Let It Breathe (4 page)

“Fetch what, his bong?”

“Don’t give him any ideas.”

Clay grinned. “Your family’s looking good. June and Jed haven’t aged a bit, and Larissa’s really grown up.”

“Yeah, she’s become quite the PR whiz. She does a lot for us around here.”

Clay was still smiling as Reese focused on the baby opossum so she wouldn’t be tempted to look back at him and blurt something stupid about how she missed him or felt proud of him. What did you say to a recovering alcoholic, anyway? Especially one whose gaze made you lightheaded and stupid and tingly all over.

She scratched the tiny animal and commanded herself not to think about that damn tingle. She’d been trying for years, and she’d even succeeded for a while.

Despite what Larissa said about the lack of chemistry between her and Eric, she’d been determined to make that marriage work. She’d shoved aside all her doubts and fears and unwelcome feelings about Clay, and she’d flung herself headfirst down that aisle with the absolute certainty she was doing the right thing in marrying her best friend. She’d been brimming with hope and determination and a love that sure as hell seemed like the right sort of love at the time.

How was she supposed to know there were so many kinds?

She could still feel Clay’s eyes on her as she set the empty bottle on her desk and stroked the opossum under the chin. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft.

“I’m proud of you, Reese,” he said. “Not just for the animal rescue stuff, but everything you’ve done with the vineyard.”

She looked up at him and nodded. “Thank you.” She felt warmth pool in her belly. It was possible the opossum had just peed on her, but more likely it was the effect Clay had on her. She turned and tucked Oscar in his cage before facing Clay again.

He was sitting with his hands folded on the desk in front of him, just watching her. She nodded at his clipboard. “Ready to talk business?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled. “This is a pretty ambitious project you’re taking on. The wine tourism thing?”

Reese shrugged. “We’ve gotten flak from some of the other wineries—especially Dick, the guy you just met from Larchwood Vineyards. It’s the whole ‘we’re not in this to make money, we’re in this to make wine’ thing a lot of vineyard owners like to say.”

“And what’s your take on that?”

Reese shrugged and picked up her letter opener. “We already make great wines. Doesn’t do us much good if no one knows that.”

“Good point,” Clay said, leaning back in his chair in a way that pulled his T-shirt snugly across his chest. Reese tried not to stare. “So how does the rest of the family feel about the big expansion?”

Reese began to roll the letter opener between her palms. “They’re all really supportive—Mom, Dad, Axl. We’ve been taking it slowly, starting up a wine club that’s been really successful, holding events and tastings. This event pavilion is sort of the next big step.”

She shut up as she realized Clay’s eyes were fixed on her hands. She stopped rolling the letter opener between her palms and waited.

Clay gave a nod that seemed to signal a change in tone, and Reese braced herself for whatever was coming next.

“Let’s talk numbers, shall we?” he said.

“Yes, let’s,” Reese agreed, annoyed by the formality in her own voice. She began to roll the letter opener again, comforted by the curve of it against her palms.

“You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Good.”

“Okay. The area you’ve staked out looks great. I don’t anticipate problems with excess rock or anything like that, and the permits should be pushed through by the end of today. We could break ground as soon as tomorrow.”

“What’s the bad news?”

Clay sighed. “As we spelled out in the bid, the materials estimates were based on market conditions and prices at the time of the bid. We gave that to you two months ago.”

“Has something changed?”

Clay nodded. “For starters, you’d planned to use wood certified by the Forest Stewardship Council for green building—that gives you the points you need for LEED certification.”

“Right. So what’s the problem?”

“FSC-certified wood just doubled in price in the last month.”

Reese stopped rolling the letter opener between her palms. “Oh.”

“It gets worse. The plan was to use recycled fly ash in the concrete so you get LEED points for that. But there’s been a recall after significant amounts of arsenic were found in a large shipment of fly ash from several big mines in Virginia. It’s tougher to get now, which means—”

“Let me guess—the price has gone up?”

Clay nodded and handed her the stack of papers he’d been holding. Reese took them from him and studied the figures in silence, feeling sick. She looked back at Clay. “Why didn’t Dorrington Construction plan for this?”

Clay cleared his throat. “We did. There’s a contingency in the bid for shifts in market price. If you’d signed off on the estimate two months ago, we might have been able to purchase materials sooner, but—”

“Things don’t move that quickly in a family-owned operation like this,” she said, swallowing back a surge of panic. “You know that. It took a lot of time to get our finances together, and then the whole family had to agree.”

The tension in her own voice made her cringe, and Reese wasn’t sure if it was the result of grim news or how unsettled she felt having him so close after this many years. She was almost sure she could feel the heat of him from across the desk, could smell the wood shavings on his skin. The thought made her cheeks grow warmer.

“Look, we can alter the plans here,” Clay said. “If you want to change tracks and not go the green-building route, there are a lot of less expensive things we can do.”

Reese closed her eyes, feeling her head start to throb. “Not an option.
Wine Spectator
is doing a huge spread on Gold LEED certification. It’s been all over our website for months, and we’re holding a special Memorial Day event where we’ll be unveiling the model.”

“Right.”

“Environmental stewardship is the backbone of our branding on this whole project. This is Oregon—this is what wineries hang their hats on here.”

Clay nodded. “So you’re committed.”

Reese looked at him, gritting her teeth. “You mean I’m screwed.”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“Clay Henderson, missing the opportunity to say
screwed
in any context? That’s a first.” She grimaced at the waspish sound of her own voice and forced herself to take a few deep breaths before speaking again. “So now what? I don’t spearhead multimillion-dollar construction projects on a daily basis. What do I do now?”

He gave her a small smile, one that seemed to warm the brown pools of his eyes, and Reese felt her belly begin to liquefy. “The other pages I gave you outline different options,” he said. “Review the numbers, let us know if you want to change course.”

Reese frowned. “What if I want to ditch Dorrington Construction altogether and use a different builder? What then?”

“That would be unfortunate,” Clay said, stone-faced.

“That’s your professional assessment?”

He sighed, folding his hands on the desk. “That could get ugly. You’ve already signed the contracts, and I’m certain my employer will hold you to that.”

“Thank you for your candor.”

“No problem.”

She looked down at her hands, surprised to see they were shaking. She clenched the letter opener more tightly.

“Look, this is all a little overwhelming,” she said. “First you show up out of nowhere, claiming you’re clean and sober. Now you’re not only going to be working here, but you’re telling me this bid is so far off the mark that I can’t even see the fucking mark.”

“Your frustration is understandable.”

Reese dropped the letter opener, something inside her bubbling over the top now. “Frustration? You make it sound like I’m sexually deprived, not in danger of losing this whole construction project.
Frustration
is putting it mildly.”

She saw his jaw clench, and he opened his mouth to say something. He hesitated, then closed it. The old Clay would have jumped all over the
sexually deprived
comment, but this one sighed.

“Are we talking about the numbers or about me being here?”

Reese picked up the letter opener again, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry. The bid thing isn’t your fault. I know that. I’m just upset, okay? I should have pushed the family to move faster or—well, whatever. It’s done now. The ball is rolling and you’re here now.” She bit her lip. “
God
, you’re really here? It’s all so—so—”

Clay cleared his throat. “Look, if it helps, let me say this. Wine was never my poison. You know that. I was a beer man, and this isn’t a brewery.”

“It’s still alcohol, and you’re an alcoholic.” She flinched at her own words. “I’m proud of you for getting sober and everything, but well—aren’t alcoholics always alcoholics, even after rehab?”

“That’s true.”

Her throat felt tight with emotion, and she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the bid anymore. “So to be surrounded by temptation like this—”

“I can handle temptation,” Clay said, his voice so steely Reese sat back a little in her chair. “I’m well acquainted with temptation.”

Reese didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even blink as Clay’s eyes held hers, warm and a little dangerous. He reached across the desk as if to touch her, then stopped, drawing his hand back.

“I take it one day at a time, just like I’ve been doing for the last four years.”

Reese took a shaky breath, her mind not entirely occupied by thoughts of Clay swilling from barrels of Reserve Pinot. That wasn’t the temptation that worried her. She looked up to see those root-beer-brown eyes studying her with an intensity that made her stomach clench.

Her mind flashed again to those muscular shoulders, the sheen of sweat on bare skin, the feel of—

The letter opener fell from her palms.

Clay reached over and picked it up, handing it back to her without a word. His fingers brushed hers as she reached out to take it. Before Reese could draw back, he wrapped his fingers around her fist and held tight.

“I can handle this if you can,” he murmured.

Reese took a deep breath and looked down at his hand engulfing hers. “I can handle it.”

That evening, Clay leaned back from the dinner table and grinned at Eric and Sheila. “You guys have to stop feeding me like this. You’ll never get rid of me.”

Sheila beamed and passed him a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. “It’s so wonderful having you here for a little while.”

Clay helped himself to a cookie, taking note of the gentle warning:
A little while
. Translation:
Don’t get too comfortable, buddy
.

Hell, he deserved that. Clay had still been hanging around when Sheila and Eric started dating a few years after Eric split with Reese. They’d all seen him at his worst, so how could he blame them for thinking he might drag them all through it again?

He’d just have to work harder to prove that wouldn’t happen.

“Eric’s thrilled to have his oldest friend back in town,” Sheila continued as she took a cookie for herself and set it on a little white plate.

Eric squeezed his wife’s hand as he tipped his chair onto its back legs and took a bite of cookie. “You hear that?” he said to Clay through a mouthful. “She just called us old.”

“Actually, she just called
me
old,” Clay pointed out as he grabbed another cookie. “Which makes no sense, since I’m eight months younger than you and brimming with youthful vigor.”

Eric snorted. “You’re brimming with something, all right.”

Sheila stood and began to stack the empty plates, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear as she leaned across the table. Clay got to his feet, setting his cookie aside and reaching out to take them from her. “Let me get those. I’ll do the dishes while you guys relax.”

“Absolutely not,” Sheila said, giving his hand a light swat. “You’re a guest. You boys sit here and catch up. There’s some of that nonalcoholic beer in the fridge, or I could get you some more water or—”

“I’m fine, really,” Clay insisted. “Just let me help with the dishes—”

“Sit!” she commanded.

Clay sat. “Thank you for dinner, Sheila. It was delicious.”

“No problem, honey. I’m heading out to watch
The Bachelor
with Reese and Larissa, but you boys stay here and get comfortable.”

Eric and Clay began to stack plates as Sheila maneuvered around the table and headed for the kitchen. Clay glanced at Eric, noticing the way his friend watched his wife with undisguised fondness. He tried to remember if Eric had ever looked at Reese that way.

Stop thinking about Reese
,
he commanded himself. He grabbed another cookie and took a bite.

Eric dropped his chair back to all four legs with a thud. “I think we’re grounded.”

“Huh?”

“The cookies, the fake beer—my lovely wife is terrified we’re going to sneak out for a wild night on the town.”

“Ah, I see—she’s afraid I’ll be a bad influence?”