East in Paradise Read online

“No big deal. I had a couple of extra minutes.” He brings the cup to his mouth, sipping almost tentatively. “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Thanks . . . um, I know you’re probably going to find this picky, but could you not do something unless you ask?”

  He laughs into his cup. “You want to talk to me about asking for permission?”

  “Yes. How could you have known I was ready for the topsoil to be pushed around? I always tell my staff assumptions are the worst. It’s better to ask permission rather than for forgiveness.”

  He nods. “Hm. First of all, I’m not staff. And I dunno, it’s kind of like how you should have asked me before assuming I would be okay with a camera crew hanging around my property.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” I protest, because he’s got my point all wrong. But a bell pulls my attention to the phone in my pocket. The caller ID tells me it’s Ellie Reyes, a Filipino chef from a fusion restaurant in Dallas. She’s our number one candidate for the position, and we’ve been emailing for the last couple of weeks. Through my muddled thoughts I’ll need to discern if she’s a good fit during this online face-to-face interview. “I have to take this.”

  He nods, wiping sweat with the back of his hand, and now his cheek bears a dirty mark. Then his hand touches his forehead and leaves two distinct fingerprints.

  I can’t ignore it—I point to the mess. “You . . . you’ve got dirt.”

  He palms his cheek, turning it gray. I can’t help but laugh. My experiences thus far with Mitchell Dunford have been weird, for lack of a better word. This moment is about as cute as realizing he has a grandmother he calls Granny who still drives him to town.

  I reach up and swipe the dirt with my thumb, and by the time my brain catches up to what I’ve done—this is twice today I’ve reached out to him—I freeze. Shit. What am I doing? I must have not eaten enough today, hypoglycemic from living on coffee and stress and this so-called natural fertilizer for the flowers up front.

  I drop my gaze and recoil, only to realize Mitchell has taken my hand in his, squeezing it then letting go. An intense heat rushes to my cheeks, equal parts uncertainty, awkwardness, and desire, not helped at all by the way he’s looking at me. Again, with this incredulousness.

  “I’ll wait for you at Mountainridge,” Mitchell says, voice hoarse.

  Right. He’s only here to get an explanation, not because he planned to help me this afternoon or because he felt a twinge of attraction between us.

  I shake my head in an effort to get my mind back on track. “I’m not sure how long this will take. If the interview starts out well, I might give her a virtual tour of the house.”

  “Makes sense. Just head on up when you can, then. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I’m grateful for his seemingly sincere tone, and head into the house, stealing a glance at Joel, whose face is shadowed behind his equipment and ball cap. Unlike my sister, a quick study of social situations who gives me detailed feedback on how I fared in them, this guy is deathly silent.

  Did the crew catch my rambling subconscious on camera? Can the viewers see right through me?

  First things first, though—the call.

  I press the green button and brace myself to lure this fantastic chef to Paraiso.

  10

  MITCHELL

  While the coffee was damn good down at Lavenderhill, desperate times called for desperate measures. Enter two bottles of a 2007 custom blend zinfandel grabbed from the back cellar—the favorite of my dad’s stash.

  Live stream? What the hell does that even mean? I’ve seen House Hunters and other renovation shows that tape their series over several days or months, where highlights are cut down to snippets and people are interviewed against a predetermined script. With these shows, there’s time to delete scenes, reshoot them.

  From the quick research I did after my shower, I gleaned that there’s no editing in live stream. There’s no deleting.

  It’s live. In the moment, off the cuff, you see what you get, live. And hence, the half glass of zin in my hand by the time the doorbell rings.

  I open the door to Bryn, hands clasped in front of her. Her expression is harried, face scrunched into frustration, which is unusual and alarming. I haven’t known this woman long, but today has brought out sides in her personality that fascinate me. At Lavenderhill: gratitude and tenderness, the soft touch of her skin. Currently: slightly unhinged and unsure of herself.

  I push my agenda for this meeting to the backseat, now curious. I step aside to let her in. “Hey, you okay?”

  She brings in the smell of the outdoors, of what I realize now is uniquely Bryn. The tops of her cheeks are pink from the walk up, and the tight bun she had earlier has come a little loose so wisps of hair frame her face. She’s holding a sweater in one hand, and her tank shows off her long, elegant neck. As she passes me, I catch sight of her exposed tattoo that extends well below the neckline of her shirt, trailing my gaze lower over her tight round ass, ensconced in psychedelic-patterned leggings. On her feet are red patent-leather shoes—the kind nurses and cooks use—and I swear, I never thought twice about them before. But on her, in this ensemble, and now gliding past me?

  I want to slip those shoes off, graze the skin of her ankles with my lips, trail them up her leg to the inside of her thigh.

  Her voice takes me out of my sinful thoughts. “No, I’m not okay. Talk about a fucking awkward day. Besides the thing with the sprinkler system, I felt watched, you know? It’s unnerving, not having privacy, having cameras everywhere. Then I had to talk about everything I was doing, and do you know how fucking hard that is for an introvert? I’m so exhausted.”

  “I can only imagine.” I trail behind her. “Feel like a drink?”

  “Hell yeah, I do.” As if the wine bottle were a homing signal, she makes her way to the kitchen and hops onto the barstool as though she’s done it a hundred times before. I take the other side of the stainless steel counter and pour her a quarter of a glass, which she doesn’t swirl, sniff, and sip. She drinks the damn thing down in one shot.

  I raise my eyebrows and pour her another quarter glass. She waggles her finger at me, signaling for the bottle. I hand it to her, and she tops off both of our glasses.

  “Oh, so this is how this day is going.” I laugh.

  “Is that okay? I know we have a ton to talk about. But can I just sit here for a second? It’s the first time I’ve been alone all day. Not technically alone, but . . . you get what I’m saying, right?”

  “Believe it or not, I do.” Relaxing, I settle into my stance. There will be time to grill her on the fact she put Dunford in a precarious position by allowing cameras on the property.

  For now, she obviously needs to take a load off.

  We drink as she vents. She mentions she’s feeling guilty about leaving her last job. She talks about today’s interview with the potential chef and how she thinks the live stream and the extensive renovation gave the chef pause at accepting the position. I listen but don’t answer, knowing I’m the last person she wants advice from.

  “What do you mean you know what I’m going through?” Seeing my confusion, she clarifies. “You said earlier, and I quote, ‘Believe it or not, I do.’ ”

  “I just meant I know being alone is separate from actually having people around you. Like, I could feel alone in a room full of people. And I could feel completely overwhelmed just being by myself.”

  Her eyes darken, connecting with mine. “That’s exactly how I felt today. I had two extra people in my house, but I’d never felt so naked and exposed. Despite knowing everyone was watching me, I felt so on my own. But after the camera crew left, everything kind of rushed at me—all this info and this stuff I know we need to talk about, but I’m still trying to process—”

  “It’s okay.” I interrupt her running thoughts. I want to give credence to her feelings, to console her
despite this position I’m in. To impart a couple of things I learned along the way. “Sometimes I find just talking about things helps. It’s not necessarily the advice you get, but the act of admission, you know? Putting words to how you feel—at times that’s half the battle.”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “And I’m cool just listening. We can talk about the business stuff later. Don’t worry, I’ll razz you enough when it’s time.” Making light of our situation, I grin.

  “Good, because I just . . . I just need to breathe.”

  An hour later, we’re both past tipsy and our conversation is easy and flowing. Bryn’s words are loose, languid, and run into one another. An empty bottle of zin, our middle ground, sits between us. The second bottle is on her side of the island, three-quarters consumed.

  “Like, it’s the simplest concept . . . you know, live. But it’s not, because it can make the smallest thing complicated.” Bryn sips her wine, juice box–style, like she’s thirsty. “For an unlimited number of hours, whenever it seems right and exciting, the cameras will transmit everything I do.”

  “Everything?” The total effect of tang and oak, combined with the 15 percent alcohol content, dulls my senses.

  “Yep.”

  It’s the fourth time I’ve asked her the same question, and still, it doesn’t quite sink in. “Everything.”

  Bryn takes another gulp, draining her third—fourth?—glass. “Yeah. Except for bedroom stuff, which sounded good when I signed the papers, and now . . .” She licks her lips, now stained red by wine. I wonder how much sweeter it would be to taste it off her bottom lip, to flick my tongue against hers. My mind skates to the image of Bryn in her wet T-shirt. That is, until she says, “I’ve signed a contract for a minimum of two months. At least until the opening.”

  The idea sobers me. “Two months? I can’t . . . I don’t agree to this.” Oh hell. I don’t want a bunch of cameras on my property, roaming around my childhood home, peeking out of windows to catch footage of me. Everything about coming back home to this life, on this mountain, is about having peace, to heal through these vines. Dunford is supposed to patch me up.

  There will also be questions, cattle prods about my life. My past. And fuck, how am I going to explain all of this to Levi and Cody?

  I’m left with a sour aftertaste in my mouth.

  Bryn pours herself another glass, to the brim.

  “I might have to cut you off there, buddy,” I say, though it’s too late. She already has her lips perched on the rim of the glass to keep wine from spilling onto the countertop.

  She lifts her gaze to me through long, lush eyelashes, sips deeply, then flips me off with both pinkies.

  “Mmm . . . kay.” Grabbing two water bottles from the refrigerator, I pause at the open door, let the cool air hit me in the face to calm me down. A slew of thoughts rush through me, but the one in bold, in spotlights, is that this woman has tested me and is testing me now. She signed a live stream contract on my property without telling me. I feel myself connecting with her. Despite her defensive posture, I want to know more about her. And yet I can’t, because she’s my renter, and has turned our contract on its head.

  “I’m overwhelmed.” Bryn slurs a melancholy, melodic tune, echoing my sentiment. When I turn, I see her glass is half-empty, and she’s standing but tilted slightly, weight on one leg. I reach out and confiscate the wine bottle before she thinks to refill her glass another time, pouring the rest into my glass. She hobbles closer to me, leaning heavily on the counter now. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. I mean, I know the hard stuff, the business stuff. I’m really good at it, at the numbers and the spreadsheets and the analysis. I’m a hard-ass.”

  “Really? You fooled me,” I say sarcastically.

  “Yep. But that’s what I have to be. You think it’s easy to manage a restaurant run by people who think they know what’s best? That would be my family and extended family, mind you. It’s like herding cats. But the worstest, hardest part?” Her eyebrows wriggle downward and she pauses. “Worstestest? Anyway—it’s being the strong one in my family. Everyone looks to me. If there’s a question, I’m the first person my sister and dad go to. And how dumb were they? Because I have made a horrible decision.”

  “What decision?”

  “This whole thing.” Her arms fly out in a sweeping motion—above, below, and behind her—and she sways. “Lavender-fucking-hill. Your lease is unbelievably expensive. My investor bailed on me. To stay afloat, I have to open earlier, fill every room with a guest every week through the winter, and make fucking DIY sprinkler systems so it’s cheaper, all because I saw that view and it spoke to me like nothing else. I made an emotional decision, and now I have no choice. That stupid live stream will bring me money and customers. So I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I’m a hard-ass, but this business is everything to me.” She covers her face with her hands.

  Shit. She’s falling apart. I lower my voice, and unsure where I should touch her, gently pat the sides of her shoulders. “Hey . . . Bryn . . . I get it, you know. But Dunford isn’t just me. I’m not alone in these decisions—”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted something so much?”

  The question stuns me. “Yeah.”

  “Wouldn’t you do anything to get it?”

  Oh man. I shake my head. Inhale to clear my brain. I reach across the counter for my glass. Down it, feel the warmth travel down my esophagus. Beg for another layer of haze to dull what I know is coming. And yet it doesn’t stop the memories from flooding me, drowning my vision with clear pictures of their faces. Blondes, brunettes, tall, short, women, men. Brothers. Sisters. “I would do anything,” I declare, because I would, and because I did.

  I did the best I could.

  Bryn raises her tearful eyes, rimmed in black from smeared makeup. “Then you’ll think about it. Don’t say no yet, please.” She steps onto my toes, rests her forehead on my chest.

  Oh man, oh man. This isn’t remotely copacetic. One, because this woman is so drunk she’s lost all sense. Second, I’m equally drunk. And third, because the hard-on that’s slowly developing won’t be easy to hide behind my thin hiking pants. “Bryn?”

  “Please,” she begs, tunneling her face into my chest, into the V neckline of my shirt, fingers wrapped around the waistband of my pants. I feel the smooth curve of her nose against the base of my neck, her hot breath on my skin. Then, wetness that can only come from her lips, those lips I can’t stop staring at when I’m around her.

  My eyes roll up to the ceiling, to the pitched log roof and white beams, as my dick hardens beyond my control. I force neutral thoughts into my brain—grapes, dirt, the sharp-shinned hawk, Pinus lambertiana, also known as the sugar pine—but all I get is the image of me bedding this woman throughout every inch of Dunford. Of her slick body against mine, me burying myself into her with an intensity only matched by our interactions: fierce, unrelenting, and furious.

  Then I feel pressure against my legs, the slide of a body against my calves and ankles. A meow.

  “Not now, King Lear.” I nudge him away with a foot, because my hands are beginning their crawl up Bryn’s back, pressing her chest against mine. I’m going to kiss her absolutely senseless.

  “The cat’s name is King Lear?” Bryn moans, drunk-distracted, mouth inches from mine.

  But the damn cat continues to meow. He’s whining, complaining, warning. Nonstop noise of the worst proportions that tugs at Bryn’s attention. Then I see it’s more than distraction. She’s confused.

  Because she’s as drunk as I am.

  My conscience gets the better of me. “Oh fuck. Okay.” I step back, and it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. There’s a sting, then relief because I know I’ve done the right thing. “I think we both need a cup of coffee.” And a cold-ass shower. Maybe a five-mile run.

  Her eyes cross for a moment. “I . . . I’m dizzy.�
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  It dawns on me then. “Did you . . . did you have something to eat today?”

  “No.” She pouts. “Wait. Eggs and rice this morning. But that’s it.”

  “No wonder. Let’s get you to the couch.” I move behind her and place my hands on her shoulders; she shuffles, eyes halfway open.

  “We should have kissed. Why did we stop?” she asks.

  “Because I’ve got a fucking conscience, apparently.”

  She laughs. “Consciences suck.”

  “Right now I agree with you a hundred percent.”

  She halts two feet shy of the couch. “Bathroom.”

  “Okay.” Pointing her in the opposite direction, I guide her to the bathroom. I turn her with a hand on her waist and flip on the light of the bathroom with the other. “You okay?”

  The mirror reveals the hot mess of this situation. My shirt’s wrinkled. Bryn’s top has a wet spot from where she spilled wine. We have matching red eyeballs, messy hair, and wasted expressions. She shakes her head at our reflection, then tips to the side, ever so slightly. “I . . . I think I’m good . . .”

  I peel my hand off her waist and shimmy out of the bathroom, then close the door. And exhale.

  That was too damn close. I’m grateful for King Lear and the sense to stop myself. This night would have ended even more awkwardly than I anticipate it already will.

  To give her privacy, I walk back to the kitchen and clean up just as the sun starts to set. This meeting is definitely over. I’ll walk her home, tell her the discussion is tabled, and there won’t be any live streaming until I can consult with my brothers and get the legalities straight. For now, sleep weighs heavy on my eyelids and I’m exhausted, in body and mind.

  Exhausted?

  I haven’t felt this kind of exhausted in days.

  Not wanting to waste the last of the wine, I down the rest in my glass, though I leave Bryn’s.

  “You okay in there?” I glance at the clock on the microwave.

  “Yeah,” she croaks. “But I need a shirt because I spilled wine all over myself. Why didn’t you tell me?”