Page 97 of The Fine Art of Faking It
She was restless after the rollercoaster of the evening and had hoped some naked fun would help her shake the feeling. She was going to have to stop calling them flukes, she supposed.
The entire town would finally know the truth of what happened all those years ago. And Davis Gates was the one who’d stood up for her.
She didn’t want to analyze the warm feeling in her stomach. She wanted to go about her life without the drama and chaos of the past few weeks. But did that mean she wanted to go back to her pre-Davis life?
Wandering back into her quarters, Eden trailed a finger over the back of her sofa. She loved her rooms. Her own private oasis. The cozy living room with its white-washed trim and gold walls was decorated with off-white furniture and framed family photos. Tall windows offered a view of the acre of green lawn behind the inn. If business continued this very nice upswing, she’d be able to up the landscapers and yard crew to once a week and save herself a few hours of lawn mowing two or three times a month.
She paced into her bedroom. Here were more ivories and beiges. Serene and simple. Thick bedding, luxurious window coverings, and a cozy seating area tucked into a nook of windows that looked toward the winery, a view she’d shunned until recently. There was a tiny utility room that doubled as kitchenette and laundry room for when she didn’t feel like using the inn’s facilities.
Her tour complete, Eden returned to the living room. She’d loved this house. Had spent hours here whenever her aunt was in residence. And when she’d been forced to take an elective in college her sophomore year and landed in Hospitality 101, it had all come together. Bring the old home back to life and share the town she so loved with an endless stream of visitors.
She’d built this business from the hardwood floors up. Usually the thought satisfied her. But tonight she was still restless. Still distracted. She debated, looking at the stack of paperbacks on her side table. She could sit and read until she was tired. Her pleasure reading had taken a backseat in recent weeks. Hell, maybe even months. The inn had never had a busier off-season. It was time to think about hiring more part-time help.
And now, her free time was spent juggling HeHa organizational challenges. And with Davis… well, that was a whole new level of distraction.
Dammit. She’d thought of him again.That settled it. She’d just send him a casual text.
Eden: Have you been dognapped?
Relief loosened her when she saw the dots on her screen.
Davis: Just checking the vines. Pruning starts next week. Chewy’s with me.
She bit her lip. Debated.
Eden: Want some company? Of the human lady kind?
Davis: Meet me in the vines out front. Dress warm.
The vineyard was in all its frosty majesty under the nearly full moon. Eden picked her way down rows of silver vines, the frozen ground refusing to yield beneath her feet. She could hear him, that quiet, steady tone and knew he was talking to Chewy. She’d invited Vader. But the dog was smarter than the rest of them, choosing the comfort and warmth of bed.
“Try not to piss on every single vine, Chew.”
Eden smiled and shifted the bag in her hand when Davis’s form came into view. “Marco.”
He turned and she could see his quick grin in the moonlight. “Polo.”
Eden ignored the turmoil in her head and went instead with the lightness in her heart. She stepped into his open arms and placed a soft kiss on his mouth. “Should I ask what sent you on a midnight walkabout through the vines?” she asked.
Davis slung an arm around her shoulders. They’d both made affectionate moves without an audience. Eden decided not to worry about what that did or didn’t mean.
“Just clearing my head,” he told her. “We’ll be pruning soon. Earlier than last year. The cold came faster.”
They walked slowly down the row as he talked. It was peaceful being surrounded by the promise of another harvest, Eden thought.
“What does pruning do? How long does it take?” she asked, enjoying the cadence of his voice. It settled her thoughts. Stirred her blood.
He explained the process, the purpose, with Chewy trotting faithfully at their heels.
“What’s in the bag?” Davis asked.
“Ah! I almost forgot.” She plucked the bottle from the bag and held it aloft.
“Your whiskey,” Davis said, holding the bottle to the moonlight.
She shook her head. “Ourwhiskey. I figured after tonight I owed you at least half.”
“We’re partners.” He said it as if he meant it. As if their little revenge plot relationship were real. “What are we celebrating?” he asked.
