Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (17 page)

“Good to hear,” said Shawn with a nod of approval. “She could use someone on her team.”

That’s going to be me
, thought Cameron with quiet confidence. “Any more break-ins in the neighborhood? Any suspicious people lurking around?”

“No, sir,” said Shawn. “Me and O stayed here a couple of nights, but not a peep. Must’ve been kids from the winery next door, like the police said. Got the glass on the door fixed for her too.”

“Thanks, Shawn.”

“We’ll be heading home now. Ain’t nothing more we can do, and we’re beat.”

“Bye, Mr. Cameron,” said Owen, waving goodbye with a warm smile.

“Thanks for being here for Miss Margaret, Owen. She’s lucky to have you.”

Shawn gave him a curt wave and closed the window before rolling his pickup down the dirt road. Bypassing the tasting room and continuing directly to Margaret’s cottage, Cameron parked his car and shut his door as softly as possible.

He turned the front doorknob, shaking his head with annoyance to find it unlocked. Clearly they’d need to have another conversation about her safety. He locked and bolted it, slipped out of his shoes, and crossed the sitting room to the stairs. He took them two at a time, then tiptoed across her tiny room to stand beside her bed.

And only then did the stress of the past week, the emotional conversation at last night’s dinner, and the worry from her texts this morning fade away.

Her face, smudged with mud, was framed by a tangle of chestnut hair. She was undeniably lovely, and he was going to do whatever it took to deserve her because life without Margaret had been bleak and unfocused . . . and life with her was warm and good, productive and brilliant with hope.

Carefully he sat down in the C created by her body and gently smoothed the hair from her forehead.

She took a deep breath and sighed. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again. But the way her lips tilted up told him that she’d seen his face.

“Cameron,” she murmured, half asleep. “You’re here.”

“I told you I was coming for you,” he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’m here. I just wanted you to know that I came as soon as I could.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, eyes still closed, her voice thready.

“I’m better than okay. I’m with you.” He stroked her hair gently, forehead to crown, forehead to crown.

“Mmm,” she hummed. “That feels so nice.”

“I’m going to go downstairs and let you sleep.” He kissed her forehead.

“No,” she said, opening her eyes again. “No. Don’t go.”

“You need sleep, baby. Shawn said you did the work of three men.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, as if she’d just remembered what had happened last night. “We didn’t save them. The vines. We tried to cover them. I tried to pull others and replant them in pots, but . . .”

“Hey. Shh. Shh. We’ll buy more grapes. More vines. Whatever you need.”

“I . . . I don’t know if I can,” she said, and Cameron remembered that her trust fund wouldn’t be replenished until the New Year.

“If you can’t,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “I will.”

“Cam . . .”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, each of her cheeks, her lips. A feather touch. The sealing of a promise.

“
I will.
You’re not alone.”

“Get in bed,” she whispered.

“You need sleep, baby.”

“Then we’ll sleep. But lie down with me. Stay,” she said, pulling at the covers.

Cameron knew that they wouldn’t be fooling around right now. No matter how much he wanted her, he wouldn’t allow it. She needed to rest. But he wanted to stay with her as much as she wanted him there, and though this wasn’t exactly how he pictured his first time in her bed, there was something perfect about it, even so.

He moved quietly to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers to reveal her body in sweatpants and a T-shirt, her muddy feet dried and caking on crisp white sheets.

He slipped into bed beside her and pulled the covers over them because Margaret Story was no cold librarian goddess. She was hot-blooded and passionate, a woman who worked so hard that she fell into bed exhausted and without even bothering to scrub the earth from her feet. And for now, she belonged to him.

Pressing his front to her back, he gathered her in his arms and rested his face against the back of her neck, kissing her soft, warm skin before closing his eyes.

Here is my happiness.

Here is my heart.

Here is my heaven.

Matching his breathing to hers, he inhaled the sweet smell of the woman he’d always wanted, and in moments, they were both asleep.

Her muscles ached. All of them.

Margaret rolled to her side, groaning and disoriented for a moment as she opened her eyes and focused on a folded note on her bedside table. It read, simply,
Meggie,
which made her smile because, besides her sisters, only one person in the world called her that.

She sat up, wincing at the burning protest from her abs, which had been used for six straight hours of repetitive, bending-over, backbreaking work last night.

She unfolded the note.

I didn’t want to wake you.

But if you’re reading this, I bet you’re hungry.

When you’re ready, come downstairs.

Cam

xo

She took a deep breath, bunching her shoulders together and smiling at the note. Her memories of him arriving this morning were hazy, but nothing could make her forget the feeling of his arms around her, his strong, warm body pressed intimately against hers, his lips resting on her neck as she fell back to sleep.

Swinging her legs over the bed, she looked down and realized that her legs and feet were splattered with caked mud from last night.

“I need a shower,” she muttered.

She stood up and stripped off her T-shirt and sweatpants. She slipped into her thick, white terry cloth robe from the back of her closet door and tied the sash around her waist, remembering the first time Cameron had ever come out to The Five Sisters, several weeks ago, and knocked on her front door. He’d groaned softly, staring at her from head to toe, and her body, naked beneath the robe, had flushed under the heat of his gaze. She’d wanted him then, wished for him, barely daring to dream that he could ever belong to her.

Running her fingers through the tangled waves of her hair, she made her way downstairs, drawn to the kitchen, where she heard the sound of chopping and . . . singing. She paused to lean against the kitchen doorway and watch.

With his back to her, Cameron practically took up the entire space of the tiny kitchen. As he leaned over the counter, chopping what she assumed were vegetables, his bare feet stepped lightly to the music playing through his earbuds.

“
Let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on,”
he sang, his hips moving back and forth, showcasing his epic ass, tight and muscular in close-fitting jeans. “
You got the healing that I want . . .
”

She giggled softly, unable to look away and thoroughly unwilling to alert him to her presence. Still dancing, he reached down for something from the cutting board, and a moment later she had to cover her mouth when she realized he was using a cucumber for a microphone, softly singing his heart out.

“ . . .
but I’d love to be in trouble with you
. . .”

He set down the cucumber and chopped it efficiently. Then, with one hand still braced on the counter, he dropped to a dramatic squat, gyrating as he raised himself slowly, his hips moving rhythmically to a beat she couldn’t hear. Her jaw dropped as he laced both palms behind his neck and thrust forward against the counter with a groan that made her thighs clench.

Her man could move. And her mind couldn’t help but fly to one of her favorite fantasies: her small body covered with Cameron’s hardness as he used those hips to drive into her. A delicious shiver trailed down her back, and her grin faded as his dance lit a blaze in her belly and made goose bumps rise on her arms.

Of course this
would
be the moment, with Margaret standing there in a state of intense arousal, that Cameron decided to do a slow turn, crooning into a carrot microphone.

“
. . . until the dawn, let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on
.”

He froze, his eyes widening and cheeks turning red as he threw the carrot over his shoulder and reached up to yank the earbuds from his ears.

“You’re up.”

She glanced down at the crotch of his pants and raised her eyebrows. “So are you.”

He looked down and chuckled lightly. “What can I say? I was enjoying a pretty graphic fantasy.”

“You’re quite a Renaissance man. Chopping vegetables, stripper dancing, and growing a huge boner all at once.”

“Did you just say
boner
?”

“If the shoe fits . . .”

“And
stripper dancing
?” he asked, with a cocky grin that was completely adorable. “Shock me and tell me you’ve actually
seen
strippers dancing.”

“I’ve seen
Magic Mike
,” she answered primly.

“Doesn’t count. Besides, you may not have noticed, but I’ve got all my clothes on.”

“Oh, I noticed,” she said, running her eyes down his body slowly, savoring every hard plane, dying to feel the ridges and valleys of muscle under her fingertips. “You’re a good dancer.”

His eyes darkened, and he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them in the tiny room. “You think so?”

She nodded and reached around him to pull the earbuds from his iPhone. The kitchen filled with the sound of a man and a woman singing a sixties-style duet.

“I like the way you move your body.”

“Is that right?” he asked as his hands landed on her hips. He pulled her against chest and moved her gently to the music.

“Absolutely.”

He wrapped an iron band of arm around her waist as his hips pushed deliberately into hers, one of his legs splitting open the front of her robe.

“What’s under this robe, Meggie?”

“A dirty body,” she said, her head tilted back so she could watch his eyes.

“Naked?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Fuck.”

He pressed his erection tightly into her stomach, and, holding her eyes without flinching, he commanded their movements, rolling his hips into hers, his jean-covered legs brushing into her naked ones, his bare feet careful not to step on hers.

“I don’t know this song,” she said in a breathy voice, her breasts thrusting into his chest with every shallow breath.

“It’s Meghan Trainor and Charlie Puth singing. Puth cowrote it with Julie Frost.”

“Sounds like a love triangle,” she said. “I like it.”

“Me too.”

“I could fall in love with it.”

“Me too,” he said without a shred of humor. “I could dance to it forever.”

“Me too,” she moaned, her body throbbing for more as he pulled her impossibly closer, his thigh pushing between her legs.

Margaret arched her back and widened her legs, whimpering as he pushed his thigh against her wet, pulsing mound.

As the music reached a crescendo, Cameron’s arm dropped lower so that his palm pressed against her backside, grinding her against his leg.

“Your eyes are black, Margaret Story,” he whispered before dipping his head and taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth.

An intense heat pooled between her legs, and she ground herself against his thigh shamelessly, reaching for his shoulders and gripping them tightly for leverage.

“Cam . . .,” she moaned, letting her head fall back.

Until the dawn, let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on.

His lips were hot and hungry against her throat—licking, sucking, kissing—and his hips kept moving into hers as she rode his thigh. Her sex, soaked and throbbing, slid against the hard muscle of his thigh.

“I want you to come,” he growled into her ear. “I want to feel you come against me.”

“Oh God,” she moaned. “I can’t do this. I  . . .”

“Yes, you can. Come for me, baby,” he whispered, his hot breath in her ear making her own breathing so fast and erratic, she panted against his neck.

Widening her legs, she opened the valley of her clit and leaned forward until the coarse denim of his pants made contact with the hard, throbbing bud of her sex, and that’s all it took. She exploded against him, coming in waves of intense pleasure as he held her close and whispered filthy, delicious things in her ear.

“That’s it. Come, baby. Fucking come all over me, sweetness. That’s it. That’s it, baby.”

The tremors subsided, and she realized she was completely limp in his arms. When her body was finally still, he swooped her into his arms, and she opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her tenderly.

“There’s so much more to you than I ever dreamed,” he said. “And trust me, Meggie, my dreams were already pretty good.”

She sighed, grinning at him, knowing her cheeks were ten shades of crimson. She burrowed into his neck and closed her eyes.

“I can’t believe I just did that.”

His lips landed on her hair, and she heard the smile in his voice when he answered, “Honestly? Me neither. But I love it that you did.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “I really am dirty, you know.”

“Uh, yeah. I know. I just watched you come on my leg.”

“No,” she said, laughing. “I mean, I’m caked with mud. I need a shower.”

“What if I don’t feel like putting you down?”

“Okay. You win,” she said, relaxing in his arms. And she would have happily stayed that way forever had her eyes not glimpsed a mouthwatering veggie, cheese, and bread platter over his shoulder. Her stomach let loose the biggest, longest, loudest, most unladylike bellow she’d ever heard.

“Any chance you’re hungry?” asked Cameron.

She shrugged. “What makes you think that?”

He lowered her gently to the floor. “How about you go take a hot shower and I’ll finish up here? You need to eat.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

As she turned for the bathroom, he said, “Thanks for the dance.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Thanks for the orgasm.”

“Thank me later . . .” His eyes burned feverishly. “After three, four, and five.”

How her knees didn’t buckle as she closed the bathroom door behind her was a mystery that she would simply have to live with.

***

An hour later, Margaret sat across from him at a rustic table in the garden behind her cottage, flickering candles brightening the encroaching dusk, a half-eaten platter of food between them, and her clean pink feet on his lap. He rubbed them absentmindedly as she laughed at his attempt to analyze the wine they were drinking.

“ . . . and, um, grass? Yeah, maybe grass. And wood.”

“Grass and wood?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “Do you mean clover and oak?”

“Nope. I mean grass and wood. And, uh, maybe dirt.”

“Earth tones?” she coached.

“Uh-uh. Dirt,” he said, taking another sip. “Oh, yep. And sugar.”

“Well, Cam,” said Margaret, shaking her head in disapproval, “you’ve taken a four hundred dollar bottle of Merlot and reduced it to grass, wood, dirt, and sugar. Nice job.”

“What can I say? My gift is for business, not wine, I guess.”

“Never admit defeat! You could say . . .” She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. “Clover and oak, with hints of cedar. Earth tones and honey. A little pepper. And a touch of black cherry.”

“One of us is the sommelier, baby, and it’s not me.”

She grinned, taking another sip of wine before placing her glass back on the wooden table and looking up at him with a little sadness around her big brown eyes.

“And that’s
all
I am now.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed. “I’m not welcome at my childhood home. I don’t work for Story Imports anymore. And part of me is sad that my father and I can’t even . . . I don’t know . . . can’t have a normal father–daughter relationship. And you know what? Maybe we never will.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m not finished,” she said, looking up at him. “I’m sad on one hand, but on the other? I’ve never felt happier or freer. Without breaking away from him, I wouldn’t have been able to see the rest of my life so clearly. I know exactly where I want to be. I want to be here. Every morning, every afternoon, every evening. I’m not sad that I’m a vintner and a sommelier. I’m grateful. I’m just sad that figuring out my future meant leaving my father behind.”

“You’re still his daughter, even if there are fences to be mended.”

“You’re right.” She smiled with such a heartbreaking mixture of hope and gratitude, it made his chest hurt. He hoped that it wouldn’t take too long for Mr. Story to get his head out of his ass and see this amazing woman who just happened to be his daughter.

“What about you?” she asked, looking anxious to change the subject. “You’ve sold C & C Winslow to the Englishes. What comes next?”

He shrugged, trying to look like he wasn’t sure, when the only future that appealed to him right now was sharing one with her. But even though they’d known each other all their lives, he still wasn’t sure how she’d feel about having him as a partner and sharing The Five Sisters.

“Finish the winery and tasting room for Jessica’s wedding.”

“And then?”