Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(74)

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Are you in bed?” she asked, her voice a little softer, more seductive.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

I waited, holding my breath.

“If I put my hand in your pants, would you immediately come all over my fingers?” she asked, which could have been sexy if she hadn’t burst out laughing right afterward.

I groaned. “That’s just mean.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her giggles subsiding. “I couldn’t resist.”

“I’ve learned to control myself—somewhat—since then, thank you very much.”

“I know you have.” She’d stopped laughing entirely. “And I think about it all the time.”

My throat was dry. “I do too.”

“And now I really need to let you go, or else I’m going to say things I shouldn’t.”

“Me too.” With the space of more than half the country between us, it seemed safe to admit it. “God, Sylvia. It just doesn’t get any easier. I keep waiting and waiting for it to ease up, but . . . I still want you. Maybe even more than before.”

“I know. I want you too.”

But what we wanted didn’t matter, and saying it out loud wasn’t going to help.

“Maybe I shouldn’t work at the winery,” she said. “Maybe that’s just making it harder for us.”

“No—no, don’t stay away.” Then I’d never see her—a thought I couldn’t bear. “I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Okay.”

I heard a sniffle. Was she crying? My chest felt ready to break open at the thought that I’d made her sad. What the fuck was wrong with me?

“Goodnight, Henry,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Goodnight.” I ended the call and tossed my phone aside, frustrated at the way the universe was fucking with me.

At the thought of going to bed alone every night for the rest of my life and wishing she was beside me.

At the gut feeling, deep in my bones, that I’d fallen in love with Sylvia without even trying.

And there was nothing I could do about it.





Twenty-Two





Sylvia





On Thursday morning, as soon as I’d gotten the kids to school, I threw on all my warmest winter gear and raced over to the winery. It was a sunny day, but freezing cold, with air that stung the inside of your nose and bit at your lungs when you inhaled. Still, my body warmed with anticipation as I counted down the last few minutes before I’d see Henry again.

His truck was in the lot, and my heart pounded harder at the sight of it. I’d missed him so much when I was away. I’d struggled with the decision to call him while I was gone—part of me knew I should just let the guy be—but in the end, I’d so longed to hear the sound of his voice that I’d broken down and reached out. He had this way of calming even the worst chaos in my head, of helping me keep things in perspective, of reminding me what really mattered. He knew how to make me laugh too, even at the most difficult times. I always felt understood with Henry. Accepted for who I was, faults and all. I never would have gotten through the last six weeks without his friendship.

When I’d gone to see him in the vineyard that first time after New Year’s, I’d been stunned when he told me he was still willing to coach me. I thought once I told him there couldn’t be anything romantic between us, he might get angry. Resentful. Bitter.

But he hadn’t. He’d been sweet and understanding. Undeniably disappointed, but without making me feel bad about things I couldn’t change. He’d comforted me. He’d taken me in his arms and reassured me that I wasn’t a terrible person—I was human, I was doing the right thing, and I was forgiven.

Still, I promised myself that I wouldn’t take advantage of his kindness. I wouldn’t be a bother to him. I wouldn’t show up there every day expecting him to pay attention to me.

But of course, that’s exactly how it happened.

No matter how little or how much time I had to spend with him, he made it feel like a gift. He was patient and funny and kind. He answered all my ignorant questions thoroughly and never once got irritated when I asked him to repeat things. We laughed often. We told each other stories. We confessed our guilty pleasures—his were cheerleading competitions on ESPN, Krispy Kremes, and Restoration Hardware. I giggled every time I thought about him secretly surfing the RH website and holding himself back from purchasing a reclaimed oak table or Italian leather chair.

He made fun of my list too.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to disqualify your food item. A salad is not a guilty pleasure.”

“Have you ever had a Greek salad at National Coney Island?” I demanded. “It’s drowning in feta cheese! The beets are canned!”

“Canned beets? My God, the horror!” He reached over and pulled my hair, making me giggle.

But other than that, he never laid a finger on me. Not once.

Sometimes I caught him looking at me—and he would catch me looking at him, but we never said a word about what had gone on between us . . . or what was happening still. Somehow, in my mind, if we just didn’t give it a name or put a label on it, we were safe.