Savor (Billionaire Bachelors Club #3)(8)

“You are not a hick. You’re adorable.” Ivy smiles and picks up her glass of ice water, sipping from the straw. “Let’s finish lunch and go shopping before my mid-afternoon exhaustion sets in.”

“We’re going to Ross, right?” I ask weakly, knowing there wasn’t a Ross Dress for Less anywhere near St. Helena.

“Absolutely not,” Ivy says firmly, Marina nodding in agreement.

“There are a few boutiques nearby where I think we’ll find something. Something amazing to knock Matt’s socks off,” Marina says.

“Why are you two so determined to hook me up with Matt?” I shouldn’t even consider messing around with my boss. And I don’t get why these two women are so willing to set their friend up with his assistant—as in me. It made no sense.

“He’s lonely. I swear, in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him with a woman more than once,” Ivy explains. “He’s a bit of a serial dater. He needs to find a steady woman. One he can count on.”

Ugh. Well that’s not good. That means he’s a commitment-phobe.

“He was a pro baseball player,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm because come on. “You’re telling me he had a hard time finding women?”

“No, certainly not. But he does have trouble finding a good one,” Ivy says.

“But he’s definitely the least cynical of the three,” Marina adds. “Which is to your advantage, Bryn. He’s not such a nonbeliever.”

My head is bouncing from one to the other, like I’m watching a tennis match. I have no idea what to believe, who to believe. It all sounds like dreamy, Cinderella-type stuff.

And I’m not one who believes in the fairy tale.

“Such a nonbeliever of what?”

“Why love, of course.”

Matt

“YOU, MY FRIEND, are a grumpy ass**le.” Gage points his beer bottle in my direction before he takes a swig, Archer chuckling and nodding in agreement.

Assholes. The both of them. Calling me a grumpy ass**le. I have reason to be grumpy. I’m working my fingers to the bone trying to get this winery in top shape so I don’t become the laughingstock of the Napa Valley. All while they’re perfectly happy and content, living with their women, established in their careers. Hell, Archer’s getting married soon and having a baby.

I’ve had to start completely over. And it sucks.

“Both of you cheated,” I grumble, peeling the label off my beer bottle, shredding it to bits, and leaving a mess on the table for someone else to clean up.

And I really don’t give a damn.

We’re at the golf resort’s lounge, having a beer after an intensely sucky game on my part. I just want to go home.

Or drown my sorrows in plenty of beer.

“Hell, no we didn’t cheat, you sore-ass loser. I won fair and square. It’s not our fault you never have time to play golf anymore,” Archer says, his look pointed as he watches me from across the table.

Wasn’t that the truth? I have no time for anything anymore. It’s all about the winery. Makes me worry—and I’ve had this worry more than once since the moment I made the purchase—if I’ve done the right thing. The winery is a huge responsibility. I have a great staff helping me run it but damn.

I need a break.

Thought golfing eighteen holes with my best friends would be a great way to ease some stress. Instead, it seemed to stress me out even more. My game was bad. My focus shot. I took endless phone calls, texted more than I swung, and generally pissed everyone off—including the fourth guy we didn’t even know who was paired with us to play.

Now here we sit in the nearly empty lounge—it’s a Saturday afternoon, so I can only assume all the men have gone home to their wives—talking about my shitty mood.

I really hate when I’m the focus of their attention. I know my friends mean well but right now, I don’t want to deal.

“You know what your problem is?” Gage asks, interrupting my thoughts.

Looks like I have no choice but to deal. “Please. Enlighten me,” I drawl, preparing myself for some sort of insult. It’s how we usually operate together. We’re friends, we take care of each other, celebrate the ups, mourn the downs, but in the end, we always, always give each other shit.

We could count on each other for that.

“You need to get laid.” Gage jabs his finger in my direction. “And quick.”

Hell. He was close to the money, if not right on it. I can’t remember the last time I got laid. I’d been detrimentally injured over a year ago during practice, for the love of God—practice—and that put me out of commission for months. My career, as well as my mind, was blown.

I had no time for women during that dark period of my life. Hell, I’d been a f**ked-up mess, mourning the loss of my career, my life as I knew it, and I even lost a little bit of myself. My relationship with my dad became even more strained—no surprise. He’d been so proud of me for following in his footsteps and playing in the major leagues. It was his only source of pride when it came to me. Once he lost that, he lost interest.

Completely.

When I became strong enough, I went through physical therapy on my way to recovery. I was so focused on that I didn’t care about women. And once I healed, I went in search of an investment, a new career, a new focus and that ended up taking all of my time, so now . . .