Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (2 page)

Margaret placed her phone on the kitchen counter and pulled a wineglass from a cedar rack, then opened her refrigerator and withdrew the bottle of Viognier she’d purchased from a vineyard near hers last weekend. She poured a healthy splash into the glass, picked up her phone, and headed through the dining room into the living room, where she left the lights off and curled up on the overstuffed couch that faced an elegant white marble fireplace.

Swirling the wine absentmindedly in the dim ambient light from the streetlights shining through her windows, she closed her eyes and dipped her nose into the glass, inhaling the bouquet. It wasn’t a bad vintage—the familiar smells of vanilla, apricot, and oak filled her nostrils, and she sighed, relaxing for the first time all day. Leaning back, she swirled the wine again, then sipped, letting the cool liquid take over her mouth as she breathed slowly through her nose. Finally, with another sigh of delight, she swallowed, amazed that such a decent wine could be produced in Pennsylvania, and hoping that her own vintages would one day surpass her neighbors’ and rival her competitors’.

For Margaret, who’d earned her undergraduate degree in Paris and her sommelier certification in Bordeaux, winemaking was an art. As for wine drinking . . . well, it was a very sensual, very visceral pleasure that made her toes curl as she took a second sip.

All of the stress of the day started to slip away as she balanced her phone on the arm of the couch and took the diamond studs out of her ears, placing them carefully on the coffee table before her. Her wineglass followed, and she propped up her feet beside the glass, leaning back on the couch and closing her eyes. Without thinking, her hands reached for her phone, and she played with it, handing it back and forth between her palms, as her thoughts focused on Cameron Winslow.

Why did he dislike her so much? And why did it bother her so damn much?

Gulping her wine uncharacteristically, she placed the glass back on the table and headed into the kitchen for the bottle and returned to pour herself another splash. As a rule, Margaret never overdrank, but if anyone could make her break her own rules, it was Cameron.

Cameron . . . on whom she’d had a crush for as long as she could remember. Cameron . . . who’d been the first boy to show her attention when she was ten years old. Cameron . . . who’d moved away when his father suddenly died. Cameron . . . who lived directly below her apartment and about whom she’d fantasized since the moment she saw him standing there in the lobby last November, talking to Alex English. Cameron . . . with his tall, muscular body, thick black hair, and grass-green eyes.

Cameron . . . who couldn’t stand her.

She looked down at her phone, where his name and number glowed.

It was clear he didn’t want anything to do with her. He barely gave her the time of day when he saw her, and if he thought she didn’t notice all the times he pushed “Door Close” when she was running for the elevator, he was delusional. After bumping into her at the building gym two mornings in a row in December—both times he’d looked her over carefully before offering the most unbelievable scowls—he started running outdoors instead. Even in the almost-unbearable cold of winter, he ran outside instead of using the treadmills, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d rather run in subzero temperatures than risk running into her. She had no idea what she’d ever done to him. Hell, if memory served, Cameron had been the one who gleefully teased her in the years before he moved to London. In fact, if she concentrated carefully, she could still feel him tugging on her tight, neat braids at one of the neighborhood pool parties.

She shrugged defensively, catching her reflection in the glass of her windows, which looked out onto the darkness of Rittenhouse Square. Tugging the pins from her chignon, she loosened her thick, long, wavy hair, and it unwound, falling effortlessly around her shoulders. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of her simple white silk blouse, she tossed her hair a little, the crisp white and dark brown a sharp contrast. She took off her glasses and placed them on the coffee table, then stared at herself carefully. And yes, she looked younger and sexier and more approachable like this. But she also looked less polished and professional, and that simply didn’t cut it in her father’s world.

As if on cue, her phone started buzzing.

“Hello?”

“The Gallo-Fishtail Import numbers,” he barked without preamble.

“On your desk, Father.”

“I’m quite sure I asked for them to be e-mailed to me.”

And Margaret was quite sure he hadn’t because when Douglas Johnston Story gave a command, Margaret listened.

That said, arguing was futile.

“Father, I can send them over to you—”

“It’s too late,” he snapped. Then, under his breath, “Why one of you couldn’t have been born a boy . . .”

She winced but didn’t acknowledge the familiar refrain that had become more overt since her mother’s passing several years ago. “Really, I can forward them now, or—”

“I’m leaving the office now. You’ve wasted hours of my time tonight already, Margaret. Just have them e-mailed to me by eight tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You don’t get ahead by making mistakes, Margaret.”

“No, Father.”

“Take young Shane, for example. Flawless record here at Story Imports. Flawless. Why, he’s just about the son I never—ahem, I just mean, how are things going between you kids?”

His voice had changed slightly from angry and businesslike to politely conversational, and Margaret, who craved any warmth from her father, her only living parent, leaned into it.

“He’s very nice, Father.”

“He’s quite the go-getter. I like him, Margaret Anne. I like him just fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should, uh, you and Shane should come to dinner on Saturday night. In Haverford. Let’s show him the place again, eh? Show him Forrester. Show him his future.”

“Father, I—”

“Now, Margaret, your older sister was a terrible disappointment to me, and her behavior would have shamed your dear mother to no end. A downright embarrassment, if you want to know the truth. After what we spent on her education, she had every possible opportunity at Story, but she couldn’t cut the mustard. Now, you’re next in line and it’s your duty, girl—your
responsibility
—to marry an appropriate man and continue the Story line. We need a strong young buck to take over some day while you’re home with the little ones. And young Shane seems like just the ticket. Yes, he does.”

Margaret cringed as she reached for her glass, unable to answer her father. The words in her head boiled with the power of her fury, but if she let them loose, she feared, she’d alienate the person whose affection and approval she’d coveted for most of her life. Taking a long sip of wine, she swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced herself to be silent.

“Margaret?”

“Yes, sir,” she somehow managed. “I understand.”

“Dinner on Saturday, then?”

“I’ll speak to Shane tomorrow and ask if he’s free.”

“Of course he’s free for dinner with the boss!”

And there it was: the implication that she was totally irrelevant. It stung so badly, she had to work to keep her voice from breaking as she responded.

“Then I guess I’ll see you then,” she said, her heart heavy and feelings bruised.

Without another word, the line went dead, an indication that her father had gotten what he wanted and further conversation wasn’t required.

Tossing her phone to the far side of the couch, she blinked her eyes, embarrassed by the tears that burned there. It was no secret that Douglas Story had hoped for a son. That’s why he’d had so many children, only stopping when
unlucky
number five—Margaret’s youngest sister, Jane—had turned out to be
another
unwanted girl. Truthfully, though, he might have kept going if Margaret’s mother, Ellen, hadn’t hemorrhaged during the delivery, almost losing her life. Subsequent children simply weren’t an option, and since Douglas Story didn’t believe in divorce, he’d had to live with his great disappointment.

Alice, Margaret’s older sister, had refused to knuckle under and take an indefinite administrative position at Story Imports. After five years of paying her dues while the men around her received promotions, Alice, the daughter of the owner and founder, had expected a vice presidency. When their father passed over Alice and promoted the son of one of his golf buddies last summer, she quit with flaming colors, à la
Jerry Maguire
, standing on a desk and asking who at Story Imports valued their dignity and would like to work at a company where they would be appreciated. Only one person—Carlos Vega, the mail room coordinator—had answered her call, leaving his mesh cart abandoned and crossing the room to stand beside her.

“What’s your name?” Alice asked him.

“Carlos, Miss Alice,” her name sounding more like “Ah-leese,” according to Priscilla, who was interning last summer.

“Carlos? That’s Charles, right?”

“
Verdad
. That’s right.”

“Thank you, Charles. You won’t regret it.” Then Alice turned back to the roomful of Story Imports employees and asked again, “Is anyone else interested in a fresh start away from this hellhole?”

In Priscilla’s epic retelling, Alice’s invitation had been met with tense silence until their father bellowed, “Get out and good riddance!” from his office.

With that, Ahleese marched out of Story Imports with
Carlos/
Charles at her heels, and she’d never darkened the door again. Nor had she spoken to her father or visited Haverford since, and that included a very mopey Christmas wherein the other four sisters grieved her absence.

While Margaret admired and envied her sister, most days wishing that she had the strength to stand up to their father and walk out of Story Imports, she knew she couldn’t do it herself. She loved him too much. Since her mother’s death from a brain aneurysm several years ago, he was all she had, and if it was possible to please him, to meet his expectations, to impress him—and yes, to win his love—she had to try.

Of course
she’d prefer to spend all of her time at the vineyard.
Of course
she’d prefer to be her own boss, not a lowly administrative assistant in a company she should be co-running.
Of course
she’d rather be spending her days and nights with her hair unbound, in rolled-up jeans and bare feet, babying her grapes and sleeping at the three-room cottage she’d renovated at The Five Sisters Vineyard.

But that would disappoint her father. And she couldn’t do that. She just . . . couldn’t. And maybe someday, he’d see her worth and promote her. Maybe someday they’d run Story Imports together, as her mother had always dreamed.

With a deep sigh Margaret took her wineglass to the kitchen and turned off the lights before heading back to her bedroom. Falling back onto the plush, comfortable bed, she thought about Shane Olson—his thinning blonde hair, long nose, and cool blue eyes. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was appropriate and ambitious, well educated and from a good family. He could tell an off-color joke in a conference room and have the stuffiest of geezers in stitches, and he could wrap an arm around a grieving secretary and make her feel like he really cared that her cat died last night. Shane was a born schmoozer without the ooze, and walked away from deals with the upper hand while still smelling like a rose.

And for Margaret, whose biological clock had started ticking louder and louder in the past year, he was a possible candidate for a tepid forever.

The problem with Shane, however—besides the fact that Margaret felt very little attraction to him or chemistry with him—was that she would never be sure if Shane was dating her for
her
, or for her father, and regardless of how much she wanted a family of her own, she was determined not to let her heart be sacrificed until she knew for sure. She kept Shane at arm’s length, and though he had tried several times to coax her into more intimacy, he’d always been a gentleman when she firmly pushed his hands away.

Did she genuinely like Shane? She didn’t mind him. Her father had set them up on a date a few months before, and since then, whenever Shane asked her out, Margaret said yes. He was an appropriate person to date and would likely make an appropriate husband. She hadn’t really examined her true feelings for him.

But whatever they were, they paled in comparison to the butterflies that beat in her chest during a five-minute elevator ride with Cameron Winslow.

Holding up her phone, she tapped her contacts app and scrolled all the way down the alphabet to
W
. She touched Cameron Winslow’s name, and his number came up immediately. She opened up a text box.

I didn’t forget about you. Headed to bed. I’ll forward Geraldo’s information in the morning.

She pressed Send and rested the phone on her belly. She was surprised when it buzzed almost immediately, vibrating through her silk shirt, against her skin.

Sweet dreams, Meggie.

Her heart lurched into a gallop as she stared at the words. She debated writing back, but sensible Margaret took over, forcing her to put the phone in its charger and change into her pajamas.