Page 20 of The Fine Art of Faking It
Davis looked pale.
“We can talk numbers later,” Eden cut in, hoping he wouldn’t pass out or throw up in her lobby. “Let’s talk about where he’s going to stay.”
Bruce slapped himself in the forehead and hefted the bags. “Of course! The whole reason I came here. Here you go, Davis. Mayva at Second Chances was happy to provide you a small wardrobe from the thrift store as your clothes are…”
“Disgusting fabric containers of stench?” Eloisa suggested.
“So, I can’t go home?” Davis reiterated. His fingers brushed over the bandage she’d stuck to his forehead. Eden felt a pang of sympathy for him. The man was essentially homeless.
“Not any time soon,” Eloisa said, zipping up her fleece jacket.
“But not to worry!” Bruce patted him on the arm and then dumped the garbage bags at Davis’s feet. “Eden generously offered to let you stay here. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Oh, wonderful.” Eloisa perked up. “Listen, I’m going to go home and shower for about four hours. But I’ll be back tomorrow, Davis. We’ll talk more then. And Eden, I may need to ask you a few questions, too.”
Eden clenched her jaw so hard she thought it might shatter.
“It’s all routine. But given your history…” Eloisa let her thought trail off.
Their history. Would she never escape those five, fateful minutes fifteen years ago?
“Well, I’ll leave you in Eden’s hospitable hands,” Eloisa said, shuffling toward the door.
“Enjoy your time together,” Bruce said cheerfully, following the fire chief outside. “Is there such a thing as accidental arson?” he asked on their way out.
Silence descended as Eden and Davis eyed each other.
10
“It was that little firebug next door, wasn’t it?” Ferguson Gates shouted in his son’s ear from three-thousand miles away.
“Dad, calm down,” Davis cautioned his father and pulled another suit from the back of his closet. It was still in the dry cleaning bag. He gave it a cursory sniff and tossed it on the bed behind him in the Maybe pile.
“Iamcalm,” Ferguson yelled.
Two years ago, Ferguson Gates suffered a second heart attack and was ordered to cut out stress. Davis was called home from the west coast to finally take over winery operations while his father took a more “relaxed” role in the company. The “retirement” word was never uttered in Ferguson’s presence.
“I doubt very much that Eden had anything to do with this, Dad.” The woman was a saint as far as he was concerned. First, he’d stood her up, humiliating her in front of most of the town. Then she’d suffered the years-long fallout—gleefully fueled by his own parents—from an unfortunate accident. Despite all that, she’d stepped up, patched up his wounds, and given him a room at her inn when he needed a place to stay.
“How many times have I warned you?” Ferguson continued his rant. “The Moodys are our enemies. I knew it was only a matter of time before she sashayed across the property line to destroy everything we’ve built.”
Eden wasn’t the type to sashay, but he held back that comment. His father wasn’t exactly known for being level-headed when it came to the feud.
Davis heard a commotion on his father’s end while he pawed through his sock drawer. Salvaging clothing had become a top priority when he’d gone through the bags of second- and, in some cases, fourth-hand clothing Bruce delivered. Today, he was wearing an orange and red paisley button down and a pair of baby blue jeans that flared out over a pair of platform boots that were a size too small. Eden had spit her coffee out on the lace tablecloth when he’d shown his face at breakfast this morning.
The hideous outfit had been worth the reaction. Laughing adult Eden was even more compelling than he remembered the teenage version to be.
“Remember, Davis, I’ve entrusted the business to you. I’m counting on you to follow in my footsteps,” Ferguson said in his movie trailer guy voice.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Give me that phone, Ferguson, before you end up in the ER again,” came Bryson’s frustrated bellow on the other end. “Hi, honey,” his father’s husband said after wrestling the phone from Ferguson.
“Hey, Brys.”
“How are you feeling? How’s your head?”
Davis’s father had forgotten to ask about his health, his rage too focused on the Moody family to remember his son’s injury. But Bryson was the thoughtful, kind soul he’d been since joining the Gates family five years ago. They hadn’t managed to ruin him yet.
