Page 15 of Playing Dirty
He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a low chuckle, as if enjoying some private joke I'm not in on.
"What?" I say, setting the Sauvignon Blanc down with a sharp thud. "What is so funny?"
"Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It's just... my entire locker room is convinced I'm going to ask you out. The romantic vineyards, the partnership forcing us into the same room. It's a bit funny to me, considering..."
He gestures to the space between us, indicating, I assume, the palpable hostility I'm radiating. The lack of professional boundaries is staggering, even for him.
"Well, I can assure you I'm not interested," I say briskly. "Even if I were somehow captivated by your personality—which, I'm sorry to report, is not happening"—he laughs again—"I have a strict policy against dating athletes."
"Apolicy?"
I nod and take a large gulp of wine.
“Come on.” He leans in, looking expectantly at me. "You can't just throw that out and not elaborate."
I shrug. "I got married in college, which is embarrassing considering it barely lasted a year. He was an athlete. And let's just say he permanently soured me on the whole hyper-masculine, recreational-violence, bro-culture thing."
He winces. "That bad?"
"Oh, it gets worse." I turn the glass stem between my fingers. "The crowning achievement was his infidelity. So, you know. A complete education from start to finish."
"Shit. I'm sorry, Margot. That's awful."
"Thanks, but it was a long time ago." I keep my eyes on the glass. "We actually tried to repair it for a while after I found out, if you can believe it. Though I'd never make that choice now."
"Well," he says, shaking his head. "He's an absolute idiot, if you don't mind me saying. You're a hell of a catch, and he had clearly no idea what he had."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Er. Thank you."
He nods, reaching for his glass again. "What was his sport, if I may ask?"
I take a sip. "Golf."
He nearly chokes on his wine, his hand coming up to hide what is very clearly an explosion of laughter.
I glare at him. "Is my trauma amusing to you?"
He puts a hand up, recovering. "I'm sorry, it's not funny, it's just, I dunno, the way you were describing the whole brutal-masculine-violence thing, I was picturing some big burly soccer player. Even hockey. Not a man in a quarter-zip yelling fore."
"Golfisa sport," I inform him. "And a well-respected one, too."
"It absolutely is. I enjoy a round myself. I was just surprised, that's all." He shrugs, and then he smiles, dimples and all, the kind that have clearly been getting him out of trouble his entire life.
And I'll be damned if I can't see exactly how well they work.
He keeps his eyes on me, the full weight of his attention settled in a way that I find unfairly distracting. I really need to get this conversation back on track. How on earth did we even land on my divorce?
It must be a skill of his, this knack for getting a woman to drop her guard before she's felt it slip. The same effortless charm that fills arenas and sells wine he's never tasted. And I'veknown enough men like him to be wary of exactly how well it works.
So I put my walls up, back where they belong, reach for the next bottle, and steer us back to the safety of the tasting notes, where I'm the one running the show.
4
Margot
The morning fog is still burning off the hills as I make my way down the pathway that runs alongside the towering stone manor, coffee in one hand. I could cut through the building to get to the meeting room, but the grounds are one of my favorite places in the world, and I savor my morning walks through them.
I pass the pool, tucked away behind its ring of cypress and olive trees, still as glass and waiting for guests who won't wander down for hours. Then through one of José's flower gardens, impossibly lush for Napa, overflowing with roses and wisteria and jasmine, the fragrance drifting on the cool air.
