“What about Sam?” Mona caught on quick. “Is he?”
“His response card was still in his in-box last time I looked.” Keval sprinted back to Sam’s office to check.
Within seconds he came flying back, holding Sam’s unsent card.
“Still he-re,” he sang happily.
Holly said, “You have to get him to go with you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“What’s so hard?” asked Keval. “You just come right out and ask him to go.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how Sam operates. He only—”
She’d almost said Sam only dates women to whom he had zero attachment, but that would be an admission of sorts. In Sam’s eyes, going to the wedding with Red would make a public statement. Set expectations.
“Sam doesn’t date friends. Only strangers.”
“She’s right,” said Holly. “Remember the Houser wedding…that pretty brunette? Where was she from—McMinnville? Whatever. We never saw her again. One and done.”
“If you don’t ask him to take you, I will,” said Keval.
“No.”
“Yes I will.”
“Keval.”
“Sophia.”
“If you say something to Sam, then I’m going to say something to Jordan Hasselbeck about you, next time I get my nails done.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Who’s Jordan Hasselbeck?” Mona and Holly asked in chorus.
“This is stupid,” said Red. “We sound like twelve-year-olds.”
“The responses are due back next week. Ask Sam to go to the wedding by Sunday, or I’ll ask him for you. I don’t care if you do go to Jordan.”
Realization washed over Red. “You want me to.”
Keval shrugged, his lips curving up in a coy smile.
“Who’s Jordan?” asked Mona. “I’ll go to him.”
“I’m out of here,” said Red with a roll of her eyes.
“You have until Sunday,” Keval called after her as she crossed the threshold. “And if you think I won’t know, don’t forget—I have access to Sam’s desk.”
* * * *
Red’s nails were soaking in a bowl of soapy water when Jordan Hasselbeck waltzed over and asked how she was. Jordan was conscientious like that, being new at his job. This time, Red took it a step beyond the usual small talk.
“Clarkston must be another world compared with Seattle. How are you adjusting to life in a small town?”
“I love it. I used to have a salon up in Seattle. Then, my parents retired in Tigard. I came down to visit them and some people in Portland and fell in love with the Willamette Valley. I saw a for rent sign on this building, and next thing you know, voila. Here I am.”
“Did you come alone?”
“Yes, just me.”
“Are you finding it easy to make friends?”
“Oh, sure. I mean, you know. I meet people here at the salon.”
Red met Jordan’s eyes in the mirror and made a decision. No more tiptoeing around—for Keval or her.
“Maybe you know Keval Patel? He gets his hair cut here.”
“Keval. Let me think.” He tapped his lip. “About five ten? Dark hair cut in a high fade?”
“That’s him. He’s in charge of social media for the Clarkston Wine Consortium. Keval and I have been friends forever. In fact, we’re both invited to the same wedding.”
“Really? I love weddings.”
“You do? If I think of it, I’ll have to mention it to Keval. He might be looking for a date.”
“Oh? When is this wedding?”
“August thirty-first.”
“Well, if he still doesn’t have one by his next appointment, maybe we can talk about it.”
The minute Red left the salon, she called Keval to tell him what had transpired.
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“That’s what he said. I laid the groundwork. If you’re still interested, talk to him the next time you go in.”
She hung up feeling victorious, already imagining the sight of Keval walking into Junie’s wedding with Jordan, thanks to her wise intervention.
Later that evening in her room, with the Keval problem sewn up, she went back to concentrating on Sam in the same, straightforward fashion.
To determine exactly what was working with her and Sam and what wasn’t, She used the same questioning technique on herself as she did when counseling a couple.
Propped against her pillows with a tablet, she tapped her lips with the end of her pencil. Studies had shown that sometimes writing in longhand versus typing onto laptops increased conceptual understanding.
What kept Sam and her together? A passion that only grew stronger with time.
What stressed them? For Sam, any suggestion that they were anything more than casual hook ups. For Red, just the opposite. She was ready to take the next step.
What about the nature of your conflicts? Simple. Sam didn’t want to talk about anything emotional and Red wanted him to. Period.
What qualities are missing or dysfunctional in your relationship? See above.
An hour later, she had a concise list of suggestions for improving their relationship.
Chapter 5
Before his pulse returned to normal, Sam was already zipping his fly and working his bike helmet over his ears.
“Let’s roll,” he said, reaching down where she lay sprawled on his blanket to give her a hand up.
She propped herself up on one elbow. There was a different kind of fire in her eyes now.
“Not so fast, Owens.”
Whisky Tango Foxtrot. His hand dropped to his side as he felt his grin slip from his face.
Red reached for her discarded shirt to cover her ample breasts.
Since when was she the modest type? Sam looked around. Come to think of it, out here in his friend Hank Friestatt’s vineyard in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon, anyone—a vineyard worker, a carload of tourists, or even Hank himself—could come along. It was just dumb luck that they hadn’t yet.
“What do you think we’re doing here?” asked Red.
Confused, he gazed down at her wild mane of copper…the curve of her waist between her hip and shoulder. The mere sight of her lounging there—not to mention the fresh memory of that body beneath his—triggered a renewed response in the vicinity of his groin.
He grinned again. “Same as usual,” he said, his voice echoing inside his helmet. “We’re scr—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t call it that. That might have been what it was when you first came back from the Army, but it’s not that anymore. We’re beyond that, don’t you think?”
Sam felt the color drain from his face. Thank you, tinted visor. It wouldn’t be good for Red to see the effect her rebuke had on him.
It looked like they wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. He sighed as he took off his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and adopted a comfortable stance, hoping this wouldn’t take too long.
Red began buttoning her shirt. “Would you mind handing me my jeans?”
He looked around, spotting them where he had chucked them in the heat of passion, draped across a clone of Pinot Noir 943. He lifted them off the fragile cane with the utmost care. “Rather see an orphanage burn than lose one of those grape clusters,” he cracked, to the sound of crickets.
Balancing on one foot to slip into her jeans, she gave him a disapproving look, then stumbled on the uneven ground.
Sam’s hand shot out to steady her.
When she was decent, he raised his helmet to his head again.
But instead of neatly rolling the blanket and handing it to him to bungee onto the back
of the bike like she usually did, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“What’s that?”
“A to-do list,” she replied, methodically unfolding it.
“There are apps for that.”
Her hand holding the creased paper fell to her side. “Listen up, Owens. I’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“Can we talk about it later? I’ve got to get back. I got buyers from Pennsylvania coming at two to talk about a state contract.”
She pulled her phone from her pocket. “It’s only one fifteen.”
He checked his watch, and it occurred to him: after they’d drunk a little wine and eaten some of the bread and cheese, the boom-boom part had only lasted about five minutes.
“Did you need more time?” He yanked the tail of his belt free from its prong with a slapping sound and hastened to close the distance between them. “’Cause we can fix that.”
She took a step backward. “Really? You can make time for more sex, but otherwise, you’re in a hurry to get going? Sit back down for a minute. Please.”
Aw, jeez.
Jeez? When had he started taming his mouth around Red—in his own thoughts?
He had no choice but to hear her out. Small price to pay for having her, no strings attached. Not that he’d even looked at another woman since the first day Doc had put the moves on him. She was all he could handle and then some.
With a sigh of resignation, he lowered himself back to the ground and slung a forearm over a raised knee.
Wearing a serious expression, Red tucked in her shirt and sat down across from him. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. About us. Now, you know I’m no prude. I’ve been fine with us having uncommitted sex up till now. Maybe even a little bit smug. I told myself we were different than other people. Smarter. Cooler, keeping things fresh. But it’s not working anymore.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to scrounge up another excuse why they had to get going—now.
“Hear me out…give me the respect I deserve. We can’t go on forever like this, pretending what we have is meaningless. Hiding our relationship—”
“Relationship?”
“That’s what it’s called when two people share their lives over a period of time. A relationship. I’m tired of hiding what we have from our friends and families and the whole town.”
“Whose business is it what we do behind closed doors?”
“And in vineyards and on hiking trails? What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned bed?”
“You make it sound so shady.”
“Your words. Hear me out. The past few years, I’ve been busy setting up my practice, struggling to pay the rent, trying to become known. The same with you and your consortium. We’ve barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone nurture another person. But now that the craziness is winding down, things have changed. I’ve changed.”
Sam looked longingly over his shoulder at his bike resting on its kickstand at the crest of Ribbon Ridge Road.
He scratched his chin. “What’s wrong with being spontaneous?”
“What’s wrong is sometimes it feels like you’re only thinking of yourself, not considering what I want. What I need.”
Red and her logical mind. How could you disagree with the way someone felt?
“I feel like I’m ready to take what we have to the next level. And I need to be honest with you about those feelings.”
Sam swatted at a fly on his pant leg. If she didn’t get to that stupid list pretty soon, they’d be here all afternoon.
He jerked his chin toward the note. “What’s it say?”
Red cleared her throat and wiggled her cute butt on the blanket, settling in.
Why couldn’t she have been a hairstylist or an obstetrician or something…anything but a psychologist? This was disconcertingly reminiscent of when he got sent to the Freud Squad, shortly before he was informed that it might be a good idea if he were to, in so many words, “retire early” from active duty.
“Don’t worry. There are only three items on this list. Number one. I want us to go to Junie and Manolo’s wedding together. As a couple.”
Relief sluiced through him. This wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought.
He nodded curtly. “We can do that.”
“Thank you.” She granted him a prim smile. “See how easy this is? That leads to number two. We come out as a couple.”
“Why? Why should we care what other people think?”
“Because it makes it real. I care about you, Owens. You’re a big part of my life.”
“You’re a big part of my life, too. Don’t we hang out with our friends every chance we get? Didn’t I just agree to go to the wedding with you?”
“Being together as part of a group doesn’t count when you don’t act like my boyfriend. I mean, what are we? Friends? It’s more than that. Lovers? Or what?”
“Why the hell do we have to put a label on it?” Sam scrubbed a hand over his jaw, hiding the zing of pain when he forgot and hit the spot where he’d been zip-tied to a chair with a bag over his head, pistol-whipped, and left for dead. Compared to this, those were the good old days.
“I’m proud of being with you,” Red was saying earnestly. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
He looked her over dispassionately, the way he’d study a human target. Generous, yet well-proportioned curves. Exuberant laugh that made her fun to be around. Scary-smart, and not afraid to speak her mind. No wonder Dr. Sophia McDonald had been voted Clarkston’s Best Therapist the past two years running.
“Sam.”
He’d forgotten that a response was required.
“Hell, yeah. What’s not to be proud of? What else do I have to do? Spell it out.”
“Go to functions with me instead of just meeting me there. When you walk into a roomful of people and I’m there, kiss me hello. Sit next to me at parties, put your arm around me. When you leave, kiss me good-bye, or take me with you. Do you think you can do all that?”
He lifted a shoulder in assent.
“Third.”
Bend over, here it comes again.
“Cuddle with me.”
He blinked. “Isn’t that what we just did?”
“That was not cuddling, and you know it. That was a straight up act of reproduction.”
“You didn’t seem to mind it when you were hollering my name to the hills.” He threw back his head and howled in a mocking falsetto, “Oh, Sam! Sam! Please don’t stop!”
She blushed even harder and did a lousy job of biting back her smile.
A soft-bellied civilian like her would last about one minute outside the wire. But suddenly he realized—he loved that she was so soft…so tender. So female.
“You’re still missing the point. I want more.”
“Tell me if I hear you right. I hold you for a few minutes after we do it, and then everything else can go on being status quo.” All this fuss for nothing. And here, he’d been worried.
“I need you to rub my back. Feed me ice cream. Waltz with me in the dark.”
“You keep adding things.”
“Do you care about me or not?”
“Sure. Fine.” He was getting to be such a wuss.
“Really?” she said, her voice softening. For the first time since they’d sat down, she lost that offended look.
“Yeah. My legs are getting stiff.” He got to his knees. “Can we go now?”
“There’s one more little thing.”
“You said three. That was more than three already.”
“It goes along with the cuddling. Kind of like number three, part two. And after that’s done, maybe we can talk about having sex again.”
He dropped back down to the blanket. “
Did I miss something? Who said anything about not having sex?”
His near-panic didn’t seem to affect her a bit. “I need you to show me I mean more to you than just a body.”
“That’s bullshit, Doc,” he said sheepishly, dropping his gaze to hide his emotions. “You know you do.” He ripped a handful of grass out of the ground.
“No, I don’t. How could I, when mostly what we do is this?” she said, indicating his blanket. “I need you to talk to me. Really talk to me.”
Sam’s sphincter slammed shut. Cuddle, sure. Buy her the occasional ice cream cone. Maybe even admit that they were in a relationship. But talk?
“You know what I mean. Stop hiding your emotions behind jokes. Stop holding back and tell me what you’re feeling.”
She was asking him for nothing less than the antithesis of who he was and what he’d been trained to do. Talking meant exposing feelings, which left you wide open to being hurt. His military training had only strengthened that conviction. Sharing anything more than his name, rank and serial number created vulnerability, endangering both him and his fellow soldiers. Nobody unmanned Captain Samuel Owens. Nobody.
He grabbed his helmet, rose, and headed for his bike. “You said there were three things, and I agreed to three things,” he said as he strode off. “Now I’ve got to get back to work.”
Red scrambled to her feet and tailed him, still without the blanket.
“Starting with when you were overseas,” she said to his back. “What your job was. The kind of work you did.” She took his arm, gently turning him around. “I don’t know anything about it. Nobody does. It’s not healthy, holding it inside. It’s emotional constipation.”
A burst of nervous laughter short-circuited the tension building up in him. “When will everybody finally get off my case? I was a supply officer. How many times do I have to say it?” he said, swinging a leg over the saddle.
“I’m no expert, but something tells me not every supply officer gets fêted by the local VFW when he comes home.”
His little welcome home shindig. Just because of that, people thought they knew everything.
“Let’s roll,” he repeated. He revved the engine and a rumble filled the valley, striped with vineyards as far as the eye could see. He raised his voice over the roar. “Look at you. You’re getting burned. Get the blanket and let’s go.”
Kisses Sweeter Than Wine Page 4
