by Tif Marcelo
“This is different. Riesling. And this time, there’s food.”
“You and I were on the same wavelength.” She peels off the foil. “This is called lechon kawali. Fried pork belly. Chef Ellie made it for us before she headed back to Dallas.”
The aroma has me crossing the room and reaching for a chunk of meat. I bite down against the thick and crispy skin, and it melts on my tongue. “Your oven’s not in, is it?”
“Not in Paraiso. But the ancient stove in the little house out back is still going strong.”
“This is damn good. And way better than bacon.”
“Hell yes, it is.” She laughs. “Let’s get this straight. The last time I came over, you served me red wine with the intent to stop the filming, and now the white is for us to . . .” Her voice trails as an eyebrow arches up.
“Come to an agreement.”
“If you put it that way.” She uncorks the bottle and pours us each a full glass. She hands me one. We raise our glasses to our lips, but while I take a long sip, she has just a small taste. “But before you say anything else, I want to thank you. For signing the permission to film and for helping me out this week.”
“You’re welcome.” I take stock of the woman in front of me, the ease on her face a surprise. My stomach hollows out. She’s going to think I’m a real asshole after I reveal my proposal.
I pull the pin and throw the grenade before I lose my nerve. “Would you date me for money?”
Fuck. That didn’t come out right at all.
Her face is devoid of emotion, and her fingers still on the stem of her wineglass.
“Not like a prostitute. Not like that. Dammit.” I take another swig and begin pacing. “Last week, your producer, Laurel, approached me—”
“She what?”
“Apparently the audience loves it when we’re together. And when we’re together the viewers and the comments skyrocket. And whenever there’s an increase in views, they earn a hell of a lot more money.” I halt, and look back to see if she’s making sense of my garbled explanation. She hasn’t moved from her spot, though her hands are clasped on her lap. Her glass is still full—not a good sign—so I rush to the bottom line. “Laurel offered to share some of that profit with Dunford if I got myself on the screen, if I spent more time with you. But I can’t keep lying to you. I’ve asked you here because I want you in on it.”
“I see.” Bryn shakes her head, as if in disbelief. “And Laurel didn’t think she should tell me?”
“She said you valued authenticity, that you wouldn’t have agreed.”
“She was right. I wouldn’t have.” A pause. “But you did.”
“I did.” It’s only then I realize the predicament I put her in. With or without her knowledge, I violated her privacy by agreeing to my brother’s idea. My gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry. It was an asshole move, but I didn’t have a choice. This has the potential to make Dunford a hell of a lot of money, and we need it. We have bills, and if we don’t pay them, not only will I be out on the street, but you will be, too, Bryn.”
She throws her head back, hands flying to her tummy as if to contain herself, while she rocks into a maniacal laughter. King Lear pads backward into the living room.
Yeah, buddy. Wish you could take me with you.
Bryn rubs her temples, her giggles settling into a solemn silence. When she looks up, her eyes are glazed over with pure anger. “That would have probably been a good thing to tell me when I signed the lease. You should have disclosed there was a possibility of the property not being available at some point. I mean, the renovations. The work I’ve done up to this point. I’d have to shut down.”
I nod, out of excuses. If I had thought through my actions, run them by my brothers first, this might have been avoided. Perhaps I wouldn’t have agreed to her renovations. I might have only approved a residential lease. Or maybe I wouldn’t have leased out the property at all.
Regret fills me as the facts add up. I brought her into this situation, first by offering our property as a commercial lease, and then by making the deal with Laurel behind her back. She trusted me much as my soldiers trusted me, with their lives. And like my soldiers, Bryn assumed transparency between us.
But I’ve failed.
“I’ve got no excuse, but I can fix this. You and I can fix this.” I take the barstool next to Bryn and pull her hands into mine. A stupid move, maybe, but it’s the only thing I can think of to do. Make contact. Look into her eyes. Tell her the truth. “Help me fix this. You and I perform for the camera. We give them what they want—nothing more than a sweet romance on air. Nothing beyond working hours. Dunford gets paid, and I will find a way to kick back some of that money to you. It ends when the show stops. We can even stage a breakup.” Squeezing her fingers, I channel the sincerity and respect I feel for her, even if my words show I’m using her. “We part amicably. No hard feelings.”
“You’ve spent an entire week me with me, and damn . . . I thought . . .”
“You thought what?” My grip on her hand grows tighter in anticipation as I think maybe she’s read my mind, where all that’s written is her name.
Bryn’s face reflects her emotions. They move from confusion to anger, to sadness, then to clarity. She takes her hands from mine, brings them with palms together up to her lips. My heart hammers in my chest as she takes one large breath, then a second, before setting her hands down on her lap. “How much money?”
The gravity of the question throws me.
She repeats herself. “How much will you give me? Percentage wise.”
“I . . . I . . .” Honestly, the nuances of this deal didn’t cross my mind when I was preparing my speech. I expected to beg, to lay out the pros and cons in creative ways. But numbers? “Fifty-fifty.”
Bryn’s expression hardens. “Fifty-five, forty-five. You put me in a tough spot. A tough, shitty spot. If I do this with you, my business will always be rolled up with Dunford. I always knew it would be because it’s on this vineyard, but our contrived romance will always be on people’s minds. People will come for the curiosity of us, rather than for the retreat. But while I have a lot to lose, you have more at stake. You can’t do this without me.”
Her words are lightning. They strike, blowing up the ground around us. She’s turned the advantage toward her. I might have made the first move, but she’s the counterinsurgence.
Damn. She’s good.
I nod and offer her my hand. When she returns my handshake with a firm grip and sobering, steadfast gaze, it becomes exceedingly apparent—I completely underestimated this woman.
15
BRYN
Mitchell was smart to butter me up with wine, meat, and cheese, because his proposition almost broke me. Paraiso’s success rests on my lease with Dunford Vineyard, one of the oldest properties in the area. Not once did I think to ask the leasing agent if there was a remote possibility the Dunfords would not be able to honor their lease. I’d assumed the property would be available if I wanted to renew our lease in the future.
And naively, I thought the reason Mitchell was hanging out at Paraiso was because of me. Not because of money.
These damn rookie moves I’m making—it’s humiliating.
But fuck Mitchell and his family for putting me in this spot. Taking the fifty-five, forty-five cut was me being nice.
We sealed our vow over our last sips of wine, and we clinked our glasses at the decision to start the next day. Might as well jump into the cold water of deception, he said. This morning, along with my precise application of eyeliner, I told myself that I would no longer let my emotions override logic.
I now lob demands at Mitchell, who is standing across from me at Paraiso’s kitchen island. “No PDA on air unless I instigate it. No discussion of the future, not even fake. Truth between us always.” I have the upper hand this time, and I’m going to mi
lk it for all it’s worth.
“Agreed times three.” Mitchell drains the last of his coffee, his second cup since he arrived an hour ago. With dark shadows under his eyes, he looks like how I feel—that we’re about to walk into a funeral rather than star on our own version of a live stream show. He glances at his watch for the tenth time. The crew should be here any second.
“What are you going to tell your sister and your chef?” Mitchell pours himself another cup of coffee.
I should dilute the hell out of it to make him suffer. He’ll walk around like a zombie and never know why.
I high-five my inner self. “I don’t think I should tell either of them right away. Vic’s always on the road for work, and Ellie’s not fully moved in. A warning, though—Vic’s going to be thrilled we’re together. She’s been working on me ever since we met.”
His lips quirk and his cheeks pink. “No one, I say, no one is as insistent as my granny. She got her PhD in matchmaker sciences. After meeting you, she’s already your biggest fan. You might be the granddaughter she’s always wished for.”
That makes me smile. An honest one. She is Mitchell’s only saving grace at the moment. “I don’t get why you have that whole house to yourself and your grandmother’s not in it. Isn’t it hers?”
An eyebrow lifts. “You’ve met Granny, right? She’s single and loves to mingle and needs her own space. As soon as Cody felt ready to take over the vineyard, she fled down the hill and got her own tiny place.” He gives me a wistful smile. “See, she took care of us when my mom passed, right here at Lavenderhill, or, Paraiso.”
My breath lodges in my throat. I expected it—I always gasp when I hear of someone else losing their mother—but every bit of me is trying not to feel anything for Mitchell. I’m still furious, smoke-out-of-my-ears mad at him. Our obvious chemistry for one another cannot be enough to make up for what he did. For what I have to do now. Still, I speak from the heart. “I’m sorry. When did you lose your mom?”
He shrugs. “We were young. I was ten, Levi twelve, and Cody eight. It was the flu.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, you better believe I never miss my yearly flu shot.” He guffaws. Of course he does, because Mitchell makes light of everything.
“You don’t have to do that—laugh, I mean—because you think that’ll ease the pain. Grief doesn’t go away because you ignore it. In fact, the more you pretend it doesn’t exist, the more stubborn it is to make itself known.” Only when my unwarranted advice shoots out of my mouth do I realize that I owe him an explanation of why he should listen to me. I rub a nail against the handle of my coffee cup. “I lost my mom, too. But it hasn’t been long. Just about five years.”
Mitchell opens his mouth, as if to say something, when the sound of voices catches his attention. My chest lets go of a stagnant breath, and though a heaviness still lingers between us, relief courses through me that we were interrupted. I wasn’t ready to talk about my mom. Then again, when will I ever be?
I force myself to focus on what I’m going to discuss on camera: Why I picked laminate over wood. Why I changed my mind to keep tile in the kitchen and not bring the wood laminate floors all the way through. Why all the bedrooms have carpet.
Mitchell is bobbing his head like he’s getting ready for a prize fight. He seems to be more nervous than me, which is pretty hard to top. Anxiety filled my quiet moments the last twelve hours, my biggest worry being how I’m going to convince anyone Mitchell is my love interest, my boyfriend. And holy fuck, my lover.
I barely know the man beyond his well-chronicled family history. The Dunford family built Golden. Though not a prominent business today, the vineyard brought the first families who settled in town.
But what of Mitchell? I know he’s the second son of Levi Dunford, Senior. My overnight spy session on social media only revealed that he avoids it. His Facebook profile picture of him in uniform was from five years ago.
The Mitchell I see now, loping over to the front door to let the crew in, is hard to imagine as an Army officer. Not because of the way he looks or the way he is. Despite his breezy attitude, he walks with a purpose, with pride. Nothing scares him . . . not even me and my attitude.
It’s the way he’s one with the vineyard, with the earth. The quiet way he talks to those plants. Like he’s born from the vines and never left them.
My hands show the telltale sign of my nerves when I pour coffee for the crew, and my voice shakes when I hash out the day’s plan. I’m like a puppeteer, trying to concoct a script, something interesting for our audience to gobble up. Mitchell and I talk about the vegetable garden and ways I can maintain it. I’m only half listening because the big round lens of the camera is like the black hole of the universe—I swear it’s going to suck me in. The last week had me cautious of the things I did, things I said. Today I’m conscious about every part of my body. Where my hands are, what my facial expressions look like, how I respond to Mitchell. Should I be more excited at the things he says? Shouldn’t my face be tilted up to him somehow, enamored?
Instead, my body is like a lump of clay that’s been left out overnight, a stiff glop of blah.
So when Mitchell offers his hand and says, “Let me show you a couple of tricks,” I take it. He squeezes my fingers gently, exuding reassurance that matches the effortless smile on his face. He is so good at this; he has this ability to compartmentalize. To let things roll off him.
His gesture works. It casts a spell over me. My breath deepens as I round the island and follow a half step behind him through the French doors. While the cameraman stalls at the doors, he gently tugs me closer, keeping his hand on the small of my back as we step up the incline to the garden, now with tiny bursts of green leaves from seedlings he planted earlier this week.
He kneels in the dirt and gestures me forward. I sink onto the ground next to him and watch him sift the dirt between his fingers. “Every day, I check on my babies in the vineyard. I taste the fruit, and more important, I get on my knees. Water can be a blessing and a curse. You’ll need to touch the soil, feel it; water only when you need to. Giving them too little or too much over a short period will kill them. Giving them just enough will make them a little more resilient.”
“I guess they’re sort of like people, then?” I scoop dirt into my palm and follow his cues. “A little hard work doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Yeah, I suppose you can say that. But just like with a crop, you have to know what kind of person you’re dealing with. Your tomatoes are going to need way more water than your lettuce.”
“How do you know so much about this stuff?”
“I was an agriculture major in college, but what I know of planting came from here, on Dunford. The day in and day out of being out in the sun.”
Sitting back onto my heels, I imagine Mitchell roaming through the vineyard. “You must have missed it when you were gone.”
“I did. Being out here is simple—to care for something so closely, to provide the necessities and watch it grow. But the reward is priceless. Whenever I was stationed in other places, I came back here for a break. Gave me just enough strength to head out to do the other thing I love—being with soldiers.” His tone is gentle. “Listen, I know I might not show it all the time, but I do care about what happens around here. And contrary to what you believe, it’s not always about jokes with me.”
“I’ll see it when I believe it.” My words are laced with sarcasm, but it’s only because I want to bring the conversation back to our normal dogfight. Something is happening between Mitchell and me. I’ve only lived in Dunford for less than a month, but he’s pulled every emotion from me. He’s picking away at a lock on a door that’s protecting the most fragile parts of my heart. And even if my conscience has raised a red flag in warning—hello, you should hate this guy’s guts—the lock is rusted and weakened by Mitchell’s tenderness, his mystery, and our connection.
<
br /> And I truly wonder if there’s more truth to his actions—and mine—than either of us wants to admit.
16
MITCHELL
My mission is to bust through this wall Bryn’s raised against me.
I know it’s a lesson in futility. She’s wary of me, and for good reason.
But it doesn’t mean I can’t try. If we’re going to act like a couple, at least one of us should look like they’re enjoying the other’s company.
I make it a point to laugh a little louder when we’re together, crack an extra joke, speak for her when it’s obvious she wants nothing to do with me or with the camera trained on us. I wax poetic about theoretical shit, about weather and irrigation systems, the balance of acids and bases in soil, and the importance of certain fertilizers and fungicides. My geekery goes on overload, wanting to fill the space between us with words, when all I want is to cross over it, to prove my worth in this partnership.
To the audience, I must look like a man whipped by his girl. That, or I’m a certified loudmouth who loves to hear himself speak.
But her rules. Rules that, sure, I agreed to, but are a damn hindrance to the game we’re playing. Case in point: I can’t simply sling an arm around Bryn’s shoulders. I must wait for a sign, a brush against my elbow, or a quick glance in agreement. The one time I thought I was being helpful by holding her by the waist as she stepped down a ladder while balancing a gallon of paint and paint pan? I got an earful about boundaries and professionalism that night after the crew left.
It all becomes a tease of utmost proportions, and I’m a puppy waiting for its next chance to earn its reward.
Today is Saturday, and I arrive at Paraiso right on time as we planned, at one thirty in the afternoon. I spent the morning with the vines removing suckers from the trunks and appreciating the canopy of leaves that has grown since I came home almost seven weeks ago. I’ve just returned from my weekly appointment with Adam, feeling bolstered and optimistic. From the vitamin D of the sun, the sweat I’ve shed, and now I realize, the acceptance of this new normal, of being home after a rough deployment, my nights haven’t been quite as long. Still not perfect, but better.
