Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“Memphis—”

“Are you screwing my sister?” He cuts me off and glares at Wes, his hands on his hips.

“That is none of your business,” I tell him. “And also why would you ever want to know if that was true?”

“I can understand why you might be upset,” Wes begins, “but if—”

“No. This is not happening,” Memphis says, interrupting him and then pointing a finger at me. “You do not get to fuck with my head chef and cause problems for this restaurant.”

My head jerks back. “What?”

“And you do not get to screw around with staff, okay?” he continues, returning his attention to Wes.

I sigh, clenching and unclenching my hands in little fists. “Memphis, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Wes, go to work,” my brother demands, moving to the side and pointing at the front door.

“He’s not a dog.”

“Memphis, I know this might—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Wes looks like he’s ready to stand here and have a face-off with my brother, but I’m one of the few people who knows how stubborn Memphis can be, and there’s no way he will hear anything Wes has to say right now.

The best thing for everyone is for Wes to just go to work, and we can all talk about this later. “Just go. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He looks back and forth between the two of us a few times, then turns to walk up the sidewalk, giving one last glance before heading inside.

“I cannot fucking believe you.”

“I can’t fucking believe you!” I reply, poking my brother in the chest. “In what world is it okay for you to shout at someone because I kissed them?”

“It was more than just a kiss and we both know it, Murphy.” He glares down at me. “I saw you pull in together. Did you go with him to San Francisco?”

“How the hell is that relevant?”

“Answer me.”

“I am twenty-fucking-seven years old, Memphis, and you’re not my parent, so you don’t get to demand anything from me.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“How the hell is it bullshit?”

“Because I thought we were on the same team!”

I take a step back in surprise when his growled words become a shout.

Memphis spins around and stares at the trees along the edge of the parking lot that line the eastern perimeter of our property, his hands clasped behind his neck.

“I told you what was going on with the vineyard, and how this restaurant was my Hail Mary,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him.

Then he spins around, and I’m pained at the way he looks at me.

Like I’ve hurt him.

Deeply.