Grant smirked.
“Yeah, guess he wouldn’t.”
Luke kept his face blank and gave Grant his room keys.
“Glad to have you here at the inn,” he lied. “Room Five, it’s right off the pool. Let me know if you need anything.”
He didn’t mean that. If Grant asked him for help with his luggage, he’d just want to kick it down the stairs.
“Sure, yeah. Thanks, man.”
Grant walked off with the blond woman next to him. Just as they got down the hall, Luke heard him say in a low—but not that low—voice, “Wonder what the real story is there. I heard some rumors that guy got fired, but I was sure they were all wrong. Guess he just couldn’t hack it.”
Luke felt a flash of rage, the kind of rage he hadn’t felt in months. There were rumors that he’d been fired? Who had started them, he wondered? Brian, who hadn’t liked him, but had also been pissed when he’d quit? Or that dude who’d never liked him, ever since that time he’d corrected him in a meeting and his boss’s boss had praised Luke? Or . . .
The inn phone rang, and he turned to answer it.
“Good afternoon, Punchdown Inn. Can I help you?”
“Yeah, we’re running out of toilet paper in our room. Can you make sure housekeeping brings us some?”
“We’ll get you that toilet paper right away,” he said. “Please let me know if there’s anything else we can help you with.”
He winced as he hung up the phone. How the mighty have fallen. Grant might have a point.
* * *
IT WAS A PACKED week at the winery. And that was great, it really was; obviously that’s what Margot had been working toward for the past three years, to have almost every appointment of the day full, to be busy with visitors and tours and emails and reservations and inquiries about the party and press calls. But when she’d been working toward all of this, she hadn’t realized it would all feel so fraught. It felt like they were right on the edge, like the next few months might be huge for them—but that was only a might. The next few months could also all fall apart. The party could fail, the interviews could come to nothing, the sales could slow down, the appointments could all stop, and they’d be right back where they were before. But it would be worse, feel worse, because she would know what it felt like to almost succeed.
She felt all week like she was scrambling to catch up, to return all of the emails and phone calls, and check in with everyone, and smile at everyone, and get the whole place organized, and get the party planned just right, and it felt like she would never get there. That day at the beach with Luke had been wonderful, but she felt like it set her back, like the deep breaths she’d managed to take then and the relaxation and peace she’d felt for a few hours hadn’t been worth all of the work she hadn’t done. How could it be worth it, when she still had so much to do?
Tuesday night, Luke came over, but not until late, because she’d stayed later than usual at the winery to catch up on things. Wednesday she told him not to come over—she stayed at the winery until after nine, returning emails and pulling together her spreadsheets for the party. Sure, she could have done some of that at home, but it was easier in her office, with her two big monitors and all of her notes around her . . . and without the distraction of Luke there.
But that night, when she walked into her dark house at almost ten, with a takeout bag in her hands, she wished she hadn’t told Luke not to come over that day. She wished he were there with her, to entertain her with stories from the inn from that day; to joke her out of her bad mood; to sit with her on the couch, his arm around her, and listen patiently while she ranted about the annoying guy who’d called her that day; to kiss her after she stopped ranting and make her forget she was upset at all.
She couldn’t call him now, though. She would feel like an asshole, changing her mind like that, and plus, he had to get up far earlier than she did to work at the inn. He might already be asleep. He would probably come over anyway if she called—he was a red-blooded male, after all—but that would be unfair of her.
And also . . . what if he didn’t come over if she called? She would understand, of course she would, but she didn’t want to deal with how bad that would make her feel.
Plus, she would see him tomorrow night. She’d make sure of that.
She woke up Thursday morning and immediately missed him there in her bed with her. She turned over in bed and reached for her phone to text him. But he’d already texted her.