Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(36)

He’d been so excited about the prospects, so enamored by the possibilities, that the morning had slipped away and he’d almost missed his appointment with Barrett. Even with the support of English & Sons, he couldn’t muster an ounce of the enthusiasm he’d felt for Margaret’s vineyard when it came to keeping his hand in C & C Winslow.

You don’t need to sell.

Hell, deep in his heart, he wanted to sell. In fact, he wanted to unload C & C Winslow for the specific purpose of taking the money he’d make on the sale and offering a partnership to Margaret Story: You handle the grapes and wines. I’ll handle the tourism, groups, events, and tastings. And if all went well? They didn’t have to stop at Newtown. They could apply their business model to any region of the United States where Margaret wanted to grow grapes and Cameron felt that the tourist trade could be solid.

Business partners.

But there was a problem with that, as well.

His attraction to Margaret, which had always been f*cking potent, had recently hit almost uncontrollable levels of desire. And his infatuation with her, which had been there for as long as he could remember, had grown into something far deeper over the past several weeks. He genuinely liked her, and there were even moments when he more than liked her—when imagining a future with Margaret seemed like the closest thing to heaven that earth could offer.

Mixing business and pleasure was the oldest cautionary tale in the book. Surest way to kill a relationship or a business? Mix the two together. That was the rule. And though Cameron didn’t always follow the rules, he imagined Margaret did. Renovating the winery was a one-shot deal for the convenience of his sister’s wedding. Actually going into business together? That would be a whole different story.

“Cam?” prompted Barrett.

“Mind if I think about it?”

Barrett shook his head. “Not at all. But to be clear, you’re offering us a stake in C & C Winslow either way, correct?”

Cameron nodded, hoping that his father wasn’t weeping in heaven, but feeling a huge weight slip from his shoulders as he answered, “Yes. Whether I sell it all or just a majority share, C & C Winslow is—at least partially—yours.”

“Sounds great to me. I’ve been jealous of some of your deals for a while. Can’t wait to get involved.” Barrett grinned. “Now, I want to hear more about this vineyard. Emily’s going to want all the details.”

***

It didn’t surprise Margaret, who was prompt for brunch, that Priscilla arrived ten minutes late.

She was dressed in another multicolored muumuu, but today her wavy hair was pulled back in two long, brown braids, and she wore none of her usual flamboyant makeup. Still, she was Priscilla. You certainly wouldn’t miss her in a crowd.

She had four earrings in one ear and three in the other, and a delicate diamond stud in her left nostril. The light brown henna tattoo on her right hand and wrist was new since Margaret’s disastrous dinner at Forrester several weeks ago, and a set of five dark-wood bangles adorned her wrist, covering her newest tattoo.

Never one to mince words, Pris pressed a kiss to Margaret’s cheek, plopped down, and said, “So Daddy’s on the warpath. I’m guessing it has to do with you, since he keeps muttering your name the way he did Alice’s after she walked out of Story Imports last year.”

Priscilla was also the only daughter who called Douglas Story Daddy, which Margaret had always thought odd, since he seemed to dislike her more than the rest of them. But Priscilla was good at wearing people down—at showing up in her odd getups, pierced and tattooed, and still leaving the country club cotillion with three new friends. People sensed they could be themselves around her, and that was a relief in stuffy Mainline society. Perhaps calling their arrogant, stubborn ass of a father Daddy was Priscilla’s quiet way of wearing him down too.

“I was fresh. He fired me.”

“That’s all?”

“Pretty much,” Margaret said, unwilling to go into the ugly details of yesterday’s fiasco.

“You going to go grovel for your job back?”

Margaret shook her head. “No.”

She’d spent Friday afternoon and evening in her apartment in a state of semishock, tears coming and going, wishing she had enough time to drive out to The Five Sisters, or the courage to take the elevator upstairs and knock on Cameron’s door.

His words, If you asked me to be with you, I wouldn’t be able to say no, taunted her in a persistent, comforting, infuriating way. That he wanted to be with her was supremely heady. That he felt her presence in his life was untimely, but inevitable, was strangely comforting. That she couldn’t have him last night was so frustrating, she’d slid her fingers over her stomach to the aroused, damp flesh between her thighs, imagining it was his touch, not her own. And after she’d climaxed against her hand while picturing Cameron’s face, she’d finally found peace and, soon after, sleep.

“Marguerite? Où es-tu?” Where are you?

“Right here,” Margaret said, looking up from her coffee. “Sorry.”

“Who is he?” asked Pris, taking a muffin from the bread basket between them and slathering it with butter.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Meggie,” she said, shoveling the muffin into her mouth in one huge bite. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”