Tangled Vines (2 page)

Damn crease
. Cursing my skirt, I try for the millionth time to situate it, but it’s pissing me off. Sitting in the large conference room at O’Neill and Pratt Law Offices, I impatiently wait for everyone else to get here. When Vincent died last week, I was devastated. Bella Luna’s Vineyard is the only job I’ve ever known and Vincent was the only family I’d ever known as well. Over the last six years, I’ve worked my way up to the position I currently hold, Senior VP of Marketing and Operations.

It’s a position that does not, in any way, shape, or form, allow me to show any kind of uncertainty. So when I hear muted voices approaching from just outside the door, I sit upright in my chair and immediately stop fidgeting with the damn crease that obviously just can’t be fixed.

“Ms. Blackwell,” a middle-aged man says as he extends a hand to me. “Simon O’Neill,” he says by way of introduction as he shakes my hand. “Very sorry for the delay,” he adds as he makes his way around the table. After opening his briefcase and pulling out a stack of papers, he sits. “I hope my secretary got you anything you need.”

Nodding, I reassure him the delay hasn’t been a problem and his secretary was nothing but courteous. When I look at him curiously, a look of “okay, let’s get this started” plastered to my face, he says, “We’re just waiting on one more person.”

With the words
who else
dangling on my lips, the door cracks open behind me. Swiveling in my seat, I turn to see who the third person is and my mouth goes dry. Faded blue jeans hug this gorgeous man’s body, like a glove. A black fitted T-shirt stretches across his broad chest and shoulders, the sleeves stopping in the middle of his well-defined arms. Craning my head up just a little bit more, I nearly lose my ability to think as I take in the sight of his face.

A strong, hard jawline dusted in day-old stubble anchors his beautiful face. His bright blue eyes are a stark contrast to his tan skin. Though it feels like I’ve been staring at him for an hour, it’s been all but a few seconds between him opening the door, turning his back to close it, and walking toward the table. By the time he says, “Good morning,” I manage to roll my tongue back into my mouth. I find myself still squirming as I had just minutes ago as I tried to fix my skirt. Though now, my squirming is for an entirely different reason. The gravelly roughness, and nervously uncertain quality of his voice vibrates through me, even from across the table. 

The men shake hands as sinfully-hot-mystery-man introduces himself as Owen. I’d never heard a sexier name in all my life.

Tapping his stack of papers on the table, Simon clears his throat. “All right, now that we’re all here, let’s get this underway.” Even though I hear some of Simon’s words filtering into my brain, all I can think about is how in the hell Owen, sexy-as-fucking-sin Owen, has anything to do with Vincent.

“There’s only one item on the will that needs to be addressed today and that’s the Bella Luna’s Vineyard Estate.” As the words tumble from Simon’s mouth, I notice Owen shift uncomfortably in his seat. When Simon starts spouting out numbers of how much the vineyard is worth and what Vincent’s wishes are for its future of operations, Owen tenses in his chair.

“He had
how much
?” What was an uncertain voice before, turns into a loud boom of anger, startling me at the sound of it.

Simon shuffles through some papers, adjusts his glasses on his nose and looks up proudly when he scans the line he needs. “It’s worth one-point-five million dollars.” Simon looks up at Owen, obviously expecting to be greeted with a look of gratitude. But instead of that, Owen simply glares at Simon, his knuckles turning white at his side. Since he doesn’t get the reaction he’d hoped for, Simon adds, “Annually,” rather awkwardly.

Owen jumps from his seat, tension vibrating all around him.

“Mr. Carmichael, please sit down.” The shakiness of Simon’s voice suddenly holds more command. “We have a lot to get through.”

After a stilted pause, Simon returns to his papers. “Now, he’s left you half of the estate, Mr. Carmichael.”

Anger radiates off Owen in waves. He refuses to take his seat and Simon glares at him, clearly frustrated at Owen’s reaction.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. O’Neill,” Owen snaps, resting his hands on the glass table. “But I’ve just learned that my father, who abandoned me and my mother before I was born, owned a winery worth millions of dollars a year while we barely had two dimes to rub together.” Owen storms over to the door, muttering, “I need a minute.” The room shakes as he slams the door closed.

Simon and I sit there, mouths agape, probably for very different reasons. Vincent has a son. In all the years I’d known him, from the time when I was interning through the business program at my high school to when I held his hand in the hospital room as he lay there dying, he’d never once mentioned a son. And I’ve definitely never seen a picture; that much I would have remembered.

Bits and pieces of my many conversations with Vincent flash through my head, and still I can’t remember a single time he’d mentioned a family. It’s not as if he’d owed me any kind of explanation, but I’d just assumed he’d always been open and honest with me as his “right hand man”, so to speak.

As I sit here trying to figure it all out, Owen walks back into the office, clearly in a better mood than when he’d stormed out. As he sits back in his seat, a loud huff passes his lips, which are full and beautiful. “Sorry about that. Just needed to get my head on straight. Okay, so half of the estate. That’s … that’s huge.” Owen nods at me and I feel like a giddy teenager, nearly bouncing in my seat simply because he’s acknowledged my presence. In that moment, I recognize just how much I need to stay away from a man like Owen Carmichael. He makes me forget who I’m supposed to be, even if only for a few minutes. I give myself the mental pep talk I so obviously need.

You are Elle Blackwell. Vice president of marketing and operations at the biggest winery on Long Island. You cannot be weak or vulnerable. Some men might not respect women who are in a position of power, but you will not be disrespected.

Smoothing my hands over my skirt, I shoot Owen a look that I hope says, “I’m all business,” but I’m not so sure I succeed.

My head is in a tailspin. The vineyard I’ve worked so hard to help build up is now being given to someone I’ve never met. From hot and bothered two minutes ago, to angry and upset now, I work hard to rein in my emotions.

Now that I’ve gathered my wits, I can’t hold back the question I’d been dying to ask since Simon told us Owen was getting half the vineyard. “What qualifications do you have exactly for running a vineyard of this stature?”

Owen glares at me as my eyes fall to his rather casual attire. Who shows up to a legal appointment in jeans, anyway? “I’ve worked at Bogart’s Farm since I was a teenager,” he mumbles, the disdain in his voice unmistakable.

A not-so-humble scoff slips out of my mouth. “A small, co-op, vegetable farm, really?” I ask sarcastically, even though I know exactly what kind of place it is. “And what exactly can a bastard farm boy offer to Bella Luna’s?” I spit venomously across the table; my sole intention is to be mean, and by the looks of it, I’ve achieved that.

Owen’s jaw looks like it could crack walnuts; his teeth are clenched together so tightly.

“That’s enough,” Simon declares. “It doesn’t matter. Vincent left him half of the estate.” There’s an “I’m not taking any more shit” quality to his voice.

After straightening his tie, and settling his voice, Simon returns to his seat.  Simon nods at both Owen and me before he continues reading through the papers. I can’t help but feel like a chastised child. Even I can’t believe I just called him a bastard farm boy. The apology hangs off my lips, but I can’t get over the idea that something I’ve worked so hard for is being taken away from me, well, at least half of it.

Most of the rest of the papers contain information of which I’m already aware. The state of affairs at the vineyard, yearly earnings, and costs of operations, but what astounds me is the part about how the rest of the estate is to be divvied up.

Shocked, I scoot my chair forward. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that?” I ask when what Simon’s just said makes absolutely no sense to me.

“Sure thing, Ms. Blackwell,” Simon reassures, slipping his glasses back up into position. “Mr. Carmichael…” My eyes instinctively roam over to Owen, who is shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Simon also notices Owen’s discomfort and averts his eyes, more than likely for the sake of getting this over with sooner rather than later. “Vincent designated that half of the estate goes to you, Mr. Carmichael.” Simon asserts his statement with a confident look over at Owen to make sure that nothing can be misunderstood.  “And the other half, he left to you, Ms. Blackwell.”

“You mean to the company, right? Vincent left it to me in proxy, to the name of the estate, right?” It’s the only logical explanation I can come up with, the only one that makes sense. From across the table, I feel Owen’s eyes staring laser beams over at me. His glare makes me feel naked and vulnerable, but it also makes me feel the pulsating vibrations of his anger.

Simon scans over the paper he’s just read. “Uh, no actually, according to this, he’s actually left it directly to you.”

My jaw hits the table. Okay, fine. That’s an exaggeration, but still the fact that Vincent has left me, Elle Blackwell, only child to a broken family who was never expected to amount to anything half of the most prestigious winery in the state, is pretty amazing.

A harsh realization slaps me in face.
What a hypocrite!
I can’t believe I got all high and mighty on Owen when, in reality, I’m the same exact thing, a nobody from nowhere.

“I’ll just need you both to sign right here,” Simon’s voice breaks through the stilted silence. Owen grabs the pen from him. He scratches his name across the paper, nearly ripping it in half as he signs his name. Rather than handing it to me, Owen tosses the pen on the table and I’m surprised that he doesn’t shatter the glass with the force of his toss.

With careful precision, I grace the paper with my name, admiring the hard lines of Owen’s signature above the feminine lines of my own.

When I click the fancy pen that probably cost more than my entire outfit closed, Owen stands from his seat. Hovering over the table, his presence is impossible to ignore. “I guess I’ll be in touch,” he mutters angrily. Even though I deserve it, his tone still stings. I had nothing to do with the fact that Vincent was a shitty father, an absentee father, actually. That wasn’t my responsibility. In fact, my only job has been to make sure that the winery makes money and it’s been a job at which I’ve been rather successful, one from which I will not let Owen Carmichael,  hottest God-like man I’ve ever laid eyes on, lead me astray.

Standing from my own chair, I hope to gain some leverage on him, but all I manage to do is exacerbate the difference in our statures. I extend my hand. “I guess we’ll be in touch, Owen.” Though I consider using the more formal Mr. Carmichael, I won’t give him the satisfaction of having him think he’s above me.

Hmmm…Owen…above me.

Slapping myself out of my own erotic daydream - yeah, it’s been far too long - I slide him a business card and tell him to call me Monday so we can meet and go over any remaining details.

All but grunting at me, Owen nods to Simon as he struts out of the room. His jean-clad and glorious ass does not go unnoticed, at least on my part.

“That went well,” Simon jokes as he shuffles his precious papers once more.

A soft chuckle passes my lips. “Sure did,” I respond, thinking any situation where I get to see Owen Carmichael again is obviously successful.