Page 72 of The Potter

Vance and I spent the rest of the night locked in each other’s arms. We didn’t discuss hope or my past or even the lawsuit. Instead, we sought the comfort of one another and the stillness the silence provided. What’s more, my hips suffered no pain on the resort’s mattress, thanks to Vance stuffing his pillows between my knees.

I thought it was the most chivalrous thing he’s ever done until he snatched the pillow from under my head and proceeded to lie on it. I was poised to argue, but then he rolled me over, slipping his arm over my middle, and pulled me into his body.

Dr. Potter and I were spooning.

I don’t know if spooning is even the right word. It was like we were one person sharing that pillow. My body was so tight against his that even our breathing felt in sync. I haven’t shared a bed with a man. Not since Dickface Caleb. I felt sure I would never be able to fall asleep.

But here I am, with the morning sun streaming through the sheer curtains and my arm tangled inside my doctor’s shirt.

“Morning,” Vance says with a voice full of gravel and sex.

“Morning.” Gah, he’s hot when he wakes up—all curls and bedhead. Hopefully, I don’t look gremlin-like with tangles and smell like overnight chicken breath.

I remember our food preference conversation. I can’t believe Vance doesn’t eat chicken. He must be an alien.

“You ready for today?”

Groaning, I pull my hands from his shirt. “Don’t remind me—the plane ride home.” At least now, though, Vance can use his powers of distraction and send us both back to Texas in better moods.

“No plane ride yet,” he clarifies. “I thought we could stay the weekend, and let the Georgia girl see more of Napa.”

The idea of spending all day with Vance has my heart beating faster. “I’d like that very much. Thank you, Dr. Potter. You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” A lazy smile pulls up his plump lips. “But what kind of hands-off travel agent would I be if I sent you back home with only views of the hotel room?” He winks, and it’s so boyish and playful that I swear my heart utterly melts. “I promised you the full Napa experience, and since my travel agency doesn’t offer refunds, we aim for the best review possible.”

Oh, he’s getting a review. One that includes my lips pressing against his just as soon as I brush my teeth. “You are the sweetest, grouchiest man I’ve ever met. You know that?”

Vance smirks and that, too, I want to kiss off his face.

“So, where are we going?” I hop out of the bed and enjoy the slow perusal of Vance’s gaze before he answers me.

“No questions allowed today.”

I think about it for a moment and shrug. “I can handle that.”

“Doubtful, but we’ll see how long you can last.”

I make this ridiculous noise that sounds something like a squeal, and I sprint for the shower. The excitement of venturing around the winery has my body buzzing.

An hour later, Vance and I are cruising down some unknown dirt road in an open-top Jeep. Oak trees loom over us as wayward leaves litter the ground. Despite Vance’s instructions, I don’t keep my hands inside the car, instead, stretching them out wide into the wind.

It feels like I’m flying, but not in a panicky type of way like when I’m flying in a plane.

“It’s right up here,” Vance yells over the wind.

I follow his finger to a hidden drive lined with grapevines that span over the hundreds of acres of land. People are weaving between the vines, plucking grapes, and filling the straw baskets hanging on their arms. “This is amazing,” I tell Vance, my voice awestruck. “We have orchards back home, but nothing like this.”

Parking, Vance grins, a proud smile covering the lower half of his face before he hops out and comes to open my door. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it?” I gasp. “This place is magical.” And I’m probably a little dramatic. “I’ve lived on a farm my whole life. But dairy farms are much different than vineyards. My eyes wander as I take in all the beauty of nature and grab Vance’s hand, letting him lead me to our next stop, which happens to be a fancy building with a woman at the counter.

“Welcome to Vitis Vineyards. Will you be needing a basket?” The woman holds up a woven basket like I’d seen the others carrying and hands it to Vance. “The tour closes at six and the grape stomping at eight. I suggest reserving your spot for the grape stomping first. Those spots book up fast.”

I nod at Vance, expressing that we definitely should do it. “We’ll take the next available then,” he tells her.

The woman prints our tickets, and Vance pockets them before I can ask what time we’re supposed to be there. Which would be breaking his no-question rule, anyway.

Instead, Vance takes my hand and leads us down the path between the grapevines. Immediately, I start plucking the grapes and tossing them into the basket on his arm.

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