Drunk on Love(77)

He nodded.

“I figured. I just wanted to know for sure, since I’ll be there for the party.”

She pulled up her draft of the newsletter. She’d gotten only this far? She could have sworn . . . No, she’d just planned to work on it more, and then her phone had rung and she’d abandoned it. Great. So much was riding on this; she should have prioritized it this week. Damn it.

“Do you want more wine?” Luke asked.

She nodded, and he got up and got the bottle from the kitchen.

Okay, she had to bring up the expanded hours again—she’d mentioned that in the past two newsletters, but you never knew who actually opened those—it would always be news to someone reading; she had to hype up the party; oh, and she needed a more interesting subject line. That social media person she’d consulted had told her that. What kind of subject line would make people click on this?

Luke sat down close to her and ran his fingers through her hair.

“What are you working on?”

She pulled the ponytail holder off her wrist and put her hair up.

“The newsletter.”

He put an arm around her.

“I like that dress. It’s very . . . eye-catching.”

He moved his hand from her shoulder down her body. She pulled away.

“Give me a minute, okay? You’ll get what you came over for soon.”

Luke dropped his hands. And then, after a few seconds, he stood up.

“I’d better go.”

She was so irritated and frustrated, she didn’t even look at him. She kept her eyes on her computer screen.

“Fine.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him grab his bag and slide his shoes on. And then, her front door opened and quietly closed.

She looked around at her empty house, at the two wineglasses on the coffee table, at the meal in the kitchen Luke had brought over for her.

She put her laptop on the coffee table, ran to the door, and flung it open. He was almost at his car.

“Luke!”

He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. She ran barefoot down the path. When she was almost to him, he finally turned.

“That’s not what I came over for,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. That’s not why I wanted you to come over, either. Come back inside?”

He had a severe look on his face. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or hurt. Or both.

“Okay,” he said.

They walked back up the path together and back into her house.

“I’m really sorry,” she said once they were inside. “It’s been a rough couple of days at work, I was in a bad mood, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”

He kissed her cheek.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, too. I was also in kind of a bad mood. I knew you had work to do, I shouldn’t have pushed.”

They sat back down on the couch, and she went to close her laptop.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She turned to look at him.

“I feel like I should let this go until the morning.”

He shook his head.

“Oh no, please finish this tonight. If you don’t finish, you’ll just stress about it and get fussy again.” She couldn’t even take offense at that description of her, especially when he said it with that tender smile on his face. She smiled back at him.

“Is that what you guys would say about me in the tasting room? ‘Oh, is Margot getting fussy again?’?”

He shook his head.

“Absolutely not. Everyone loves you there. I tried to never talk about you at all, if I could help it—I didn’t want to make it quite so obvious how I felt about you.” He put his arm around her. “Can I help? Not to hurry you up, but you had that look on your face like you were stuck, and sometimes it helps to bounce things off someone else.”

She put her hand on his cheek.

“I’d love that, thank you. And I know it’s not just to hurry me up, you didn’t have to say that.”

She pulled him close and kissed him. Softly, tenderly, with all of the longing that she’d felt for him, last night and this morning, when she’d missed him so much. She’d been sort of scared of those feelings, she realized now. Scared that she’d become so used to having him around that she’d missed him that much when he wasn’t there. She rested her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and held her there.

“You’ve had a tough week, haven’t you?” he asked.

The concern for her in his question, in his voice, made tears spring to her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said into his chest.

She usually didn’t admit this. She acted like—she felt like she had to act like—everything was fine, easy, perfect. That she was working hard and loving every moment of it. But she could tell Luke the truth.

“It’s just that . . . so much is riding on this party, and it’s all on me, and sometimes it feels overwhelming.”

He kissed the side of her head and pulled her closer.

“I’m sorry it’s been so hard,” he said.

She just wanted to stay there forever. For the first time in a long time, she felt cared for. It almost scared her, how good it felt. How much she craved this feeling.