Page 55 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwenty
The rolling driveinto the mountains feels like we are saying goodbye to the real world. Buildings and village bustle transform into quaint farmhouses, fields full of swaying grasses, and not a soul in sight. We climb higher with each switchback while the enchanted view of the castle becomes smaller. Warm and heavy, the air spilling in through the car window is fragrant with the scent of lavender and freshly cut grass.
“You sure know how to pick the best spots,” I say.
Morgan smiles. “I love it up here. My mind can shut off.”
My brain could use an off switch too, and this destination feels about perfect. A rustic stone and stucco home snuggled into the hillside. Morgan parks the Bentley alongside a fence smothered with clusters of purple wisteria and leads me up a pathway lined with lemon trees to a brick patio scattered with teak outdoor furniture and planters filled with fat buds of lavender.
“Is that a bathtub?” I point to a barrel-like contraption next to an outdoor shower.
“There are towels,” he says, “if you want to try it.”
“Maybe later. I need a minute for this view.” Across the valley, a mountain range sparkles with every shade of green. Nestled below the hills sits Dolce Aqua in all its medieval glory. I can see the castle, the river.
“And we’re in.” Morgan smiles, holding up a key that was left, unoriginally, under a shredded coir doormat. I follow him inside, into the kitchen, all twelve modern and efficient square feet of it. Tucked against the wall is a wooden dining table with two stools tucked underneath. Morgan drags a finger through the layer of dust on the table and shrugs. “No maid service, but it does the trick, no? The bathroom is down the hall if you need it,” he adds, gesturing to his left.
I drop my purse on the kitchen counter to take it all in. A small flight of stairs leads into the sunken living room, a king bed wedged into the corner where two walls of windows meet. And wow, the view. Just as incredible from in here. I stretch and yawn, suddenly feeling dopey. The cabin’s warm from all the pent-up heat, and the effects of last night’s patchy sleep are trickling in.
That bed looks very tempting.
“I already feel relaxed,” I say.
Morgan opens the kitchen cupboards one by one. “Speaking of relaxing, why don’t you take a seat outside? I’ll round up some food and wine.”
I so enjoy being pampered and leave him to his devices. It’s lovely on the patio, shaded by the branches of olive trees. Butterflies dance among the tall grass. I kick off my flats and stretch out on a teak deck chair weathered by rain and sun. I close my eyes and all the tension in my shoulders starts to unkink. With nothing but absolute silence around me, I drift off fast and hard, into one of those luxurious afternoon naps I never have time for.
It’s blissful blackness until the soft pop of a cork brings me back. I can feel hot air shift with Morgan’s movements.
“Mmm,” I mumble, sunbaked and drowsy. “I don’t think I can move.”
“You were out for thirty minutes. Figured you needed the rest.” With the glug, glug of wine into glasses, I open both eyes. Morgan’s set out a tray of cheese and crackers, olives, and sliced apples. “Not as much as food as I’d hoped,” he admits. Handing me a filled glass, he slips off his shoes and settles into the lounge chair next to mine. “Á votre santé, sleepyhead.”
We slide wine down our throats, the Viognier perfectly chilled and quaffable. “Yum. Any chance we can work the yacht show from here?”
He chuckles. “I thought you’d like it.”
It’s cute how he wiggles his toes, nails buffed and trimmed neatly from a recent pedicure. There isn’t much about him to criticize. After spending a handful of days together, he’s proven to be genuine and thoughtful, more warm-hearted than I initially imagined. Yes, at times, he’s demanding and difficult, but what entrepreneur isn’t? And he really has a body to die for. A dick made for riding hard and long. Maybe the hot sun is warping what’s left of my rules, but I can’t stop thinking about the bed inside. How wonderful it would be to wake up to that view.
How wonderful something else might be.
“I didn’t realize your friend Stryker is so accomplished,” Morgan says out of the blue.
I glance over, surprised. “You stalked him?”
“I was curious,” he says, shrugging it off. “How did you meet him?”
With an emphasis on how, the subtext is clear. “He was my first boyfriend. Way back when.”
“It’s nice you’ve kept the friendship intact.”
“And that’s all it is now,” I say, reading between the lines. “But he’s a great guy, very talented. My soon to be ex-husband worked with him.” I gulp wine, thinking, Whatever. He heard. Why deny it?
“I’m sorry … about what’s happened,” he says with tact.
I let out a breath, all the dark stuff. “It’s not public knowledge yet, so please don’t say anything. My father’s running for mayor of Laguna Beach, and… Yeah, it’ll be interesting. Everyone thought we were the golden couple.”
He digests that, lets the moment sit. “By everyone, you mean the public?”
