“Yeah, Ivy sent me a picture as a matter of fact. Couldn’t quite figure out why she’d do that since, you know, I’m not interested in any other woman but her.” Archer shrugs then grabs for his phone. “Then she texted that I needed to show you.”
He hands over his phone, and I look at the screen, my mouth going dry. It was a picture of Bryn in a chair at a salon, wearing a close-lipped smile, her almost-black hair cascading around her face, down past her shoulders in luxurious waves.
“Whatcha think?” Archer asks before he bursts into smug laughter.
Damn. I’m in huge trouble.
Chapter Three
Matt
I CAME INTO work early Monday morning, so I could walk the fields and inspect the vineyards alone before anyone else got there, my new absolute favorite thing to do. I’m not a sit-in-the-office kind of guy. A nine-to-five job holds absolutely no appeal. When I bought the winery, I didn’t know shit about wine besides the fact that I liked some, but I definitely wasn’t a connoisseur. More like an I’ll-drink-some-wine-if-you-have-nothing-else type of guy.
I preferred beer.
But I’ve since learned there’s a science to wine making. It’s a formula, with a bit of luck thrown in for good measure. The grapes have to be just so. The weather has to be a certain way to insure that.
A variety of factors play into it. Some we have complete and total control over and others . . .
We’re at the whim of their command, which drives those scientist brains absolutely crazy.
There’s more to my spending time out in the fields this particular morning. And it all has to do with a particular woman. I’m avoiding the office because Bryn will arrive soon, and I don’t want to see her. That picture Archer showed me haunted my thoughts the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of the weekend. All that hair—I could only imagine slipping my fingers through it. Wrapping those long, silky strands around my fist and giving it a tug. Pulling her in so I could kiss her. Burying my face into the soft mass and inhaling her delicious scent.
She had on a red T-shirt in the picture, that mysterious little close-lipped smile and makeup on her face. I could tell because for the first time ever, I really noticed her eyes. They were crystal blue like a perfect summer sky.
Needless to say, after thinking about Bryn a little too much, I took a shower and jerked off. This new addition to the bet with Archer and Gage is going to kill me. I couldn’t even run out and find some anonymous chick and f**k her. I could lie, I guess. Keep it from them.
But I wouldn’t feel right about that and besides they’d figure me out. They always do. I don’t like liars. My father is a consummate one. Seeing how his lies always ended up getting him in trouble, I purposely keep myself on the straight and narrow. I’m brutally honest. Always.
Archer knows it too, that motherfucker. It was like he set that entire deal up. He knew I was interested in Bryn and he knew she would tempt me. Always one step ahead, that guy.
The field employees start to slowly trickle in, and my phone starts blowing up with emails, text messages, and phone calls. The workday has officially kicked off, so I decide to pack it in and reluctantly head for the office. I know Bryn’s there; I see her car in the parking lot. As I walk through the vineyard, I go over the various scenarios that could be awaiting me within the building:
Bryn, wearing her hair down and clad in some sort of sexy skirt and button-up shirt combo with her cle**age on display.
Or Bryn, back to normal with her hair pulled into a tight bun and the baggy beige ensemble I’ve come to depend on.
Worse, maybe there will be a combo Bryn sitting behind her desk: hair down, beige pants and top on, those pretty eyes enhanced with cosmetics, all of it designed to drive me absolutely wild with lust. That Bryn just might do me in—every facet of her on display, making me want her.
Clearly I have too much time on my hands if I’m coming up with all of these ridiculous thoughts. I need to focus on the most important task at hand. Today’s Monday and the grand reopening is Friday. There’s still so much to do for this giant event it’s not even funny.
And Bryn is pretty much handling everything—consulting me along the way, of course.
Hell.
I enter the building, the cool air greeting me. It’s blessedly silent, and I walk down the hall toward my office, nerves eating at my gut as I roll up first one sleeve, then the other of my navy blue button-down. I’m wearing jeans and my work boots, thankful for the casual atmosphere. Every time I have to put on a monkey suit, I feel ridiculous, uncomfortable.
So not my thing.
I enter the outer office where Bryn’s desk is and stop short, my eyes widening at the sight before me. It’s Bryn, bent over the file cabinet that sits just behind her desk, her very fine ass waving in the air as she searches through the files.
The fact that I can actually see the shape of her ass tells me she’s wearing something completely different than usual. Second clue, there’s not a hint of beige or tan or khaki in sight.
The dress is black, with a delicate floral print in hints of green and turquoise. The flared skirt stops just above her knee, which means if she was bent over the cabinet much farther, I’d be looking at her panties.
Just the word panties makes my entire body twitch in anticipation. Those long, bare legs make my gut twist and her scent washes over me, sweet and so uniquely Bryn I’m afraid I might do something f**king crazy.
Like sneak up on her, wrap my hands around her waist and tug her close. Let her feel exactly what she does to me.
Deciding I shouldn’t surprise her, I clear my throat, letting her know I’ve arrived. A little gasp escapes her and she stands up straight, pushing the drawer in with a loud slam as she turns—in black high-heeled shoes that fuel all sorts of instant fantasies—to face me.
“Matt! Um, Mr. DeLuca, good morning.” She runs her hands down the front of her dress, her expression self-conscious, her movements agitated.
The dress fits her like a dream. I can see the shape of her full br**sts, the nip in her waist, the flare of her hips. Her arms are completely exposed, slender and graceful and she lifts one, smoothing her elegant hand over her hair in a most definite nervous gesture.
Her hair just so happens to be pulled back but not like usual. It’s in a loose braid, and a few wisps curl around her face, emphasizing the exotic slant of cheekbones I’ve never noticed before.
Good God, my assistant is smoking-ass hot.
“Morning,” I say, clearing my throat, but the word comes out more like a strangled croak. “You look . . . ah . . . nice.”