When we break contact, I am grinning, riding the high of a kiss I had no idea I’d missed so much while he was away.
Then I frown because this has disaster written all over it. I don’t like this feeling. Me missing him is not part of the deal. When have I ever sat around waiting for someone? Not ever. Not once. Bren is the first, and he can’t be.
He is passing through. I am one tour stop of many. How many women does he have sprawled all over the country at every major city whereIndustrial Novemberstops? I don’t want to think about it. And that right there is the worst of it all—I’ve never cared about that before.
Not once have I wondered about my lovers’ past lovers. I’m not a jealous person because I have no right to be, given my past and my sexual preferences, but suddenly I care a lot about Bren and how many women he is currently seeing—because it isn’t just me. He has to be seeing more women. He is a rock star, after all. I am not the only idiot currently enthralled by him, am I? No thought could be more unsettling.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You aren’t happy to see me?”
“No, I, uh, I’m very happy to see you.”
“You were frowning—”
“I was?”
Bren nods. “Come on. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. Really. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
He grins in that boyish way that looks so out of place on that angry-looking face of his that so rarely smiles for the camera. “I wanted to surprise you,” he says.
“Well, I’m surprised...and sorry. I can’t get away tonight.”
“It’s all right. Can I wait at your place until you get off work?”
“Then what?”
“I was hoping to persuade you to come to Napa Valley with me—”
My eyes bulge. “Napa Valley?”
He nods. “You ever been?”
“No! I’d love to go. The wine tastings alone! I could make great contacts for distributors—”
“Whoa, whoa.” Bren cuts me off. “It’s only for the weekend, and it’s not a working weekend. I promise I’ll take you back some other time for business if that’s what you want, but this weekend, I don’t plan on sharing you with work.”
“This weekend?” I ask.
Bren nods. “We fly out tomorrow afternoon. We have the evening Friday and the rest of the weekend, then fly back Monday.”
He is so damn pleased with himself, it only pisses me off more. “I can’t go this weekend.”
“Come on. You own the place. You can do whatever you want—”
“No, Bren. I can’t.”
Is this man serious? Many people assume that because I own my own business, I can take off whenever I want. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am harder on myself than any other boss could ever be. I am not a slave to my business, because I love doing what I do, and it’s true what they say: when you do what you love, it’s not work. But I am not about to drop the ball and let myself be whisked away by someone who is so out of touch—he clearly doesn’t get it.
“Why can’t you go this weekend?”
“You should have mentioned this last night on the phone. I could have told you it wasn’t possible.”
“You have yet to give me an explanation.”
I glance at the partition between the bar and the kitchen. Through the small circular window on the door, Rubén’s baseball cap comes into view along with the top of his head. When my gaze lands on him, his eyes widen, and he ducks out of sight. Martín follows, peeking through the window until he mimics Rubén with the same look of alarm on his face. Last to show his face is Joe. He just smiles wide, clearly happy that Brenner Reindhart is at our bar. I have the sudden sensation this must be what it’s like to be in a fishbowl.
I pinch the bridge of my nose then turn back to Bren. “Look,” I say. “We can go on a trip another weekend when I’ve had the time to make arrangements—”