Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (11 page)

Margaret grinned at him. “Probably for someone else. I don’t know how you keep track of all of us!”

“Probably.” Franklin nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Miss Story. You have a nice evening.”

Cameron pulled her toward the elevator and pushed the call button.

“You never answered my question,” he said, looking down at her with one raised eyebrow.

“I see Shane every day. He’s a huge asset to Story Imports. He’s . . . a good man.”

“A
good man
,” scoffed Cameron.

She dropped his hand and crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a censorious look. “Be nice.”

“God, it’s hot when you do that.”

Her eyes widened. “Do what?”

“Christ,” he sighed. “And that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush with heat.

“And that.” He stared at her and groaned. “Please stop.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” she said.

“Don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

The elevator doors opened, and she took a step inside, instantly aware of Cameron’s body behind hers—the strength of it, the heat, the raw maleness of him. She didn’t turn around as the doors closed. She could hear the soft sound of her own ragged breathing, feel the raging thunder of her heart. Muscles she hadn’t used in months clenched and released in flutters, wetting her panties, her body so primed for his touch that it would take almost nothing to make her come.

“Just tell me if you’re still with him,” he said, his breath hot on the back of her neck. His lips were so close, she would only have to lean back a little to feel them press against her hot skin.

“Why does it matter?” she whispered.

“It just does.”

She turned around in the tiny space, arching her back to lean against the elevator wall as she faced him. “Why, Cam?”

He grunted softly, his eyes darkening to onyx. “Tell me.”

She deliberately wetted her lips with her tongue, then pursed them together.

His breath hitched and his nostrils flared, so it surprised her when he pressed on with his line of questioning instead of reaching for her. But his voice was strangled as he demanded roughly, “
Tell me.
”

She stared at his lips as he spoke, then slid her eyes up to his, and all her sassy teasing took flight. The naked longing in his eyes—the pleading hope that struck a chord in her heart because she felt the same emotions coursing through her own body—made it impossible for her to cheapen his question with more flirtation or answer it with anything but honesty.

“Shane and I aren’t together anymore.”

His eyes fluttered with pleasure as he exhaled a long sigh. He opened his green eyes and grinned at her wickedly. “Thank God.”

***

An hour later they were sitting across from each other at Margaret’s dining room table, empty takeout containers between them, but for the one that Margaret held in her hand, eating one grain of rice at a time with wooden chopsticks.

After their charged exchange in the elevator, they’d somehow managed to segue to a pleasant conversation about the various restaurants in the area, and Margaret had schooled him a little on the Cabernet they were drinking. His relief at discovering that she and Olson were over was enormous and palpable, but he still didn’t know what exactly he was going to do about it.

Did he want Margaret? Of course. He’d wanted her for years. And that unintentional sexy-librarian thing she’d been doing in the lobby just about made him attack her in the elevator.

But adding the winery renovation to his docket hadn’t lessened the stress of his present circumstances, nor had it liberated the time he’d need to become romantically involved with her. He’d never been busier in his whole life. In fact, he was supposed to be working now, not having dinner with her. But when she’d asked? He just couldn’t say no to her.

Why? Maybe because, despite all the extra work and despite the fact that he’d barely seen her, he’d felt happier lately. He felt happy because he was spending time in a place she loved. He felt connected to her, even though he didn’t see her, like an intimacy was building between them simply by virtue of his growing love for The Five Sisters. And he did. He loved it. He loved every moment he spent working on the renovation of Margaret’s winery.

So much so, that he used it as a carrot throughout the day:

Get through this conference call and you can look at the plans again.

Finish these e-mails by five and you can drive out to Newtown.

Complete this spreadsheet and the moment you have it messengered over, you can call the contractor and check on the plans.

He wanted to deliver a beautiful venue for Jessica’s wedding, of course, but what he really loved was planning a state-of-the-art winery and tasting room for Margaret. Over the past two weeks, he’d somehow managed to add winery research to his never-ending to-do list, and he found he loved researching what made wineries bring in the most business. He’d decided that gardens and landscaping were extremely important, as was a covered porch wrapping around the building, with tables and chairs. The wineries that offered cheese and crackers or other highbrow snacks for sale sold more wines because the visitors lingered longer. And the wineries that partnered with local bands and offered music on summer Sundays were the hands-down local favorites.

He’d shared all this new insight with his architect, who, for the low price of forty thousand dollars, had dedicated four architects to Cameron’s project and delivered the first set of plans within five days of receiving the commission. With only a few modifications outlined in an e-mail, Margaret had approved them last week.

“What did you think of the plans?” he asked her as she chased another grain of rice around the white takeout box.

“I loved them,” she said, placing her chopsticks on her plate and the box of rice beside them.

“Really?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have approved them if I didn’t.” She offered him a small smile. “More wine?”

“Sure.” He paused, wishing she’d say more about the winery. “Is there anything you’d change?”

“Honestly? No.” She laughed softly, adding a splash of wine to her glass too. “I couldn’t believe the plans when I saw them. It was like a perfect winery materializing from my dreams. The porch? That beautiful long copper bar on the east wall? The way it looks like a barn but is still winterized? The loft upstairs, with office space and a small meeting room? I have no idea how you did it so fast, but I know I’m going to love it.”

“I hope so.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he said.

“When we were out at the vineyard, you mentioned your business—that it was in trouble. And I’ve been wondering . . .”

“You want to know more?”

She nodded. “If you’re comfortable sharing.”

He laughed softly. “If I’m not, it’s a little bit late now. We’re business partners, for all intents and purposes. Aren’t we?”

“I guess we are,” she said. She smiled, but it was polite only and didn’t reach her eyes. “So what’s the trouble?”

No, business partners wasn’t what
he
wanted either, but it was all he could offer her right now, so he prayed she wouldn’t ask him for more.

He took a deep breath and sighed. “My father started C & C Winslow in 1985 with his brother. At that time, it was called T & C Winslow:
T
for Taylor, my father, and
C
for Cameron, my uncle, for whom I’m named. My uncle Cameron managed the business for years after my father died, then turned it over to me and Christopher in 2012, and we changed the name to C & C Winslow. We doubled the clientele and added mergers and acquisitions to the established private equity business. But several months ago, Chris decided that he wanted to run for city office.”

“Controller, right?”

“Yeah. At first.” Cameron shook his head. “His plans have recently changed, though. He’s running for Congress this November instead.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He only entered the race two weeks ago. Still getting his campaign together. You’ll hear all about it soon.”

“That’s pretty amazing, you know,” she said.

Cameron bristled a little. He really didn’t care to hear how amazing Christopher was. Especially not from Margaret.

“Yeah. Well, I’m happy for him. But the thing is, I had sort of signed on for a two-man operation, and even though we’d taken on more deals, it ran really smoothly when Chris and I managed C & C together. And now . . .”

“It’s too much for one person?”

Being honest with Margaret was effortless, he realized, as he nodded at her. Something about her earnest voice and gentle eyes made it impossible for him to offer her anything but the truth. “It is.”

“You could hire someone,” she suggested.

He shrugged.
But that someone wouldn’t be Chris.
He didn’t want to work with some anonymous stranger. He liked working with someone he cared about—that’s what made it so rewarding.

“You could cut back on some of the business. Roll it over to another firm.”

Cameron reached for his wineglass and took a sip.

“Do you love it?” she asked, leaning forward. “I mean, do you love it enough to figure out how to make it work?”

He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “No, I don’t. Not anymore. When it was me and Chris, I liked it a lot. I loved working with my brother. Now? Trying to keep it afloat all alone? It’s an albatross. I hate it more every day.”

“Then why don’t you sell it and do something else?”

“Why don’t
you
do something else?” he asked, feeling a trifle defensive. “Or would you rather work for Story Imports than spend your time at The Five Sisters?”

“No . . . but my father . . .,” she started.

“But
my
father,” he echoed, reminding her who had started C & C Winslow.

“Yours is gone,” she said softly.

“So I should turn my back on his legacy?”

“Would he want you to be unhappy?”

“Would yours?”

Her eyes watered unexpectedly. “I don’t think he cares.”

“He’s your father,” said Cameron gently. “Of course he cares.”

***

Margaret shook her head, her vision blurring with tears as she articulated feelings that she’d never shared with anyone except her sisters. “Actually, I don’t think he does. In fact I’m quite certain that my happiness is irrelevant to him.”

Unable to look Cameron in the eyes, she took off her glasses and laid them on the table, then reached for her crystal glass and pulled it closer, blinking miserably at the dark red wine. She was about to take a small sip when Cameron’s chair scraped across the floor. Even though she didn’t look up, she knew that he was circling the table, a fact confirmed when his hands landed softly on her shoulders. She placed her glass back on the table, and he slid his hands from her shoulders to the back of her chair, shifting it away from the table and turning it so she faced him. Then he squatted down before her, placing his palms flat on the bare skin of her knees.

“Meggie,” he whispered tenderly, and she raised her bleary eyes just enough to find his looking back at her, searching her face like he couldn’t bear the sight of her pain. “It’s not irrelevant to
me
.”

She lurched forward in her seat, into his arms, sliding onto his lap as he sat down on the floor and cradled her against his chest. She wet the front of his starched shirt with her tears—tears she’d kept mostly bottled up since that terrible night at Forrester.

I don’t care if she’s lovely or not. I don’t care if she’s fat or thin, fair or foul, beautiful, plain, or downright ugly. I don’t know if she’s smart or stupid, interesting or dull. I don’t know, and I don’t care.

She cried for the father who didn’t want her.

She cried for the girl inside who desperately wanted to please him.

She cried because she hated going to Story Imports every day.

She cried because Cameron Winslow was holding her so tightly, she knew he was giving her permission to be as sad as she needed to be—without judgment, without condemnation—and it humbled her that this man, who’d been a trial to her life just weeks ago, was quickly becoming one of her most cherished friends.

“I hate to see you so sad,” he murmured, pulling the pins from her hair until it tumbled from its chignon, falling around her shoulders and down her back. He stroked it gently, soothingly, and her tears slowed to a trickle.

“I’m sorry,” she said, burrowing into his shoulder and closing her eyes. He smelled like soap and starch, clean and masculine, and she savored the warmth of his arms, the strength of him, the compassion and care.

“Don’t be.”

She slowly became aware that he was kissing her hair, his lips landing gently on her head, pursing and releasing over and over again, the light sounds making her breathing shallow and fast. She arched closer to him and leaned her neck back to look up at him.