Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I step closer and lower my voice. “Listen, are you busy later today?”
He finishes zipping the duffel bag then stands up to his full height. Always—but especially right now—it feels like he towers over me. His brown eyes lock with mine for the first time all day, and my stomach swoops in response.
“No,” he says with a hard edge.
I beam. “Great, because I’d love to hang out. You know, maybe even have a third date.” I scrunch my nose, rethinking quickly. “Wait, is it our third date? There was the vineyard and the restaurant and then I guess the creek kind of counts, right?” I smile. “So maybe this is date number four.”
I’m waiting for that trademark Sawyer Garnett smile. I would kill for a dimple right about now, but his eyebrows stay furrowed and his cool expression doesn’t soften. “Think that’s a good idea, Madison?”
His tone almost makes me take a hesitant step back. I’m not sure what he means. “Because of the Matthew stuff?” I venture.
I watch his jaw tighten, that muscle flexing there before he shakes his head, and then there’s the smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes and something is slightly off.
“You know what? Come on over tonight. Yeah, I’d love to see you.”
CHAPTER 11
For my fourth date with Sawyer, he texts me simply:
Vineyard
5 PM
I’m taking that to mean I’m supposed to meet him at Starlight Vineyards at that time, but I would have liked a little bit more information. Are we having another picnic? Hanging with his family?
I have no idea what to wear, so I go with a simple midi-length sundress, pale blue and cinched around my waist. Fortunately, my afternoon nap helped me sleep off the rest of my hangover, and I feel like my usual self as I pull into the parking lot five minutes ahead of schedule. Other than Sawyer’s truck a few yards away, the place is deserted. We’ve got the whole vineyard to ourselves.
I’m relieved that Sawyer’s already waiting for me, leaning against his truck’s tailgate. Seeing him, I cringe at being slightly overdressed. He’s wearing jeans with dirt stains, old boots, and a simple white t-shirt. He looks like he’s been working outside all day, and if I should be slightly repulsed by the sweat near his temples, turning his dark brown hair black, I’m absolutely not. He looks tan and glorious, the kind of guy whose body is built on hard work rather than hours spent inside a gym. I don’t pull myself out of my full-on ogle session until I’m close enough to feel the burn from his eyes as he takes me in.
“You should have worn jeans,” he says, sounding unimpressed.
I smile. “Well how was I supposed to know? You didn’t give me any heads-up. It doesn’t matter though. This dress isn’t fancy or anything. Target’s finest.”
He ignores my joke and points down to the ground beside him.
“Your boots from last time.”
Oh? So we are having another vineyard picnic? I don’t mind one bit. I would gladly eat every meal from now until I die out here among the fragrant grapevines.
“Once you put them on, grab a bucket,” he adds.
I look over at the pile of huge metal buckets, freshly rinsed and stacked up against the industrial building behind Sawyer’s truck. By the time I have one in hand, Sawyer has already taken off toward the vines.
“Keep up,” he shouts back.
I add a pep to my step, feeling like I might need to all-out sprint to have any chance of catching him.
I laugh. “What’s the rush?”
He doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that if I have a bucket, it must be because we’re going to pick some grapes. Oh! Maybe Sawyer’s going to take me through the whole process from start to finish: harvesting through bottling. I’d love to know how they make their wines at Starlight Vineyards. A few of my college friends went to Napa Valley for a girls’ trip last year, but I couldn’t join because it coincided with a huge wedding weekend for Evermore Events. I was bummed at the time, but this will more than make up for missing out. How many people can say they’ve had their own personal tour of a vineyard with the owner’s handsome grandson?
Well…I’m sort of with him. At the moment he’s a football field ahead of me.
“You’re really tall, you know!” I call out to Sawyer, who’s starting to become nothing more than a distant speck on the horizon. “I have to take two or three steps for every ONE OF YOURS!”
He doesn’t slow down. If anything, it’s like he’s leaving me in the dust on purpose.
Eventually we stop, but it has to be half a mile from the parking lot, or more. I’ve lost track of the twists and turns we’ve taken, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit I have a cramp in my side from walk-running after him.