Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Normally, I don’t mind when women look at me. I’m six feet three and my chest and arms are covered in tattoos. Obviously, I’m going to attract some level of attention.

But for whatever reason, I’m not enjoying her perusal.

Feeling like I’ve cooled down a bit and caught my breath, I lift a hand at the server and then step back out onto Main, into the sun. I look up and down the street, trying to decide what I want to do, eventually choosing to give myself a little breather before I run back to the vineyard.

So I stop in at the little shop next door, grab a bottle of water, and chug half of it before taking a seat at a bench on the sidewalk.

And for whatever reason, my mind strays to the beautiful blonde with the golden eyes who I can’t stop thinking about lately.

Murphy Hawthorne.

I still can’t believe she’s Memphis’s little sister. What are the odds?

Last night, in my cabin, I’d allowed myself a few moments to consider just how differently things might have ended up if my mind had been in the right place. If I wasn’t feeling constantly distracted by everything else going on. If I’d been even a fraction of the normal flirt I can be when I’m out looking for someone fun.

Though that would have been disastrous as well.

No, it was better for us to have just said goodbye and then find out she was my boss’s younger sister. That she was completely and totally off-limits.

But then, as if I’ve conjured her up with my thoughts, there she is.

Murphy steps out of her car parked along the main road. I watch her move almost in slow motion. She flips her long, thick hair over her shoulder as she turns her head to look one way and then the other, and jogs away from me across the street.

The part of me that’s thinking with the wrong brain wants to follow her to wherever she’s going. Bumping into her accidentally would allow me the chance to talk to her.

And I know she wouldn’t be able to keep her gaze off my chest. Clearly most women can’t.

But before I can follow through, she dips into the shadows, pulling the door open of what looks to be a bakery.

Any other time in my life, I would have walked across the street and followed her inside. Flirted. Asked her to dinner or to grab a Sunday-afternoon drink.

Back in the day, sleeping with a coworker wasn’t ever an issue. It’s part of restaurant culture to sleep around. Chefs, waiters and waitresses, hosts … Big personalities work in kitchens. Creative. Sociable. Sexy.

And while I’m not a person who sleeps with anything that moves, I’ve definitely enjoyed the company of more than a few beautiful women that have worked at the same restaurants as me.

Until I got involved with the wrong person.

Pursuing something physical with Murphy would have been all too natural in my past, but I promised myself I’d start making smarter choices if I ever got the chance to try to rebuild my career as a chef.

Sleeping with an employee—my boss’s sister, no less—is a mistake I can’t afford to make.

So instead of heading across the street, I walk down Main, veer off the main drag, and begin to jog again along a side street lined with little houses and white picket fences.

Something happening with Murphy Hawthorne is the absolute last thing I should be thinking about right now. And as I pound the pavement, picking up speed, I promise myself that I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she feels the same way.

I spend the rest of my Sunday in the kitchen, trying to keep myself busy and focused on the many things still to do before we open. Unfortunately, my thoughts continue to stray.

I try to review scheduled orders and work on my stock list. But then I see I’ve miscounted half a dozen items and realize I shouldn’t be doing anything that requires significant focus.

I switch over to working on the menu. I sit at the small computer that was set up in a tiny office directly off the kitchen and search through lists of wine pairings for ideas. But nothing seems to stick out, and I feel like I’m just wasting time.

So I eventually begin working on one of the salad recipes I’ve been trying to perfect. I know I have the ingredients right—arugula, peaches, and feta—but the vinaigrette isn’t hitting yet. Something is missing, and I don’t know what. So I play around with my dressing base and mix in various ingredients trying to figure it out.

More balsamic. Less balsamic. Lemon. Lime. Basil. Nothing hits right.

Abandoning the task of solving the recipe, I turn to my tried-and-true method for keeping myself busy.

Cleaning.