the woman was stubborn. “There are no other ideas.”
“You’re going to tell me that the great Jack Garrett doesn’t have a Plan B?”
He swirled the drink in his glass. “I don’t need a Plan B.”
Brenna turned to face him again, and her voice turned conciliatory for a change. “Max wanted Amante Verano kept as a small family business. He didn’t want outsiders involved.”
“And what, exactly, are you?”
Brenna pulled back as if she’d been hit, and he regretted the harshness of his words.
“That’s unfair, Jack. We were a family, and this is a family business.”
“Brenna—”
She held up a hand. “Wait. Just—Just—” She took another deep breath and faced him across the expanse of Max’s desk. “I don’t want to fight any more. Especially not with you.”
“Then don’t fight me. Neither of us wants to be in this situation.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it and chewed on her bottom lip for a moment while she thought. “You’re right, you know. I don’t want you around anymore than you want to be here. But…” She took a deep breath. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she turned to meet his eyes. “I need you.”
The desire that slammed into him with those three simple words nearly caused him to drop his glass. Oh, part of him knew she was still talking about the damn winery, but his body was reacting to that throaty whisper—she’d whispered those words in his ear countless times as she’d wrapped herself around him.
Need. She’d always referred to him as a need. He’d nearly forgotten, but the response of his body proved those six months they’d had weren’t as deeply buried as he’d thought. He shifted in his chair, attempting to bring the reaction under control.
Brenna seemed not to notice. “Max was the brains behind the business. I’m sure you know that. And I could learn, but Amante Verano would suffer in the meantime. I know that’s why Max put us in this partnership—he always said the Walsh women made great wine, but they needed Garrett men to make it profitable.” She folded her hands in her lap, squeezing her fingers together as she talked. “It took me a while to figure out what he meant—beyond the MBA-approved business model, at least. The Garrett name opens a lot of doors.”
“You should know that from experience. You were a Garrett for a short while.”
She paled a bit at the reminder. “Don’t go there, Jack. What I mean is that as long as there’s a Garrett behind Amante Verano I can do business. Get loans to expand, for example. A small winery is a bank’s nightmare—unless there’s a Garrett on the books, of course, and then we’re golden. I just need you to back me—in name, if not spirit—for a few years. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You ask a lot.”
“Why? How? You don’t have to do anything.”
He just looked at her.
She nodded. “Except deal with me. And you hate that more than anything else.”
He’d never heard Brenna sound so flat, so lifeless. He’d almost prefer her anger to that toneless resignation. “I don’t hate you, Bren. But I’m not going to be your partner either.”
She cocked her head. “Once bitten?” she challenged.
“I’m not afraid of your bite.” In fact, the thought of her teeth on his skin brought back a slew of sensual memories. Unwilling to circle this topic again or battle with his body any longer, he stood. “Decide what you’re going to do. I’ll leave the sale paperwork in the kitchen.”
Brenna’s jaw dropped at his words, then she spun her chair back to her computer. He heard her mumble something under her breath as he turned to leave.
He doubted it was a compliment.
Chapter Three
“I SWEAR, Di, it’s frustrating. I just want to scream. Or something,” she muttered. Brenna positioned her clippers and separated the grape cluster from the vine with a satisfying, overly forceful snip.
“Picturing Jack’s neck, are we?” Dianne teased from the other side of the row of vines. Chloe napped peacefully in a carrier strapped to Dianne’s chest, her hat with its embroidered Amante Verano logo shielding her fat baby cheeks from the early-morning sun.
“It’s cathartic.” She snipped two more clusters and added them to the bucket at her feet. “And safer for Jack.”
“What are you going to do?” Dianne asked the question casually, but Brenna knew everyone in the vineyard was on edge, waiting to see what would happen next. Jack’s plan to sell would affect everyone in some way.
“Honestly? I’m not sure. I’m open to ideas if you have any.” She’d been up most of the night, tossing and turning as she tried to figure out her options. There weren’t many.
“I wish I did.”
“Stubborn. Arrogant. Domineering. Jerk.” She punctuated each comment with a snip of the clippers.
“Max could be like that sometimes. He’s his father’s son; that’s for sure.”
Brenna laughed. “Oh, I dare you to tell him that. It’ll really get his goat.”
“I don’t think antagonizing Jack further is really the best idea right now, do you?” Dianne was always so calm, so unflappable. So annoyingly right most of the time.
“I was trying to be nice last night. Trying to be reasonable. That didn’t work out so well.”
“Because you have a history with Jack.”
“Ancient history,” Brenna clarified.
“Still, it complicates things.”
No kidding. She’d seen the papers in the kitchen this morning; she’d even glanced through them while she waited for her coffee to brew. Turn over fifty-percent of the vineyard to the highest bidder? She’d been tempted to feed Jack’s stack of papers into the shredder and leave a bag of confetti hanging on his doorknob.
For the thousandth time, she wished she had the money to buy Jack’s share. But while the banks would be happy to loan her barrels of money as long as Jack was a co-owner, no bank in the world would loan her the money to buy him out. It still wasn’t an ideal solution—buying Jack out only solved one problem while causing a whole slew of others.
In the small hours of the morning, though, she had realized how much of their current problem was rooted in their heated, reckless past. She needed to recognize it and figure out good ways to move past it. Dianne wasn’t the only one realizing that. “That knowledge—however truthful it may be—doesn’t make the situation suck any less.” It certainly didn’t make her feel any better. She was drowning—in anger, frustration, guilt, worry, and a dozen other emotions she couldn’t quite name. The painful knot in her stomach
