“She said this is just for this week, but I’d love to help her get to opening day.”
“That’s weeks away,” he points out. “And you have a show to prepare for. How much work do you have left to complete?”
“Two paintings,” I say, pleased that he’s aware of my deadline. “But one is half done and the gallery will inspire me. I should paint today, though. I’d actually really like to get a brush in my hand.”
“I’m glad to see you embracing your work again. After we talk, just go hide upstairs and do what you need to do. We’ll hang out here and order in dinner later this evening.” He lifts the lid to a pizza box. “For now, we have this. Abel actually left us a few slices.” He walks to the oven behind him and turns it on.
“You’re hungry?” I ask incredulously. “How can you be hungry? We just ate not that long ago.”
“Almost two hours ago,” he says, glancing at his industrial-looking watch, with a thick black leather band and silver face that fits well with his black jeans and biker style boots. “That’s a long time with all that fighting and fucking we just did.”
I laugh, shaking my head, the laughter part, something I’m not sure I did all that often before I met Nick. “The things that come out of your mouth, Nick Rogers.”
“You get special treatment,” he says, grabbing a pan from the drawer under the stove and setting it on top. “You should hear what I say to those I don’t like. Because I’m not a nice guy, remember?”
“All too well,” I assure him, joining him on that side of the bar and helping him load the tray with pizza. “I can just imagine what your courtroom must be like,” I say, lowering my voice to imitate him. “Tell me, Mr. Murphy. Right before her death were you fighting with her or fucking her?”
“First,” he says, grabbing the other two pizza boxes. “My voice is much deeper than that. Second, I usually make those kinds of statements long before we ever get to court, and then we don’t go to court.”
“How often are you in court?” I ask, setting an empty pizza box on the counter beside me.
“A lot of my work is done for contracted, long-term clients, which means I negotiate and litigate on their behalf as needed. But overall, only about ten percent of my time is spent in court, while another thirty percent is spent in mediations.” He sticks the pizza in the oven and sets the timer, his mood turning serious. “Let’s sit and have that talk so you can get to painting. And to bed. You now have work tomorrow.”
It’s then that realization hits me. He starts to move and I grab his arm. He turns back to me, arching a brow, so very tall, broad, and bigger than life in too many ways to count. Bigger inmy lifethan anyone else has ever been. “What’s up, sweetheart?”
“I just needed to say something.”
“You have my full attention.” His hand settles at my waist, and I swear I don’t know how it’s possible, but I feel this man everywhere when he touches me in one spot. “Youalwayshave my full attention, Faith,” he adds, his voice low, intimate.
And what’s really amazing to me is that I believe him. I feel his interest, his engagement, and not just now. Always. He is more present in my life than people I have known for years. “It just hit me that I didn’t even consider saying no to Sara and rushing back to Sonoma.”
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to decide.”
He tilts his head toward the table. “Let’s sit and figure it out,” he urges.
I nod and we both claim our barstools from earlier, and face each other. “Why don’t you know?” he asks, returning to the point rather than moving past it, his hands bracketing my legs, our knees touching. “Just say whatever comes to mind, and you’ll have your answer.”
“I’m excited about working with Sara and painting and my show in L.A. and so many things, but the moment that I forgot to worry about the winery because of those things, tells a story.”
And instead of telling me what I mean, he asks, “And that story is what?”
“That I’m counting on the winery running without me, and that means that I’m counting on your help.”
“Good. I want you to. Because you can. I’m not going anywhere, Faith, and clearly, I’m doing my best to make sure that you don’t either. I owe Sara for the assistance on that one.”
“I’d already decided to stay,” I remind him, wanting him to know that I’m here for him.
“I know you did,” he says. “But let’s face it. The winery comes with a long history of pulling you there. I have a short one of pulling you to me. I’d like to help you find a way to cut off the drain it has on you.”
“You mean by paying off the debt and rewarding Kasey for taking charge.”
“Among other things,” he says, “but before we talk about money. I want to go over the documents with you, and with full disclosure, I drafted them for Abel.”
I laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. You have to be the driver.”
He doesn’t laugh with me as he usually does, not this time. “I do,” he agrees, his tone serious. “It’s who I am. You need to know that. My instinct will always be to take control.”