Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

I reach immediately for the tray with chocolate and peanut buttery treats and pop one into my mouth. I’ve been a chef for basically my entire adult life. Ever since my teens, I’ve cultivated a very educated palate when it comes to just about everything culinary. But chocolate and peanut butter are two things that are universally delicious, and always more so together.

“Sorry again. About Murphy.”

I look to Memphis, who is leaning back against the farmhouse sink, snacking on a piece of salami.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I tell him.

“I get that, but I also know what you’re in for with her working for you.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to scare you off, but like I said, she’s gonna be a handful.”

I lick some chocolate out of the corner of my mouth, trying to keep my thoughts about Murphy to myself.

“I’ve worked with plenty of really complicated personalities,” I reply, deciding to stay as neutral as possible. “I’m not worried.”

Memphis chuckles and then shoves another slice of salami into his mouth.

“Help yourself to as much as you want. Just make sure to tuck it back into the fridge once you head out.”

I nod. “Will do.”

He reaches out, and we shake hands before he heads back down the little hallway toward his office.

I swipe another bonbon and pop it in my mouth. I glance around the kitchen. I’ve been in here before, but never alone. Never with the ability to stare and take things in, unencumbered by the observations of others. So I take advantage, walking over to the photos scattered on the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room.

There are plenty of people in these pictures that I don’t recognize at all, but I keep searching until I find what I’m looking for.

Who I’m looking for.

Murphy Hawthorne.

I spot a picture of her when she was much younger—maybe in high school—sitting on a stool playing the guitar, a bright smile on her face.

I’ve seen this picture in passing, having faced toward it on most of the nights I’ve been here eating dinner just a few feet away. Now, knowing who Murphy is, I study it harder, comparing the photo to my memory of the way her eyes watched me as we sat in the back of the truck.

Next to it is a family photo of a much-younger Murphy and Memphis, maybe in their teens, along with their younger brother, Micah, who works at the vineyard as well. Their father, Jack, and their aunt Sarah are on either side of the three siblings, with an elderly couple in the back.

Their grandparents, I’m assuming.

My attention drifts back to the photo of Murphy with the guitar. I reach out to shift it slightly, correcting the crooked slant of the frame on the wall.

Memphis says she’s trouble, and I don’t know enough to agree one way or the other. She seemed sweet enough, playful enough, back at the gas station. But being playful and teasing are things you show to the world. The erratic, frustrating, difficult parts of people tend to come out more with family.

I guess I’ll just have to wait and see how the chips fall once we’re finally working together, which apparently is Monday. That leaves only a few days before we’re thrust together in the chaos of all the final preparations that come in the weeks before opening a restaurant. After that, I won’t be able to avoid her even if I want to.

I spin around to grab another bonbon off the tray, but freeze when I spot Murphy in leggings and a loose tank top on the other side of the island, one hand on her hip, the other holding a chocolate confection that she’s nibbling on.

I’m at a loss for words.

Not just because I’m surprised to see her, but also because she’s even more gorgeous with her hair pulled up in a messy bun at the top of her head, a few wavy strands hanging loose around her face.

Effortlessly beautiful. That’s what she is. The kind of woman who would look incredible gazing into my eyes next to me in bed in the morning. The kind of woman who makes you wish you’d asked for her damn number.

I shake my head and look away, trying to quiet the storm of thoughts beginning to take my mind hostage.

“Have a nice little chat about me with my brother?” She pops the rest of the half-eaten bonbon into her mouth.

I step forward, bracing both hands against the edge of the tiled island.

“No, actually.”