Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

So I was shocked when my mentor warned me away from them.

“All I can tell you is that you have to set standards for yourself with every job you accept,” he tells me. “And as promising as a job with the Santiagos sounds, they have completely different business priorities than you do.”

I shake my head. “Of course they do. They’re running an empire. I’m looking for my first big break. In any case, I can just work for them for a few years, and then take those connections and make my next move.”

He looks at me with a grave expression. “They’re well known, but they’re surrounded by controversy. Wes, if you get in bed with them, they have the potential to ruin your career. Permanently.”

God, how I wish I’d heeded his advice.

Instead, I’d been too shortsighted, too focused on the immediate gratification.

Because Hines had been right.

And I did ruin my career.

My mind is exhausted by the time I take a seat on the bench around eight o’clock. The only thing that buoys my spirit is the idea that I might bump into Murphy tonight.

It’s been a few days since I’ve seen her. As much as I enjoyed the way our Monday evening turned into us sitting together in silence, enjoying the view and, to some degree, each other’s company, I also felt like it shouldn’t be something I let happen too often.

Tonight, though, I’m hoping that by sitting on her bench so late in the evening, I’ll see her walking up the path.

I even packed two wineglasses, just in case.

Sure enough, a half hour later, I see her form in the distance.

She’s heading in my direction but pauses when she catches sight of me. My night immediately improves when she carries forward again, her expression impassive.

Used to be that I was looking for a woman to devour me with her eyes. Now, I can’t get enough of the way Murphy tolerates my presence.

That thought makes me laugh. How the mighty have fallen.

“I thought I told you this was my bench,” she says as she takes a seat next to me, but I can hear the lack of true fight in her voice. Instead, there’s a note of teasing. Something slightly playful.

“Well, I figured it could still belong to you, and maybe I could rent it here and there.”

Her lips tilt up. “Oh, I doubt you could afford the rent on this bench.”

“I’m sure. Which is why I’ve brought bribes.”

At that, I lean down, pull the wine out of the bag, and begin to uncork it.

Murphy laughs. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own wine?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What, you don’t think it’s good enough to use as a bribe?”

She rolls her eyes. I just smile, then yank the cork from the top with a satisfying pop.

“I hope you know that I abandoned my drinking straight from the bottle days back in high school.”

I chuckle, enjoying the visual of Murphy sneaking off with a bottle from her family vineyard, maybe meeting up with some friends and getting drunk in the fields.

“That’s why I brought”—I lean down and pull out the two glasses—“these.”

Handing her one, I revel in how pleased she looks as I fill up first her glass, then mine. She lifts it to her nose, taking a whiff, before raising it to her lips and tilting it back to taste.

“The merlot,” she says. “One of my favorites.”

I grin. “Mine, too.”