Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (4 page)

“You were off in dreamland.”

She couldn’t help smiling as her sweet dreams faded. “I guess I was.”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“You paid your penance,” she joked, gesturing to his chin. “What’s up?”

“Your father . . . Well, he invited me for dinner at Forrester on Saturday night, but I . . .” He let his words trail off and dangle between them as he searched her face.

“Yes! Oh, yes! I’m so sorry, Shane. I meant to ask you yesterday if you were free.”

Shane recovered with a confident smile and nodded. “I’m always free for you, Margaret.”

He meant the words to be romantic—that much was clear from the dopey grin that accompanied them—but she wasn’t even the slightest bit wooed. Her father had essentially asked her sort of-boyfriend out on a date. How exactly was Margaret meant to take any pleasure in that?

She sighed, mustering a warm smile. “I’m so glad. Father would have been terribly disappointed.”

Shane’s eyes clouded over for a moment, and he took a step back to lean his elbow on the half wall of her cubicle. His voice was soft, almost tender, when he asked, “How about
you
? Would
you
have been disappointed?”

No. Not a bit
, she thought.
If you weren’t free, I’d be able to spend all weekend at The Five Sisters in jeans and a sweatshirt. Now I’m going to have to drive back to the city on Saturday afternoon to be a dutiful daughter and sit through a long, awkward dinner with you and my father. If anything, your availability has
ruined
my weekend.

Her biting thoughts shamed her a little, and her cheeks grew hot under his scrutiny. Shane was a decent person. They’d had several lovely dinners and attended a gorgeous concert at the Kimmel Center. The nights that they cooked dinner at her apartment had always been enjoyable. At the very least, she considered Shane a friend, and she couldn’t deny he had all the qualities she should be seeking in a potential mate.

Ticktock, ticktock
, reminded her biological clock.
You’re almost thirty, best get flirty.

His eyes were soft and sincere, almost encouraging, as they searched her face, and she felt another stab of guilt because the idea of sleeping with Shane held zero allure. The few times she’d kissed him, it had been like kissing one of her cousins.

Perhaps it was time to be honest with him and let him know that she’d never be able to see him separately from her father, that her father’s involvement in their courtship made it impossible for her to consider a future with him. She wanted the rush of falling in love, and Shane felt like . . . business. She didn’t know if his feelings for her were genuine or not, but just in case they were, she had a responsibility to let him down gently, didn’t she?

“Shane, listen, I feel that I should—”

“Well, well, well!” her father’s voice boomed. “If it isn’t two of my favorite people!”

Shane turned to Douglas Story with an enthusiastic grin, and Margaret sighed. So much for honesty. The moment was gone.

“All set for dinner on Saturday, Shane? Margaret?”

“Yes, Father,” said Margaret, rewarded by her father’s approving nod.

“I’m so pleased.” He turned to Shane, putting his arm around the younger man’s shoulder. “Margaret
finally
got around to forwarding the Gallo-Fishtail numbers to me. Come take a look.”

Mouthing, “See you Saturday?” over his shoulder, Shane followed her father down the hall. Her delicious thoughts of Cameron Winslow were traded for a here and now that felt ever more oppressive.

Margaret hadn’t texted Cameron a reminder, but she hadn’t canceled their meeting tonight either, which meant, as far as he was concerned, that they were still on.

With butterflies buzzing in his stomach and a rare feeling of exuberance making his stride quick and determined, he walked home from the office without that all-too-familiar drowning feeling for the first time in weeks. Tonight felt different. Yes, there were too many calls to return, too many contracts to review, too many meetings to schedule, and too many reports to write, and yet, he felt almost buoyant as he rounded the corner where he’d bumped into her yesterday morning. Why? Because tonight he was going home to Margaret.

And he couldn’t wait.

Glancing at his watch, he found it was seven forty. He had just enough time to stop by his apartment and change into a fresh shirt and some jeans before ringing her bell, which is why he didn’t stop to chat when Diego greeted him in the lobby.

“Señor Winslow!”

“
Buenas noches
, Diego,” he answered, nodding politely as he beelined for the elevator.

Diego followed him. “Uh, Mr. Winslow, I heared that you gonna use my
primo
, uh, Geraldo, to do the renovations at your apartment, yes?”

Cameron pushed the elevator call button again as he glanced at the graying, potbellied super. “That’s the plan.”

“Miss, uh, Story, she say you need a bathroom?”

“That’s right.”

Diego pursed his lips and shrugged apologetically. “Geraldo don’t do the
baños
.”

“Huh. He does kitchens and not bathrooms?” Cameron grinned. “That almost sounds prejudiced.”

“Yeah, well,” said Diego, wringing his hands together, “he no good on the bathroom work. You gotta find someone else.”

“Excuse me, Diego,” said Franklin, the doorman at the Newbury Arms, who reentered the lobby after helping another tenant into a cab. “Did you finish unclogging dryer four in the basement yet?”

Diego huffed softly and turned away from Cameron. “No, I just, uh, I need to—”

“—fix dryer four,” said Franklin. “And since I’m sure Mr. Winslow here has somewhere he needs to be, let’s stop wasting the man’s time.”
“Uh, yes. Fine, okay,” said Diego, who gave Cameron one last troubled look before waddling away.

“Hey, Franklin,” said Cameron, turning toward the elevator as it dinged its arrival. “You ever seen Diego’s cousin Geraldo doing bathroom renovations here in the building?”

Franklin took a deep breath and scratched his forehead. “Yes, sir. I believe he was here last fall working on Mrs. Montgomery’s apartment. The bathroom, if I’m not mistaken.”

“So he definitely does bathrooms,” Cameron confirmed, wondering why Diego had said differently.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Winslow. You thinking about doing some work up on your place?”

He nodded. “Mm-hm. Me and Miss Story, both. And Diego recommended his cousin to her.”

“Well, if Diego’s any indication, I’m sure Geraldo will do a fine job. Diego gets chatty now and then,” said Franklin with a chuckle, “but he’s the handiest handyman I know. I’m sure his cousin’s in high demand.”

Of course. That was probably it. Diego probably assumed his cousin’s schedule was too full. But Cameron would just as soon let Geraldo decide how much work he was interested in taking on. He could refuse Cameron’s job himself if he wasn’t interested.

“That’s great.” Cameron stepped into the elevator. “You have a good night.”

“You too, Mr. Winslow.”

***

Margaret had rushed home at seven o’clock and changed into a simple cream cashmere sweater dress, which she cinched with a brown leather belt, and matched with heeled boots the same color as her hair. For a moment, she’d considered letting her waves tumble wildly around her shoulders, but she reminded herself that Cameron wasn’t her boyfriend and this wasn’t a date. He was merely coming over to meet with a contractor and settle on a mutually convenient work schedule.

Not a date. Just a meeting. Not a date.

She’d opened the Dugat-Py as soon as she arrived home and decanted it, closing her eyes as she inhaled the complex mix of licorice, blackberries, and toasty oak. Her little vineyard would never produce a Pinot Noir, most likely—it was a difficult grape to cultivate, and Pennsylvania wasn’t an ideal climate for it—but it was her favorite wine, and with just a hint of apprehension, she hoped Cameron liked it too.

Opening iTunes to her favorite Joshua Radin album, she queued up “The Greenest Grass” and checked her reflection in the center hall mirror. She looked businesslike with her hair back and glasses on, but the softness of her dress counted for something, didn’t it? If she wasn’t mistaken yesterday morning and Cameron
had
found her attractive, another form-fitting cashmere outfit should confirm it for her, and she hoped, oh, how she hop—

The doorbell rang, and she took a deep breath, taking a quick peek at the soft light flooding from the living room, and opened her door.

Time stopped when I saw you . . . I could barely breathe.

Joshua Radin’s softly sung words were the perfect soundtrack for the way her breath caught and her eyes widened with pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He leaned one hand against her doorway, with his body taking up most of the space in front of her. A light blue dress shirt was rolled up at the cuffs to reveal muscular arms, tan and veined, with a smattering of dark brown hair. They were strong arms that made something inside her wake up and pay attention, and she wondered what they’d feel like holding on tight to her bare skin.

“Hi,” she breathed, sliding her eyes from his arm to his face. His regular five o’clock shadow traced the line of his jaw, and she clenched her fist by her side to keep from reaching up to touch the bristles. Would they be soft or rough? Would they mark her skin if he was to drag his lips over her collarbone, to the base of her throat, pausing at the racing pulse to flick his tongue—

“Eight, right?”

“Hm?”

“You said eight, right? To talk to the contractor?”
She lifted her gaze from his lips to his eyes and felt her face flush with heat. “The contractor. Of course. Yes. Come in. Right.”

And then she promptly shut the door and pivoted around, heading for the kitchen to pour them each a glass of wine. It was only when she heard his muffled voice from behind the door call, “Meggie? Um, Margaret?” that she realized she’d just slammed the door in his face.

“Oh God!” she whimpered, cringing as she raced back to the front door. She swung it open, and Cameron, who was about to knock again, fell forward, just as he had the other morning, catching her around the waist and hauling her against his chest.

His eyes were bright green and wide as they stared down into hers, and his body pressed against hers with every quick, shallow breath he took. Leaning her neck back to look up into his eyes, she felt her body light up like it had just been screwed into a three-hundred-watt socket, every nerve ending on high alert. The heat of his hand against her hip. The steel of his arm pressing against her back. His belt buckle flush against her belly. His eyes boring into hers like he was helpless to look away.

“Meggie,” he murmured. “I—”

“Sorry,” she said, daring a quick glance at his lips as she wet her own, “for slamming the door in your face.”

“Not that I don’t deserve it,” he said gently, his lips quirking up just a little.

“Do you?” she asked breathlessly.

“Sure,” he said, loosening his arm around her. “For all those times I was such a jerk to you in the elevator.”

And just like that, the spell was broken. Because he was right. He
was
a jerk to her—she had no business mooning over him like a lovesick teenager. He didn’t deserve her regard, and as for her attraction?
Muster a little dignity, Margaret!
She could try her best to ignore it.

Not a date. A meeting.

Margaret stepped back, smoothing her hair and lifting her chin. “Yes, well . . .”

“Really, Meggie.” He shook his head, grinning down at the floor before looking back up at her. “
Margaret.
I owe you an apology. It’s been a stressful time at work, and every time I run into you, I’ve been boorish. I’m sorry.”

She searched his face, wanting to believe in his sincerity, but cautious too. This was the same boy who’d gone out of his way to exasperate her as a child, who’d been, in his own words, boorish for months. Trusting him was out of the question. But could she open her heart enough to accept his apology and give him a chance to change her opinion of him?

Margaret.
I owe you an apology.

Stranger than Cameron Winslow offering her an olive branch? The way her heart had clenched with sorrow when he corrected himself and called her Margaret. How wrong it sounded slipping from his lips. How unaccountably sad it made her feel.

“Meggie.”

“What?” he asked, crinkling his forehead. “But you hate—”

“Meggie,” she said again, her voice quiet but firm. She didn’t attempt to explain why. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she could.

“Okay.
Meggie
,” he said, a grin spreading his lips and making his eyes shine and sparkle. “Good thing, because I would have slipped, you know.”

“I know,” she said, sighing like it bothered her even though it didn’t—not even a little bit, which was so surprising, she couldn’t help giving him a small, bemused smile. “What I
don’t know
is whether or not you like Pinot Noir.”

He winked at her. “I do, in fact.”

She gestured to the living room with an open palm, looking at him from under her long lashes. “Then make yourself comfortable, and I’ll pour you a glass while we wait for Geraldo.”

As she poured the glasses, her hand trembled a little, and she rested her palms on the kitchen counter for a moment to catch her breath.

What had just happened? Had she just willingly made amends with her lifelong tormentor and triple-secret crush? Her heart raced as she wondered what this meant. She’d reached the ripe old age of twenty-nine perennially at odds with Cameron Winslow. She didn’t even know what a truce between them would look like.

But it
felt
. . . like flying. Like soaring. Like something worth hoping for.

Reaching for the wineglasses, she pushed through the door to the dining room, her boots across the parquet floor warning him of her approach. She found him standing in front of her sofa, looking at an oversize picture book entitled
Grapes
, which had a gorgeous cover picture of a Tuscan vineyard at misty dawn.

“Nice book,” said Cameron, placing it back on her coffee table.

“It’s my favorite,” she confessed, handing him his glass.

“That’s what you did, isn’t it? When you were in Europe? Didn’t I hear somewhere that you studied wines?”

She nodded, swirling the dark red goodness in her glass, ridiculously pleased when he unconsciously did the same. If he’d guzzled a giant sip without showing any respect, it would have told her something important about him and crushed something delicate and hopeful.

“I loved learning about wine—drinking it, making it. Almost more than anything. I think I’m more at home at a vineyard than I am anywhere else. In fact, I
have
a, well . . .” Her excited voice trailed off. She was about to tell him about The Five Sisters, but she didn’t know what he’d think about her owning her own vineyard, and it would hurt her feelings if he laughed at her dreams of becoming a local vintner.

“What do you have? Tell me.”

“Promise you won’t make fun?”

He nodded, his eyes almost tender. “I promise, Meggie.”

A new warmth sluiced through her from his use of her nickname: now that he had permission to use it, she found she savored the sound of it. She grinned up at him. “I have a vineyard. That is, I own one.”

“In Italy?”

“No. Here. I mean, here in Pennsylvania.”

“Where all world-class wines are born,” he teased.

“You promised,” she warned him.

“I’m sorry. Tell me more.”

“It’s only a small place. Ten acres. But that’s enough for a couple different kinds of wine.”

“And you make them? Yourself?”

“I will. I will make them. I’m still getting the place up and running. It was pretty rundown when I bought it last fall. When it’s ready, I want to have events there too: weddings, parties, tastings. I want it to be a destination, you know? A fully functional vineyard and winery. It’ll be heaven.”

“You’re full of surprises.” He shook his head, grinning at her with wonder. “I never would have guessed you were most comfortable out in a vineyard . . . in the great outdoors.”

“Why not?”

His eyes rested on her hair for a moment, then dropped to her bespectacled eyes. “Um, no, uh, no reason.” He asked quickly, “What’s the name of it? Your vineyard?”