Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (5 page)

Aside from her sisters, she hadn’t told anyone the name yet. She had yet to decide on a logo, so she hadn’t had a sign or labels made, but for whatever reason, she heard herself telling Cameron, “The Five Sisters. The Five Sisters Vineyard and Winery of Newtown, Pennsylvania.”

He nodded, laughing softly, a deep, marvelous rumble that made her toes curl in her boots. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks,” she said, blushing with pleasure. “It doesn’t have a sign yet, but it’s the vineyard next door to Harrell Reserve. Have you heard of them?”

“Harrell wines? Sure.”

“They’re decent, but mine will be better.” She smiled at him, raising an eyebrow saucily. “Did you know I’m actually a trained and certified sommelier?”

“Are you? No. I had no idea.” He gestured to her with his wineglass. “Impress me. Tell me all about this one, Mademoiselle Sommelier.”

“Ah, this one,” she purred, moving around the coffee table to sit down on the edge of the couch, watching as he did the same, his denim-covered knees turned toward her, but not close enough to touch. “This one is . . .
bellissima
!”

“
Sì, signorina. Ma perché
?”

“You speak Italian,” she murmured, her insides clenching with a hot wave of lust.

“Just a little,” he said. “So? Tell me why it’s so beautiful.”

***

Frankly, Cameron wasn’t sure if he was talking about the wine or about
her
.

She seemed so different tonight: less stiff, more soft. Less cautious, younger and,
Christ
, sexier, too. Was it just being in her own space that had wrought such a change in her? It made him wonder what space she inhabited on a daily basis that made her seem so tense and sharp all the time.

From the moment he walked through the door, he’d known that maintaining his thin veneer of disregard was going to be impossible. The way her huge brown eyes had widened, doelike and soft, as she gazed up at him? He was a goner. He’d gladly stand in her doorway forever if she’d look up at him like that for the rest of his life.

And of course he had to torture himself by wondering if those eyes went all wide and soft as she climaxed . . . or did she close them as her lips parted in ecstacy? Likely goddamned fucking Olson knew the answers to both questions, and it made Cameron’s blood boil.

He glanced over at her as she lifted the wineglass to her face, bending her head just a little, her eyes closing slowly as she inhaled the smell of the wine. She was a fucking work of art, this woman, and—
Holy Christ!—
the way she’d just purred “Ahhh, this one”? He was glad the denim of his jeans was still thick and new. Hopefully it would keep the fabric from tenting.

He watched, mesmerized, as she righted her head. Her eyes were still closed, but her voice was warm as honey, slow and smooth, as she murmured, “Candied black fruit. Spice.” She dipped her head again, and his mind went to filthy places watching it bob beside him. “Mmm. Fresh herbs. Kirsch. Oak. Mmm,” she sighed. “Heaven.”

And, oh fuck, even the hardest of hard denim wasn’t going to be able to combat the rush of blood that swelled his cock, pumping it longer and harder in his jeans with every word she whispered.

Cameron thought he was worldly. He thought he knew what sexy was. Five seconds ago, he would have answered it was a naked woman, spread eagled and willing on his bed, her skin flushed, her pupils dilated, her pussy hot and tight, ready to suck him forward and beg him to finish inside. But he’d known fuckall about sexy until Right. This. Minute.

Because Margaret Story—perched on the edge of her couch in a sweater dress that covered most of her body, her doe eyes closed, her pillowed lips making love to a glass of wine—had just officially blown Cameron’s mind.

Whoever he’d always thought she was? He was wrong. She wasn’t some sheltered librarian who needed him to come along and unleash her wild side. She wasn’t some helpless field mouse whom he’d swoop down on and catch in his teeth. Though she was self-contained, she was also passionate. She was sensuous and sexy as fuck without even trying, without even knowing, just because she was sitting there breathing, smelling like lilacs, and telling him what made a good wine great.

Goddamnit, he wanted to
kill
Shane Olson.

She opened her eyes slowly, languidly, righting her head and offering him a small smile.

“Don’t you agree?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Black fruit and spice.”

She nodded, swirling her glass again before raising it. “Should we toast to something?”

Toast?

He was barely able to put together a coherent thought aside from internal caveman grunts  that basically amounted to
Want Margaret. Kill Shane.

“Um,” he stalled, falling into her eyes and wishing he’d had a little warning about this facet of her so he wouldn’t have been blindsided. She was like a dormant volcano, gray and cool for as long as he’d known her, that was suddenly alive, churning with unforetold heat. The whole world wobbled uncertainly before it started spinning, as it would if he fell off a tall building, spinning around and around before splatting on the pavement. His attraction to her felt about that dangerous.

“Will you excuse me?”

He placed his untouched glass of wine on the coffee table and stood up. He needed to get away from her. Between his cock and his stomach, something was about to give.

“Oh.” She looked startled and a little stricken.

“The bathroom?” he prompted.

“Through the hallway, turn left through the arch, first door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Following her instructions, he made his way to her bathroom and closed the door with a sigh of relief. Flicking on the light, he stared at himself in the mirror, clasping the back of his neck with one hand and giving his reflection the finger with the other.

“What the
actual fuck
is wrong with you?” he growled softly. He ran the cold water and splashed his face with a handful, using a fluffy white hand towel to mop his cheeks dry. Patting his crotch down and taking several deep breaths, he muttered, “Get it together, Winslow.”

Through the bathroom door, he heard the sound of her doorbell, and while part of him was pissed he’d missed out on a few more minutes alone with Margaret, the larger part of him was mindful that, regardless of his attraction to her, he still wasn’t in a position to do anything about it.

That, and he’d have to be a total dick to go after a girl who already had a boyfriend.

Cameron stood quietly in the kitchen doorway, watching with an interest that bordered on fascination as Margaret explained to Geraldo that she wanted to take the existing butler’s pantry, tucked in an alcove of her kitchen, and renovate it into a fully functional walk-in wine cellar.

She wanted the pantry lined in brick and outfitted with a special climate control device that would keep the closet at 55ºF at all times. She had researched the best lighting to keep the wines stable, and she wanted the shelving to be eight feet long along the three walls and finished in mahogany because, as she explained, mahogany wouldn’t warp or swell due to the humid temperatures required to keep the wines happy.

Since she’d found a craftsman in Upstate New York who would be building the shelving to her specs, it was up to Geraldo to gut the existing pantry, install the climate control system, do the brick masonry work, install the recessed lighting, and have the closet ready for installation by August, when the shelving would be ready.

In awe of her knowledgeable and capable explanation, Cameron almost failed to notice the way that Geraldo only half listened, his keen eyes taking in a lot more than the renovation space, including her expensive espresso machine, the shiny silver platter on her dining room table, and—after nodding at Margaret to confirm he was taking in every word—her derriere as she leaned over to point out a possible issue with existing electrical wires.

When Cameron cleared his throat loudly, Geraldo’s face whipped back to look at him, as if surprised to find another man in the apartment. And while Cameron couldn’t see his own expression, he was quite certain it warned Geraldo that any more lingering glances at Miss Story’s ass wouldn’t be tolerated.

“You must be Geraldo,” said Cameron tightly, holding out his hand.

Geraldo, who was a lean, muscular man, considerably younger than Diego, smirked at Cameron, his smile showcasing a gold-capped tooth. He took Cameron’s hand, giving him a very firm handshake. “Yeah.”

“You’re Diego’s cousin?”

“Yeah. I do work for him sometimes.”

Cameron dropped the younger man’s hand and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture intended to be intimidating. “How many apartment renovations have you completed?”

Geraldo leaned back against the kitchen counter, his eyes sharp, but his face somehow sly. “A lot. I learned the stone work from my
tío
, Diego’s pops, who’s the super a few doors down. And I learned the rest from my older brothers.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. And so long as I’m working on this closet, you should know that the recessed lighting she wants is gonna be a problem. This fancy plasterwork can get messy when you start digging around in it, and I’m not sure these old apartments have the ceiling depth for it.”

Hmm. Despite his age, which Cameron guessed at about twenty, and his demeanor, which was relaxed at best and more than a little fresh, he actually seemed to know what he was talking about. Cameron chided himself for rushing to judgment based on appearances and relaxed his stance.

“What’s the solution?”

Geraldo rubbed his small, cropped black beard. “Might be able to cut and repair, but most likely I’ll have to take down the old ceiling and install drywall to accommodate the fixtures.”

“Doesn’t sound too terrible.”

“It’ll be noisy for the upstairs neighbor,” said Geraldo.

Cameron shrugged. “Well, the upstairs neighbor is me, so I give you permission to do whatever needs to be—”

“Oh, you’re not her—”

“Excuse me, boys,” said Margaret, commanding their attention, hands on her slim hips, a no-nonsense glare in her eyes. “But since this is my apartment and my project, perhaps I could be included in the conversation.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Geraldo, nodding at her. “I just thought you was his Jeina.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows.

“I thought you was together. Like he was calling the shots.”

She scoffed. “No, and no.
I’m
calling the shots. He’ll show you what he needs done upstairs in his apartment once we’re finished here. Which we are . . . as long as you’re free to handle the work on weekends only. Do you have any questions?”

“No,
mami
. I got it. Weekends is fine. I can do it for you, as long as he don’t mind me needing to dig around in his floors a little.”

“Her name is
Miss Story
,” said Cameron from behind him, “and if you need to dig a little, we’ll work it out.”

Geraldo turned slowly and grinned at Cameron, and Cameron couldn’t decide if he liked the younger man or not. He wasn’t opposed to a little swagger in a twenty-something kid, as long as he was capable, smart, and respectful. Capable, he believed based on Diego’s recommendation. Smart, he was fairly certain based on his knowledge and the sharp look in his eyes. Respectful? All signs pointed to
hell, no
.

“Weekends is good for me,” said Geraldo, turning back to Margaret. “I’ll get started on the rip-out next Saturday. That work for you?”

She nodded. “Yes, thanks. And your fees?”

“Five hundred up front for expenses, twenty an hour after that. I’ll bring you receipts for stuff I buy. I work mostly alone except for my family. And I prefer cash.”

“That’s fine,” she said. Her voice lowered to a strict librarian no-nonsense warning: “Now, Geraldo, I won’t be here on the weekends while you’re here working, but your cousin vouched for you.”

“You don’t need to worry,
mami
. . . Miss Story. I’ll treat your place like it’s mine.”

“And we’ll swap cell numbers so you can call me should you have any questions. Shall I give you a key?”

He thought this over for a second, flashing a quick glance at Cameron. “Nah. Keep your key. I need to get in, Diego will let me up.”

Reassured, a lovely smile broke out on Margaret’s face as she extended her hand. “Then we have a deal. I’ll leave the money on the counter for you next Saturday morning.”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

She dropped Geraldo’s hand and looked up at Cameron, as though uncertain about what should happen next.

Cameron cleared his throat. “I have a project upstairs, but I’d only want work done during the week. Interested? It’s a bathroom.”

“I’ll take a look, but I’ll probably ask my brother, Huicho, if he wants the job. I ain’t as good with pipes.”

“Fine.” Cameron cast a glance at Margaret before looking back at Geraldo. “Can you wait for me in the hall for a second?”

“Yeah. I’ll be talking to you, Miss Story.”

“Thanks so much, Geraldo,” she said, handing him a slip of paper with her cell phone number and waving goodbye to him.

Cameron watched him saunter out of the kitchen and waited until he heard the front door close before turning to face Margaret.

She took a deep breath and sighed, smiling at him. “He seems capable.”

“A little too cocky for his own good.”

“He’s young.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And anyway, finding another building-approved contractor would be a chore. He knows Diego, he can come and go easily, and it sounds like his family can help him with any details that need a second set of hands.”

All true. And yet Cameron still felt unsettled about having Geraldo in Margaret’s space. He couldn’t explain why—call it a gut instinct, perhaps one he’d have about
any
man other than himself so close to her. Which led his thoughts directly to Shane Olson.

Olson, the lucky bastard who could listen to her murmur
herbs
and
oak
all day long if he wanted to, who could see what was beneath her sweater dress, touch her perfect little breasts, sucking a pebbled nipple between his fucking lips as she—

“Cameron?”

He gulped. “So I guess you spend your weekends with Olson?”

“What?” She stared at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Oh! I didn’t know who you were talking about for a moment there. Do you mean Shane?”

Cameron nodded tightly.

She shook her head, placing her hand on the kitchen counter as she faced him. “We’re not quite that exclusive yet.”

This was news.

This was epic news.

Epically good to his cock. Epically bad to his head, which quickly reviewed every sensible reason he shouldn’t become involved with her right now.

“Is that right?”

She lowered her eyes demurely, shrugging one shoulder. “We’re dating, but, well, I haven’t invited him out to Newtown yet. I just . . . I don’t know. He’s more of a beer drinker, and I . . . Well, Shane’s a wonderful person, but I spend my weekends out at The Five Sisters and . . .”

“ . . . and you’re not quite that exclusive yet,” Cameron repeated in a low rumble, taking two steps closer to her and placing his palm near hers on the smooth marble counter.

Wetting her lips, she raised her head and nailed him with her big, brown eyes. “No. We’re not.”

“I’d love to see it sometime.”

“The Five Sisters?”

He nodded, still looking deeply into her eyes. If he had chanced upon this softer, relaxed, more playful Margaret in her apartment, he could only imagine the version of her he’d find in the country, at her vineyard, where she was most happy. He clenched his jaw, his thumb reaching out to touch hers, to trail softly, slowly, down the length of hers, the brief, butterfly-wing-like contact more erotic than he would have guessed.

“I’d like that,” she murmured, straightening her neck and back, which thrust her breasts forward.

The sound of the front door opening made them both start, and Cameron stepped back from her.

“Mister? You need me to stick around or what?”

“Uh, yes,” called Cameron. “Coming.” He turned back to Margaret. “Thanks for the wine.”

She was breathless when she answered. “You didn’t drink it.”

“But I will,” he promised, his voice low and determined. “Another time.”

***

Margaret raced back to her apartment on Saturday night after spending Friday night and Saturday at The Five Sisters, but the traffic was heavier than she’d expected, so she arrived home late and had to dress quickly for dinner. She chose a smart, comfortable navy pants suit with an ice-blue silk tank top, and twisted her hair into a simple bun. Fastening her favorite sapphire studs into her earlobes with one hand, she rifled around in her jewelry box with the other for the matching sapphire tennis bracelet, then sprinted to the door just as Shane rang her doorbell.

“Shane!” she exclaimed, a little out of breath. “Come in.”

“Hello, Margaret,” he answered, his voice cooler than usual as he lingered in the hallway, head bent over his phone instead of smiling at her in greeting. “I would, but there isn’t time. We’re cutting it close as it is.”

She glanced at the grandfather clock behind her. He was right. It was six thirty, and cocktails started promptly at seven. Douglas Story was a stickler for punctuality.

“You’re right, of course. I’ll just get my wrap.”

When she returned with her pashmina wrapped around her shoulders, she pulled the door closed behind her, walking next to Shane down the hallway to the elevator. He was silent as they stood side by side waiting for the door to open, and Margaret peeked up at him. Was he clenching his teeth? His face seemed tense and troubled.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” he answered tightly, ushering her onto the elevator.

In all the weeks she’d been dating Shane, he’d never behaved this way, his words clipped and short, refusing to meet her eyes. Had something happened? She was completely in the dark if it had.

“I can tell something’s wrong, so you may as well just tell me.”

He turned to look at her as they descended, his blue eyes wounded and cautious. “I called you earlier today. Quite early this morning, in fact, to see if you wanted to spend the day together.”

“Oh? I was out of town.”

His eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe her. “Really.”

“Shane! I was out of town.”

“Okay. Then who was the man in your apartment? The man who answered the phone when I called?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Please don’t deny it. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Shane, truly I don’t . . .” And then it occurred to her. Geraldo. He had started the demolition work this morning. “Did he have an accent?”

“You know he did,” answered Shane sourly.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if you’d come into my apartment for a moment instead of pouting in the hallway, you’d have noticed that my kitchen is ripped to shreds because I’m having it renovated.” She raised her eyebrows disapprovingly. “The man you spoke with was my contractor, Geraldo, who really shouldn’t be answering my phone when I’m not there. I’ll need to have a word with him.”

Margaret stepped out of the elevator and Shane grabbed her elbow, turning her to face him. “Margaret, I’m sorry. I’m an ass.”