I glare at them both. “What do you mean?” The waitress delivers another shot glass in front of me, much to the disgust of my friends, and I smile gratefully up at her, actually looking in her eyes versus her tits. I wonder if she appreciates that.

Probably not.

“Go after her,” Gage urges. “Go to her hometown and tell her you want her back.”

I grimace, finish off the contents in my shot glass and then grimace again as the vodka slides down my throat. “You make it sound so easy.”

“That’s because it is,” Gage says with a slight smirk. I’d like to wipe it off his face with my fist. Must be the vodka still talking. “Just hop on a plane and go to that little Podunk town of hers and find her. Can’t be that hard to figure out where she lives, her address. When you see her, tell her how you feel.”

I let his words sink in and swirl around in my brain along with a heavy dose of vodka. I could do that. Maybe. “What if she rejects me?”

“Then at least you tried,” Archer adds. “Then you won’t have any regrets or what-ifs. Those what-ifs will kill you, man. Trust me.”

Huh. He’s right. I wonder how I would even get to Cactus, Texas. Fly into somewhere and rent a car, I assume. I don’t know her grandma’s name. But I bet everyone would know who Bryn James is. The most beautiful, sweetest, kindest, sexiest woman ever.

“I’ll do it.” I curl my hand into a fist and pound it on the table, making my shot glasses and the now-empty beer bottles on top of it rattle. “I’ll go make flight arrangements right now.” I start to stand, but both Archer and Gage wave their arms at me like they’re trying to flag my ass down or something.

“Slow your roll, my friend,” Gage says, shaking his head with a chuckle as I fall back into my chair, my head spinning. “You need to sober up first. Look at you, three shots of double vodka and you’re done for.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, my mind filled with images of Bryn. Smiling Bryn. Beige Bryn. Naked Bryn. Sad Bryn.

I frown. I never want to see sad Bryn again. I need to find her.

I need to go make that woman mine once and for all.

Chapter Fourteen

Bryn

“GIRL, YOU BETTER clean out that chicken coop and something quick! That rooster looks ready to tear into his girlfriends. He sure don’t like walking in shit!”

Sighing, I toss my phone—the very iPhone Matt let me keep despite having purchased it for work purposes—onto my mattress and exit my bedroom to see what my grandma is hollering about now.

She’s standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes. I wish we could afford a dishwasher but that’s so not happening. Staring out the window, she’s watching the chicken coop in the backyard, a fragile-looking structure one of the neighbor boys built for her a few years ago.

“What did you ask me to do?” I sound resigned. Of course, I am, when the only job I can seem to find in this godforsaken town is doing odds and ends for my grandma around the house. I didn’t get that job at the Soap-n-Snip, answering the phone and sweeping up hair. Stacy Jo Nesbitt got that job. She graduated two years after I did, and she already has two babies to take care of.

She deserves the job far more than I do.

“The chicken coop, baby doll. It’s a shit storm of epic proportions and that snotty, mean-as-hell rooster hates it when the crap piles up.” Grandma cackles again. She loves saying crazy things, shocking people. As she gets older, it gets worse and usually I ignore it or laugh with her.

But today, the very last thing I want to do is laugh. It’s hot outside, and I don’t want to be out there scooping up chicken crap.

“You want me to clean it out now?” I ask, my shoulders slumping.

“I sure do. Look at that cock.” Another cackle. “He’s gonna peck the head of every chicken out there if you don’t take care of it and quick.”

I go to stand next to my grandma and see that she’s not exaggerating. The rooster is strutting around in the small fenced-off chicken yard, pecking the head of every poor innocent chicken that approaches him.

Typical male. That rooster is a complete asshole.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll go clean it.”

“Don’t forget your waders,” she calls to me as I head toward the garage. “And a bucket and a shovel so you can scoop up all that crap!”

I grab the bucket and the shovel she uses special for the chicken coop then slip on the old rubber boots I bought at Walmart years ago that I’d wear when it rained or snowed, which is rare but still. They’re white and hideous, scuffed up after years of wear, but I don’t care. I’m wearing an old ratty tank top and a pair of denim cutoffs along with them. The people of the great Napa Valley would probably shit themselves if they saw me, but I’m out here in my grandma’s backyard with no one around for miles.

I’ve got nobody to impress.

Rounding the side of the house, I head for the chicken coop and open the gate, thrusting the shovel out to hold back the rooster, who’s a mean old jerk that would love nothing more than to jump me from behind and spur me with his claws. He’s done it to me before, and I nearly had a heart attack, he scared me so bad.

But this time I’m prepared. You can’t turn your back on him or he’ll sneak attack you, like your worst enemy.

God, if I really thought about it, I could learn a lot of life lessons out here cleaning up the damn chicken coop. I laugh and shake my head as I start scooping up the chicken poop, which has somehow piled up into little mountains along the inside of their caged area.

It’s really freaking disgusting.

It’s been a month since I left New York City and went back to St. Helena. I went to the winery early the next morning and cleaned all my personal belongings out of my desk. Gave my notice at my apartment, not caring that I had to pay another month’s rent for breaking the lease, even though I was leaving at that very moment.

I just wanted the hell out of there.

It took me a few days to pack up all my stuff, finalize some things, and get everything prepared for the move. But when I was finally ready to take off, all packed up and headed to the gas station before I went roaring off into the sunset, I decided to check my mail one last time. And found a check from DeLuca Winery—three months’ wages. Severance pay, it said on the notes line.

That check both burned my ass and thrilled me down to the bone. I didn’t want to take his pity pay, but I also wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, as my grandma would say.

I never did quite get that phrase but whatever. It fit.

So I went to the bank, deposited all that money and then hit the road. It took me six days, but I finally made it only to find myself with no prospects, no energy, and sadder than I’ve ever been in my life.

I miss Matt. I was dumb, running away from him and my feelings. He’d been so willing to face the troubles beside me head on, and I walked away. Let him go, let him slip right through my fingers like he didn’t matter.

God, I’d been such an idiot—I could tear up right now just thinking about it.

But crying over our lost relationship isn’t going to bring him back or bring me peace. I messed up, and I needed to face facts. Chalk it up to a mistake made and a lesson learned.

Don’t let a good man go, is what my grandma told me when I explained to her what happened a few nights ago. I’d held onto my story, my blow up with Matt for weeks until my grandma finally found me crying on the back porch and point blank asked what the hell was wrong with me.

That had been her one sentence of advice when I finished.

Don’t let a good man go.

Too late, Grandma.

Sighing, I rub at my forehead with the heel of my hand before I start scooping up more crap. I should’ve worn gloves, but I forgot. At least I’m not touching the poop directly, thanks to the shovel.

God, what a transformation I’ve undergone. One month ago, I was in New York City staying at the most beautiful hotel I’ve ever seen in my life, and now I’m digging out chicken shit.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I fill up practically the entire bucket with chicken poo, constantly thrusting the shovel in the rooster’s direction when he comes at me, always on the defensive around that guy. I’m starting to sweat, I probably stink and my feet feel all squishy and disgusting in the rubber boots.

I’ll need a shower as soon as I’m done with this horrendous chore. No wonder my grandma doesn’t want to deal with it.

“Bryn?”

I still, turning my head to the left. I swear I just heard Matt’s voice call my name. Great. Now I’m going crazy and hearing things.

“Lousy men,” I mutter, shaking my head and pointing the shovel at the rooster, who looks ready to jump me at any minute. “You’re all alike. Ready to jump on a woman and tear her apart before she can put herself back together again.”

“Bryn, what the hell are you doing, talking to a chicken?”

Standing completely straight, I turn slowly, the sun suddenly shining in my eyes. I cover them with my hand to find—

Oh my God, to find Matthew DeLuca standing in my grandma’s backyard, on the other side of the chicken coop, looking gorgeous in a pair of khaki shorts and a wine-colored polo shirt.

“I’m not talking to a chicken,” I explain, my voice weak. “I’m talking to a rooster.”

“Same difference?” Matt asks, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

“Don’t tell that to the rooster. You’ll only piss him off,” I mutter, turning and pointing my shovel at the very creature I’m talking about, who’d gotten closer to me what with my distracted state.

My heart is racing, and I can’t believe Matt’s standing here. With me.

But why?

“You uh, look good, Bryn.”

He’s a liar. I look crazy, and I know it. Turning more fully to face him, I kick out one foot, showing off the boots. “You like them?”

“They’re interesting. I prefer seeing you in those tiny denim shorts though.” He whistles low, a rush of pleasure flowing through me at the sound. “Your legs look mighty long in ’em.”

Giddiness courses through me at having him here, with me, in Cactus, Texas, checking out my legs and telling me I look good. If anyone looks good it’s him, all sexy and handsome in the shorts and the polo, his dark hair a haphazard mess, his face covered with a shadow of stubble.

If I wasn’t dressed like a fool and standing amongst chickens and their crap, I’d run over and throw myself at him.

“Shit!” I yell when a sharp pinch digs into the back of my knees. I turn and swat at the rooster who attacked me. Turn my back on him for a second too long and look at how he treats me. “Goddamn asshole!” I screech, swinging the shovel at him. Thankfully he struts away, and I snatch up the bucket, backing out of the coop until I feel the gate directly behind me. I unlatch it in a hurry and slam it shut, leaning against the chicken wire for a brief, relieved moment as I try and calm my racing heart.

Only to turn around and find Matt laughing at me so hard, I’m afraid he’s going to double over and collapse onto the ground.

Matt

I SHOULDN’T LAUGH. Bryn just about got the scare of her life, if the expression on her face was any indication. I hadn’t any chance to warn her, and it had been quite shocking to see that rooster fly in the air so fast. One minute we’d been flirting and chatting, the next a wild, puffed-out red rooster came at her, his legs extended and his claws digging right into the back of her legs.

That had been horrifying. The funny part? The curse words flying out of Bryn’s mouth, made even more humorous by her thick accent. She’d been pissed. Furious that the rooster jumped her and tried to take a hunk of her flesh out of her legs.

“That wasn’t funny you know,” she says as she approaches, which launches me into a fresh round of laughter.

“Oh yes, it was,” I say between breaths.

She stops directly in front of me, dropping the bucket by her booted feet. I look at her, really look at her as the laughter dies in my throat. Despite the crazy outfit, she looks hot as hell. The tank top is torn and bleach stained, clinging to her breasts, and those denim shorts should be illegal they’re so damn short. I can’t help but wonder if she’s even wearing any panties underneath because if she is, they’re pretty damn tiny.

But those white rubber boots are the finishing touch. I’ve never seen Bryn look like this.

I kinda like it.

“What are you doing here, Matt?” she asks, sticking the shovel into the ground, her fingers still gripping the handle.

“I came looking for you.” My mouth goes dry the longer I stare at her. A faint sheen of sweat covers her skin, and I can smell that addictive-as-hell scent of hers wafting all around me, despite the bucket of chicken shit sitting at her feet.

“Why?” Her voice is so soft, so full of doubt I wish I could pull her in and hold her close.

But I don’t. Not yet. I might have to wait until she takes a shower or at the very least washes her hands, but I will be holding this woman very soon in my arms, I promise.

“I want you to come back with me, Bryn,” I tell her, keeping it simple. “I miss you.”

Her lips part, and she grips the shovel handle so tight, her knuckles go white. “What?”

“I miss you. Have you missed me too?” I step closer to her, notice the way her eyes widen, her tongue sneaks out for a quick swipe of her lips. Damn, I want to kiss her. “After being without you, I realized I need you.”

“As your assistant?”

Ah, my silly Bryn. She just can’t believe someone would actually want her, can she? Wouldn’t she be surprised, knowing I was a complete wreck while she was gone? “Not as my assistant. I need you in my life. I want you by my side, helping me run the winery.”