Page 35 of Claim to Fame

He chuckled. “No, Han, you can’t walk to them. We’re a small town but we’re not that small. You can take my truck.” He arched an eyebrow, the corner of his lip lifting. “You do know how to drive, don’t you, city girl?”

“Yes, I know how to drive!” She threw a wad of napkins at him across the table, laughing. She hadn’t driven a car in at least five years, but he didn’t need to know that. Driving was like riding a bicycle—it’s not like she’d forgotten how.

He pressed his lips together to fight the smile as he fended off her napkin attack. “I’ll draw you a map.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have GPS on my phone, Ethan. If you can tell me what the museums are called, I’m sure I can find them.”

They ate in silence, sneaking glances at each other between bites. Each time their eyes met, Ethan looked away, but Hannah didn’t miss the way his eyes sparkled, his mouth curving into the smirk she saw so often in her dreams. His knee brushed against hers under the table, but neither of them moved away.

“So, what exactly does a vineyard owner do all day?” she asked, stealing another fry.

He shrugged one shoulder and set his burger down, wiping his hands on the napkin in his lap. “Mostly paperwork, to be honest.”

“Scintillating.” It was Ethan’s turn to toss a napkin at her and she giggled as she caught it out of mid-air. “Did you always want to work in the wine business?”

“Didn’t have much choice, really,” he said. “Nuthatch has been in my family for three generations. My owning it one day was always the plan.”

“I didn’t ask about the plan. I asked if you always wanted to work there.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

He leaned back in the booth, his hands resting in his lap, and his knee still lightly pressed against hers. She wanted to focus on his words, but how could she be expected to pay attention to anything when she could feel the heat of his skin through his jeans?

“When I was six, I wanted to be a garbage man. I liked the idea of riding around on the back of the trucks.” She crossed her forearms on the table, leaning forward with an encouraging tilt of her head. “Then, when I was ten or twelve, I wanted to be an engineer. Build bridges.”

“And then?”

He cleared his throat and moved his knee away from her, cold seeping through the thin fabric of her jeans. “And then when I was sixteen, I became a father, and it seemed like a pretty selfish thing to ignore the fact I had a built-in career that could easily support my family.”

“Ethan—”

“What about you? Did you always want to be an actress?” He took a bite of his burger, chewing it slowly, his eyes focused on his food.

“Yeah,” she said, sitting upright again and stabbing at her salad more aggressively than was necessary, spearing bits of lettuce and radicchio. “For as long as I can remember anyway. My mom says, when I was little, I used to stand on the front steps of our house and make up songs, sing to the passing cars and the birds.” He looked at her then, his eyes focused on her with such intensity she thought he might be able to see the memory playing in her mind. She looked away, pushing sunflower seeds and shredded carrots around on her plate. “I almost became a nurse instead, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“My mom was a nurse. It’s a good, stable job. And there aren’t a lot of parts in professional theatre for women who look like me.” She immediately regretted saying it.

“Look like you?” he repeated.

“Turns out I get squeamish at the sight of blood,” she said quickly. “I changed my major before I’d even finished freshman year.”

“What do you mean, women who look like you?” he asked.

She sighed, setting down her fork. “Women who aren’t a size two. Women who aren’t delicate or dainty or whatever.”

He clenched his jaw, a low rumble of disapproval sounding in his throat.

“It’s just the way it is,” she said, picking up her milkshake. She brought the straw to her lips, then changed her mind, and set it down again. Ethan’s eyes narrowed further. “It’s part of the job.”

“People criticizing your body is part of the job,” he repeated as though it were the most unbelievable thing he’d ever heard. “You know, in other fields that’s considered an HR violation.”

“Welcome to show business,” she said, flashing half-hearted jazz hands.

“Show business can fuck right off,” he mumbled.

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