Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(22)
Margaret realized she was holding her breath when her lungs started to burn. She quickly bolted for the front door, racing through it and letting it slam behind her.
The sharp driveway gravel bit into her bare feet as she ran to Priscilla’s car, her breathing shaky as tears streamed down her face. Her hands were trembling so violently, she could barely get the key in the ignition, but once she did, she flew away from Forrester, driving like her hair was on fire, like the devil himself was only a step behind.
She was nothing more than a broodmare, a breeding bitch, an almost-anonymous nobody who shared DNA with her father and nothing else. For most of Margaret’s life, she’d tried to convince herself that her father’s aloof behavior stemmed from disappointment that could be assuaged if she tried harder, worked harder, somehow proved to him that she was worthy of his regard and respect and, maybe one day, his love. But he didn’t even see her as a person.
She stepped on the gas and cried all the way to Newtown.
She cried as she poured herself a glass of wine. And then another. And another.
She cried as she stripped out of her clothes and lay down naked in her bed.
She cried as she thought of the quiet little girl she’d been and the buttoned-up woman she’d become.
She cried because she’d spent half a lifetime being someone she wasn’t in order to please someone impossible to please.
She cried because the goddamn ticktock that preyed on her heart was louder than ever, and what if Shane was the best prospect she was ever going to have?
She cried until she finally closed her drunk, weary eyes and curled up in a ball, falling asleep as she pictured a version of herself who was loved and respected, cherished and valued. A woman who didn’t exist. A woman that Margaret promised herself she would unearth in the bright sun and rich soil of The Five Sisters.
Chapter 6
Cameron hadn’t taken a Sunday off in a long time, but he had to admit, after only fifteen minutes into the drive from Philadelphia to Newtown, he was feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. Yes, there was a stack of contracts on his coffee table at home. Yes, he had about a dozen calls to return. And yes, Alex English needed the updated numbers on the Harrison-Lowry-Rousseau shipping joint venture tomorrow morning. But Cameron was on a mission of mercy for his little sister and, just for today, C & C Winslow be damned.
As he approached the vineyard, however, he felt a pang of trepidation. It was only ten thirty in the morning. What if Margaret was still asleep? Or worse, what if Margaret and Olson were still asleep together? Or worse still, what if Olson and Margaret were doing some midmorning f*cking? His fists clenched around the steering wheel as he fought to banish that repulsive image from his mind and glanced over at the white bag on the passenger seat, hoping he wouldn’t look like some ridiculous, desperate suitor.
He’d stopped at Swiss Haus on the way out of Philadelphia to pick up some blueberry cheese strudel, pineapple cheese puffs, raspberry–pecan croissants, and a couple of sticky buns. He had no idea what Margaret liked to eat for breakfast, but as long as the meal didn’t include sitting across from a smirking Olson, he couldn’t wait to find out.
Margaret had told him that the adjacent vineyard was called Harrell Reserve, so as soon as Cameron passed the ornate vineyard sign advertising tastings every Sunday, he looked for the next driveway. A rundown mailbox beside a split-rail fence signaled his destination, and he turned right, onto a bumpy dirt road flanked by dense woods. After about a quarter mile of driving, a large, rundown, barnlike building came into view with a hand-painted sign over the door: “The Five Sisters Vineyard.”
He grinned.
After parking in front of the building, Cameron grabbed the pastries and got out of the car. He stretched his legs and breathed in deeply. It had rained last night, and the smells of earth and cut grass were pungent and satisfying. He knocked on the battered door and waited a moment, but no one answered, so he wandered around the building, gravel crunching under his shoes. And suddenly, there before him, rolling up and down hillsides for acres and acres, stretched neat rows of grapes as far as the eye could see. Cameron paused, frozen in place by the weathered side of the old winery building, a sense of peace washing over him that he hadn’t felt in many, many years.
What had Margaret said when she told him about The Five Sisters? A fully functional vineyard and winery. It’ll be heaven. She was right. It was.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Cameron turned to see two older men standing behind him with tanned faces, T-shirts, and mud-flecked jeans. One held the handles of a wheelbarrow, and the other had a shovel leaning against his shoulder.
“Uh, yes. I’m Cameron Winslow. I’m looking for Margaret Story.”
The bigger of the two men looked at Cameron suspiciously. “She know you?”
“She does.”
The man’s eyes slid to the pastry bag and then back to Cameron’s face. “She expecting you?”
“She’s not.”
The smaller man in front cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at Cameron for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Okay. She stays in the cottage.”
“The cottage?”
He gestured to the left with his chin. “Walk around the barrel shed. Up the path. You can’t miss it.”
He grinned. “Thank you.”
“I’m Shawn,” the larger man said. “And that there’s Owen. We’ll be around, Mr. Winslow,” he added gruffly, by way of warning. Then he and his friend continued on toward the rows of grapes.