Page 6 of My Mountain Man Boss
But most of the work in the vineyard is seasonal, and they don’t always need me. I saved all my money to go backpacking around Europe, staying in dorms with other travelers. It was smelly and noisy, and I couldn’t afford to do a lot.
I sit up straight and give her my best no-nonsense face. “I’m staying on Wild Heart Mountain.”
She pats my hand. “You’re a good girl, Amy. If you must stay, then leave your ticket open. I’ll be right as rain in a few weeks, then you can go back to France.”
Rodney, the old fire chief, approaches the table, balancing three small plates in his thick hands. “I brought you girls some cake.”
He takes a seat next to Mom and slides one of the plates over to her and one to me. “It’s chocolate.”
He looks between us, taking in my serious face. “She told you?”
I’m not sure why Rodney knows about Mom before I did. But I’m glad Mom has a friend in Hope. “I’m staying.”
“I’m happy to drive your mother to her appointments.” He spears his cake with a fork and scoops some into his mouth.
I shake my head. “No need. I’m staying.”
He nods. “We can share the load, I reckon.”
Mom turns in her seat to face him, and they get to talking about the chocolate cake and how back in their day it was always fruit cake. Two divorcees lamenting the fall of modern weddings; the irony is not lost on me.
I sit back in my chair, trying to take in what Mom’s told me. Not knowing what’s going on with her health is the hardest thing about being away from her. But when I left at eighteen, it was the best thing for both of us. I was a horrible teenager. I can see that now, and Mom took the brunt of it.
Now I regret every harsh word I ever said to my mom.
Dad was always an exotic figure. A Frenchman who Mom had met while backpacking around Europe when they were both young.
Young and in love and stupid.
I’ll call the airline tomorrow and change my ticket to an open one. Then I’ll email the vineyard. They won’t miss me. There are always seasonal workers looking for jobs.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I glance up to find Mr. Laker staring at me from across the room. A delicious shiver runs down my spine as I remember our bodies pressed together on the dance floor.
I need some air.
I get up from my seat and take the door that leads outside. Cool mountain air hits my inflamed cheeks, making me shiver.
I suck in the night air and walk a few paces away from the venue. I lean against the side of the building, feeling the steady thump of the bass from Gimme, Gimme, Gimme rumbling through the wall.
I close my eyes and think about what I’ll need to do to stay a bit longer on the mountain. I’ll need a job. I’m not sure if Mom can still work while she’s having dialysis, and I don’t have a lot of savings.
“You’re not a fan of Abba either?”
My eyes fly open at the deep voice, and I find Mr. Laker standing in front of me. “Mr. Laker. You startled me again.”
His deep blue eyes bore into mine. “Call me Landon.”
“Landon.” The name is unfamiliar in my mouth. Exciting and thrilling. A shiver races down my spine.
“You’re cold.” He shakes off his jacket, and before I can protest, holds it out to me. “Take this.”
He wraps the jacket around my shoulders, and I’m engulfed in a hazy aroma of whisky and spicy cologne. “Thank you.”
He pats the jacket down, and his hand lingers on my shoulder. The touch makes my head spin, and I wonder if I’ve had too much champagne. I’m not a big drinker; I did all that when I was younger. Now a single glass of good wine is all I allow myself.
So I know it’s not the wine that makes me lean toward him.
“Amy.” His voice is a caress, gravelly and strained. “You’re different than I remember.”
