though, I defied her. She wanted me to go after a sure thing.
I chose to go further. It wasn’t enough to be out of tent city and in an actual dwelling. It wasn’t enough to go to beauty school like my mother did. No, I wanted college. And when my interest in wine surfaced during undergrad, I wanted grad school too.
I got it. Full scholarships and all.
Now there’s something else I want.
I want Dale Steel.
And what’s truly frightening?
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. In fact, I may give up wine and my doctorate and everything I’ve worked for if it means one more night with Dale.
A chill sweeps over me.
I don’t mean that.
Yet I do.
My feelings for this man are that intense. That consuming.
That frightening.
He still hasn’t replied.
He doesn’t have to. I’ve seen that look in his fiery green eyes. He wants me as much as I want him. I take a step toward his desk.
He lowers his eyelids slightly, and a soft groan emerges from his throat.
That dark-red beauty flows over me. Around me.
Around us.
Then his intercom buzzes.
Damn.
He moves out of his trance. “Yeah?”
“Dale, your father’s on the line.”
“Weird. Why didn’t he call my cell?”
“He says he tried. You didn’t answer.”
“Oh.” Dale pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I guess it’s still on silent. Put him through.”
Still on silent.
From last night. Our time together.
“Hey, Dad.”
I don’t listen to Dale’s side of the conversation. I’m still awash in the dark Syrah beauty of his voice. Of us.
Because we’re one now, in a way.
The burgundy darkness is Dale, yes, but it’s also Dale and me.
The first time I’ve felt such a oneness with someone.
The first time I’ve felt this kind of all-consuming love.
Funny. The numbness from early this morning has vanished now that I’m in Dale’s presence again.
Dale hangs up the phone. “I have to go.”
I jolt out of my reverie, though his voice is still coating me in dark red. “Oh?”
“Yeah. My dad and I have to go to Denver. To see Donny.”
“Why?”
“It’s personal. I’ll tell Uncle Ryan, and he’ll see that you have stuff to do for the next day or two. I won’t be gone longer than that.”
“But—”
“It’s personal, Ashley. That’s all I can say.” He walks to the door and opens it.
And though the room still pulses with the dark and beautiful burgundy, something has changed.
Our conn
ection is severed, in some strange way.
Because Dale has something on his mind. Something he won’t share with me.
Something I hope to uncover on my own.
I sit across from Ryan in the tasting room, where we nosh on a lunch provided by some of the staff. Steel beef, of course, on pumpernickel with kalamata olive pesto and a salad of heirloom tomatoes and baby greens. Steel peach cobbler for dessert.
“I’m going to take you out to the slopes this afternoon. Harvest is beginning.”
“Without Dale?”
“Grapes don’t stop growing just because Dale has personal business to attend to.”
“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask. “With Dale, I mean.”
He pauses a moment before replying. “My brother and his sons have to take care of some stuff. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry.”
That’s all I can say.
Dale used those same words.
“It’s okay. But I’m concerned. Is Dale okay?”
“Of course. He’s fine. As are Talon and Donny. Just a few things that need tending.”
“But he’ll hate missing the harvest.”
“Dale’s seen dozens of harvests, Ashley. And he’ll be back long before it’s done. No need to worry.”
I nod. Ryan’s right. But I do worry. Dale is so… I want to say distant, but that’s not quite right. Because though he is distant, he’s also not. We’ve been as close as two people can be.
He was all in during our lovemaking. All in.
We both were.
Leaving the vines right now to go to Denver must be killing Dale. I want more than anything to take away whatever pain he’s bearing inside.
I know it’s there. I just don’t know what it is.
“We’ve been monitoring the growth and the weather reports daily,” Ryan continues. “It’s time to begin. The hand harvesters started this morning.”
“Hand harvesters?”
“We’re still a relatively small operation. Harvesting by hand is best, though we do use machine harvesting after the grapes for our flagship wines are picked.” He smiles. “Want to tell me why we use hand harvesting when machines are cheaper?”
“Of course. Harvesters only pick perfectly ripened and healthy bunches, and they’re also able to handle them gently to prohibit bruising of the fruit. Damaged fruit can lead to oxidation.”
“Good.”
“Did you know that in Champagne, hand harvesting is required?” I ask.
“Is it?” He winks.
He’s giving me a chance to show off my knowledge, and I decide to take him up on it. Why not? Dale may not be impressed with my education, but Ryan is. Or at least he’s doing a good job pretending.
“It is, by law,” I continue. “One day I’d love to visit the region and take part in the harvest. They need over a hundred thousand pickers each season.”
“You’d really like to take part?” he asks.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Somewhat. I understood you to be most interested in tasting and sales, not in production.”
“I am. But what wine scholar wouldn’t want to experience harvest time in Champagne? Or Bordeaux or Bourgogne, for that matter. Or the northern Rhône. Or southern. Heck, anywhere in France. Or Italy.”
“You haven’t had the pleasure?”
“No. Not yet.” Not really on the radar for someone who grew up homeless and relies on scholarships for her education.
“Would you believe I’ve never been to France either?”
I stop my jaw from dropping to the floor. “You haven’t?”
He shakes his head. “Never felt the need. I’ve been a few places. Jamaica, for one. Key West. The US and British Virgin Islands.”
“You like tropical places.”
He laughs. “True enough.”
“Why not travel more, though? I mean…you have the means.”
“We do. But we Steels are homebodies, for the most part. There’s no more beautiful place on the planet than the Colorado western slope.”
“I’ve always been partial to the coast,” I say, “but this is a beautiful place.”
“My brother Joe would move to the coast in a minute if he could,” Ryan says. “I swear that man is part fish.”
“Brock’s father?”
“Yeah. Brock got his love of the water and his swimming talent from Joe. But Joe also loves ranching. He loves working with the animals. Plus he’s a born businessman. He and Bryce—he’s married to Marjorie—handle all the finances and investments for us. The two of them have been best friends since we were kids, and I swear, together they’re unstoppable.”
“Brock said he works with his dad.”
“Yeah, definitely. Brock is Joe’s mini-me. His older brother, Bradley, is much more like their mother, Melanie.”
“Brock told me his brother runs the Steel Foundation.”
“He does. Well, he and Henry—he’s Bryce and Marj’s oldest—run it together.”
“What does the foundation do?”
“Mostly fundraising. Our two biggest projects are mental health research and child trafficking rescue.”
I widen my eyes. “Interesting. Why those two?”
“Our mother, Daphne Steel, suffered from mental illness her whole life. It’s an homage to her.” He looks down at his plate. “As for the other, it’s just something we as a family feel strongly about.”
“Two very worthy causes.” I take a sip of my water.
And I wonder why Ryan doesn’t meet my gaze.
Chapter Four
Dale
Dad and I meet Donny at his apartment in Denver.
He’s his usual jovial self. “Great to see you!” He pulls first Dad and then me into his patented man-hug. “What’s so important that you had to drive all the way out here?”
We already told him everyone was fine when we announced our visit, so he had no reason to be fearful.
He still has no reason to be fearful. So our father appeared out of nowhere. So what? We always knew he existed. Someone sired us. I always hoped he’d be better than what we got, but who was I kidding? Anyone who ran out on two children could never be close to a saint.
“Can I get you a Peach Street?” Donny asks Dad.
“Maybe in a minute.”
“Shit,” Donny says. “Must be serious.”
“It’s serious,” Dad says, “but it’s not a big deal. Not really.”
“O…kay.” Donny raises his eyebrows. “Mind if I have a Peach Street?”
“You don’t need it,” I say. “Here’s the thing, Don. We found our father. Our birth father. Or rather, he found us.”
Donny’s already raised eyebrows nearly fly off his face. “Say what?”
“He got in touch with me—well, a PI got in touch with me on his behalf. Dad and I went to meet him a few days ago, the day you drove back to Denver with Dee.”
“And you’re only telling me this now?”
“We wanted to get the DNA results first,” Dad says. “There wasn’t any point in upsetting you before we knew for sure.”
“I had a right to know.”
“You did. And now you know.” Dad rakes his hand through his dark hair streaked with silver.
“So…what’s he like?”
“About what you’d expect,” Dad says. “For a guy who abandoned a girlfriend with two kids.”
“So they weren’t married.”
“We never found any evidence that they were,” Dad says, “and he confirmed it.”
“What’s his name?”
I scoff out a laugh. “Floyd Jolly.”
Donny shakes his head. “My name is Donovan Jolly?”
“Your name is Donovan Steel.” Dad regards him sternly. “It’s been Donovan Steel for twenty-five years. Before that it was Robertson. It’s never been Jolly. He isn’t even on your birth certificate.”
“Which is weird,” I say, “since he’s obviously the father of both of us.”
/> Dad wrinkles his forehead. “Hmm. I wonder…”
“What?” we both ask in unison.
Dad chuckles softly. “You two are so in sync sometimes it’s scary. Diana and Brianna were never like that.”
We’ve been through a lot together.
I don’t say this out loud, of course. Donny has long gotten past the past. He’s a better man than I.
“What are you wondering?” I ask Dad.
He brushes off my query. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“When do I meet this esteemed father of ours?” Donny asks.
“Whenever you want, I guess,” Dad replies. “He lives in Grand Junction.”
“In a run-down cracker box,” I add.
“Oh? I suppose I didn’t think he was some virtuous stranger.”
“No,” I say. “He’s a drunk. A doper too, from what we saw. And he likes cats.”
“Fuck, really? A cat person?”
“Crazy, right?”
“What’s he look like?”
“Tall. Balding a little, I’m sorry to say, but I hear the gene for male pattern baldness is carried on the X chromosome, which means we don’t have it.”
“Thank God.” Donny smiles. “Especially for you and that man bun worthy mess of yours.”
I ignore my brother’s comment. We’re alike in some ways. Nothing alike in others, like our personalities, for instance. And the way we prefer to wear our hair. He’s always favored a more clean-cut look. Especially now, working as a Denver attorney.
“Honestly,” I say, “I knew he was our father before the DNA results came back. He has our eyes. The same shape, and the color is the same as mine.”
Donny sighs. “So what now?”
“Nothing,” Dad says, “unless you want to do something. He’s the man who fathered you. Who brought you into the world, along with your mother. So in that vein, I’m pretty damned grateful to him.”
“Should we help him?” my brother asks.
“He hasn’t asked for our help,” I say.
“No, he hasn’t,” Dad agrees. “But I’d be willing to offer to pay for rehab. Get him off the sauce.”
“Why?” I say. “He abandoned us. And he was kind of a dick to you. You punched him, if I remember correctly.”
“You punched him?” Donny chuckles. “Go, Dad!”
Dad resists smiling. “He’s still your biological father.”
