Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(25)

“Breakfast?”

She nodded, sitting down on the love seat, and tried to ignore the flutters of her heart when he sat down beside her, his jean-covered thigh pressing flush against hers.

“This looks delicious.”

“Swiss Haus,” he said.

“My favorite bakery!”

“Mine too.”

“Enough for an army.”

“I didn’t know what you liked.”

She reached for a pineapple cheese puff. “This favor you need . . . it must be a big one.”

“That depends.”

“On what?” she asked, looking up at him.

His eyes were soft and tender as he gazed back at her.

“What?” she asked, brushing at her lips. “Powdered sugar?”

“I haven’t seen your hair down since you were little.”

“My father didn’t approve of us wearing it down.”

“Braids,” he murmured. “It was always in braids.”

She nodded, gulping softly. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I pulled them,” he said, reaching up to run the pad of his thumb gently over her lip. When he pulled it away, he pressed it to his lips and licked it slowly before adding, “Powdered sugar.”

Her cheeks flamed, and her breathing was short and quick as she stared at him. “The, um, the favor you needed?”

He nodded, reached for his coffee mug and took a sip. “I need your vineyard.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know that my sister is getting married?”

“To Alex English. Of course.”

“Jess was supposed to be married at Winterhaven, but due to some bullshit clause in the rental contract, they’ve withdrawn the availability, which means she doesn’t have a venue. The wedding’s just a few months away. She’s a wreck.”

“Poor girl.” Margaret cringed. “I can’t imagine.”

“You said you wanted to have weddings and events—”

Her eyes widened in understanding. “Eventually! Not in twelve weeks.”

“Why not?”

“Did you see the tasting room and winery building? It’s dilapidated. It’s practically falling down.”

“I saw it,” said Cameron, sitting back, but still looking at Margaret, who took another bite of pastry. “I also saw the barrel shed and ferment shed. They’ve been renovated. And this cottage—”

“Yes, but I don’t have a contractor scheduled to do the tasting room yet. I haven’t decided on the plans, and then there’s the landscaping and signage, and the—”

“Meggie.” Cameron placed his hand on her thigh, which sucked all the air out of the room. “Not to be presumptive, but unless I’m mistaken, you have a trust fund in the millions. Surely you can find someone to do the work whenever you want it done. Why not now?”

Actually, Margaret’s bank account wasn’t quite that flush. Her father kept a tight rein on her trust fund and only released a certain amount of money in January of each year. So far, Margaret had spent a considerable sum on purchasing the vineyard, renovating the sheds and the cottage, plus paying Shawn and Owen and their workers to clear and reseed several unused acres and care for the existing grapes. Not to mention the equipment she’d had to buy: all new crush equipment, pumps, tanks, and barrels, including the very expensive French oak barrels. And last, but not least, the small wine cellar she was having built in her apartment. No, Margaret wasn’t a pauper, and she never would be, but her expenses had almost outweighed her income this year, and right now she didn’t have enough cash to finance another extensive renovation. She hadn’t planned on moving forward with it until next year.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, placing her pastry back on the platter like she didn’t have a right to it anymore. “But it’s just not possible.”

There was an awkward silence between them for several moments until Cameron said, “I don’t accept that answer.”

“Ha!” she laughed, snapping her head up to look at him. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you that you have no say in the matter. This is my vineyard.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, his face serious, his voice low and uncompromising. “I promised Jessica.”

“Then you’ll have to explain that you had no right to make that promise.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“No? What do you mean . . . no?”

“My sister’s getting married here in September.”

“No, Cameron, she’s not.”

His eyes burned into hers, his jaw tight as he searched her face for weakness, for cracks. But she kept herself implacable and unmoving under his scrutiny, blazingly aware of his fingers tightening on her thigh, the heat of his hand scorching her skin through the denim.

“She’s my little sister,” he whispered in a tightly controlled voice. “I’ll do anything.”

Staring at his desperate eyes, she felt her body relax, and she covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently. The prospect of honesty was humiliating, but she had to trust him. She couldn’t bear for him to believe that she was willfully withholding her help for no good reason.