Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

We sit in silence for a while, each of us taking occasional sips from our glasses while enjoying the light evening breeze. It’s so much like the time we spent sitting next to each other on the tailgate of the truck that I smile to myself.

“This spot really is beautiful.” I keep my voice quiet. Something about this moment feels like a secret we need to keep just between us.

Murphy takes a moment to respond, but when she does, her voice is warm with affection.

“My father proposed to my mother right here when they were just seniors in high school.”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “No kidding.”

“Yeah, they were pretty young, but”—she shrugs—“they were crazy about each other, I guess. My dad put this bench here a few years after she died. Said he liked the idea of sitting with his memories of her.”

My heart pinches. I don’t know all the details about the Hawthorne family, obviously, but I hadn’t realized their mom had passed away. When I see a family without a parent around, I usually assume separation or divorce.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she’d passed.”

Murphy gives me a sad smile.

“I was only four, so it’s not a raw wound or anything.” Still, pain glimmers in her eyes. “Memphis was seven, and he has a lot more memories with her than I did. But Micah … He was a newborn. He didn’t know her at all.”

A few moments pass before I find the right thing to say.

“I can understand now why this is your bench. I’m sorry for not taking that more seriously.”

She shakes her head. “It is a special place, but it’s important to share things that are special. They mean more that way.”

I’ve never thought about it that way before, but I like the sentiment. It resonates with me as a chef, as a person who finds joy in sharing my love of food with others.

“Thank you for sharing it with me tonight,” I tell her.

We sit in the quiet then, each of us lost in our own thoughts, enjoying the comfort that being together can bring.

“Do you—”

Murphy’s question cuts off midway through.

I turn to look at her.

“Do I . . . ?”

Even in the pale moonlight, her cheeks color with a faint blush, which only increases my curiosity about what she was going to say.

“Do you ever wonder about the night we met?” she finally asks. “If we’d exchanged numbers … or if you weren’t working here at the vineyard.”

My stomach tightens.

Because hell yes, I wonder about it. On more than a few occasions I’ve let my mind wander in the shower, my hand traveling south as I imagine how everything could have been different.

If I’d allowed that kiss to grow into something more.

I fight tooth and nail not to indulge myself in those moments, but they come anyway.

Her blonde hair splayed on my pillows as I lick down her body.

The noises she would make as I pushed inside her wet heat.

Even now, the thought of those imagined moments sends a shiver racing through me that makes me want to tell her the truth.

But I can’t.