I wind my way through the crowded restaurant, my gaze going to the menu, which is written in chalk on a giant blackboard hanging above the counter. The soup and sandwich options sound amazing and my stomach growls in anticipation.

Yikes. Hope that doesn’t happen when I meet Ivy’s friend. Talk about making a tacky first impression.

“Bryn! So good to see you.” Ivy hops up from the table and envelops me in a hug like I’m her long-lost friend. I return the gesture, oddly touched by her affection since I never really get that sort of thing anymore.

I withdraw from Ivy first and smile at the woman who’s now standing next to her. She’s young, with long blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and cool, assessing blue eyes. “This is my friend Marina Knight,” Ivy says, gesturing at Marina with a wave of her hand. “She’s the owner of Autumn Harvest and my future sister-in-law.”

“Stop, please.” Marina rolls her eyes. “Your brother hasn’t made it official yet.”

“Trust me, he will.” Ivy laughs. “Marina, this is Bryn James. She’s Matt’s assistant.”

“Oooh.” That long, dragged out sound is telling. “I’ve heard lots about you.” I both dread and long to know what they’ve said.

“Nice to meet you,” I tell Marina as I shake her hand. All formal and business-like, I sound good. Calm and collected when usually this type of stressful situation tends to bring my Texan out.

It took me over a year to learn how to talk without all those twangs and y’alls but it sure doesn’t take much for me to slip right back into it if I don’t watch out.

“Great to meet you too,” Marina says with a touch too much enthusiasm. “Ivy’s told me so much about you.”

Really? I’m stunned. I figured they might’ve gossiped about me in passing but that’s it. Why in the world would Ivy talk about me to her friend? I’m so in the dark this afternoon I’m scared I won’t survive it.

We all sit down and Marina goes over the menu, explaining what she thinks are the best dishes and expounding on their specials of the day. Once we’ve decided, she calls one of her employees over and he takes our orders—a special perk of being with the owner.

Everyone else has to stand in line and place their order at the counter.

“So Ivy said you want a makeover.”

“I never said any such thing,” I tell Marina, sending a surprised glance in Ivy’s direction. She maintains an expression of innocence, looking downright angelic. I see her devil horns peeking through her hair though.

“Come on, Bryn. You wouldn’t refuse a pregnant woman, would you?” Ivy blinks at me, the epitome of sweetness and light and my hard feelings at being pushed into something I didn’t want to do melt a little.

“You’re going to use that excuse as long as you can, aren’t you?” Marina asks, rolling her eyes.

I know right then I’ll like Marina.

“The entire pregnancy, absolutely,” Ivy confirms, smiling. “Bryn, I can tell you’re uncomfortable with this, but please. I’m a hormonal pregnant lady who wants nothing more than to have fun today. And having fun means finding you a gorgeous dress and going to the spa.”

Just the word spa has dread curling in my stomach. Spa equals expensive. I should know. I’ve never been to one because I can’t afford it.

“You’re scaring her, Ivy,” Marina says, her voice low. “Stop laying it on so thick. Maybe you should tell her the truth.”

The truth? That sounds ominous. But there’s no truth to be told, at least not yet. Ivy merely smiles at me, then changes the subject. We talk about everything and nothing while we wait for our food, Marina and Ivy chattering on while I interject when asked. Other than that, I remain silent, drinking in the cute yet hip atmosphere of the café.

Our lunches finally arrive and I dive right in, holding nothing back. I’m freaking starved and usually I eat at home, rarely going out, only because I know hardly anyone. And, since I don’t cook, I eat pitiful meals that consist of Lean Cuisine microwaved meals or premade salads I pick up at the local grocery store. After I finish, they always leave me feeling empty and unsatisfied.

Kind of like my life.

Halfway through my sandwich, I realize the other women aren’t eating. Glancing up from my plate, I catch both Ivy and Marina staring at me like I’m an alien who just landed on planet Earth.

I slowly chew what’s in my mouth then swallow, setting the sandwich carefully on my plate. “Um, do I have something on my face?”

Marina shakes her head. “Do you never eat? Because you’re acting like a starved woman.”

“I don’t get out much,” I admit, feeling infinitely stupid.

“Give her a break and take it as a compliment. Clearly she loves your sandwiches,” Ivy says, her smile kind.

“I’m not giving her a hard time. I just . . . we don’t normally see girls our age devour a sandwich like that,” Marina explains.

This makes me feel even worse. I’m an absolute pig. But I eat such crappy meals, and I really don’t think a soup and sandwich indulgence will do me any harm.

“Being pregnant is absolute freedom. I love eating without worry.” Ivy takes a huge bite out of her sandwich for emphasis.

“You’re not pregnant are you, Bryn? That’s not your excuse, right?” Marina asks.

I’m horrified at her question. Pregnant? Heaven forbid. “Absolutely not,” I say with conviction.

Ivy bursts out laughing, pressing a hand to her chest. “Well, thank goodness. That would’ve torn our plan to shreds.”

Okay. I’m done with the mystery. I feel like I’m their little project, and I don’t like it. “What exactly is going on here?”

“What do you mean?” Ivy asks.

“I feel like you’ve invited me here for lunch under false pretenses.” I hate that I’m skeptical of everyone, but I can’t help myself. My entire life I’ve always felt like someone wants something from me. It’s made me throw up walls and become ultradefensive.

I have no idea what they’re up to and it’s making me uncomfortable.

“Just tell her Ivy,” Marina mumbles, making me even more nervous.

These women in the Napa Valley are weird. And I thought Hollywood was full of strange people.

“Oh fine.” Ivy blows out an irritated sigh. “I wanted this to be a surprise, but you’re getting too twitchy. We want to try and pair you up with Matt.”

I gape at her. Wait. What? “Are you talking about Matt—as in my boss, Matt DeLuca?”

Now it’s Ivy’s turn to roll her eyes. “Do you know another Matt?”

Well, I went to school with Matt Short but he’s still back in Cactus, running his daddy’s welding business last I heard. “But he’s my boss,” I stress, thinking of another boss I had. The one with the kids and the wife and the wandering hands, the one who literally chased me so fast around his desk we probably wore a path in the carpet.

“So?” Ivy waves her hand, dismissing my concerns. “I think he has the hots for you.”

I refuse to let that bit of information spark hope in my chest. Forget it. “I doubt that. I’m his assistant.” Who wears drab clothing and tries to be efficient but forgettable.

“So? Attraction is attraction.” Ivy shrugs, taking a bite from her sandwich.

I watch her and Marina eat, the both of them completely unaffected while inside my nerves are in chaos. It’s one thing to be attracted to my boss and keep my feelings secret.

It’s quite another to have others notice that there might be something between us and actually want me to act on it.

“I’m not his type,” I finally say, unable to come right out and say what I really feel.

I dress like this and act like this on purpose. I don’t want Matt DeLuca’s attention. I don’t want him to notice me!

Lately though, I do. I have to fight it every day. It would be so easy, to throw on a short skirt and a revealing top, saunter into his office and lick my lips before flashing my sauciest smile. Wear my hair down and flip it over my shoulder, thrust my chest out and let him get a look at my br**sts because even I can admit they’re pretty nice.

But I don’t do any of that. It’s not worth the trouble.

“I think you’re hiding beneath that exterior. I’ve never seen you look better than right now,” Ivy says matter-of-factly.

I’m wearing a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and my hair is in a high ponytail. Not a lick of makeup is on my face and the jeans fit my curvier self from a year ago so they’re kind of saggy. Not the most flattering thing I own.

“Gee thanks,” I mutter.

“I’m being serious. The way you dress, the way you present yourself to everyone, it doesn’t feel real. It’s like you’re doing your best to hide.” Ivy contemplates me, her gaze roving over my face, and I almost want to squirm, she’s making me so uncomfortable. “You have a beautiful face.”

Oh, no. “Thank you,” I say uncertainly.

Ivy narrows her eyes, nudges Marina with her elbow. “Like, really beautiful. You could pass for Angelina Jolie. Don’t you think, Marina?”

“Please.” I’ve been told that once or twice. Usually by some lecherous, so-called director I’m reading a script for who’s hoping to get in my panties before he’ll give me the part. I don’t miss Hollywood at all. “I look nothing like her.”

Now it’s Marina’s turn to scrutinize me. “Yeah, actually you kind of do look like her.”

My appetite evaporates, just like that. I stare at my half-eaten sandwich, sad that I can’t enjoy it any longer.

“Where are you from anyway, Bryn? I don’t think you’ve ever told me,” Ivy says.

“I came here from southern California.” I shrug, being deliberately vague.

“And where did you come from before that?” Marina asks. “You have a slight accent.”

Crap. I thought I’d banished that twang for good. “Fine. I grew up in Texas,” I say with a sigh. “A little town I’m sure you’ve never heard of.”

“Now I’m dying to know,” Marina says.

I’d come to California to forget my past and start fresh. I want a new chance, to be a new me. Not sit over lunch and reminisce. “Cactus, Texas, population three thousand-two hundred. Right at the tippy-top of the state,” I say.

Ivy grins. “You said tippy-top.”

My cheeks are hot. “I guess I’m still a bit of a hick.” I am such a hick. And in this town full of rich people, where everything is beautiful, and lush, and green, I’m nothing but a simple girl.

“You are not a hick. You’re adorable.” Ivy smiles and picks up her glass of ice water, sipping from the straw. “Let’s finish lunch and go shopping before my mid-afternoon exhaustion sets in.”

“We’re going to Ross, right?” I ask weakly, knowing there wasn’t a Ross Dress for Less anywhere near St. Helena.

“Absolutely not,” Ivy says firmly, Marina nodding in agreement.

“There are a few boutiques nearby where I think we’ll find something. Something amazing to knock Matt’s socks off,” Marina says.

“Why are you two so determined to hook me up with Matt?” I shouldn’t even consider messing around with my boss. And I don’t get why these two women are so willing to set their friend up with his assistant—as in me. It made no sense.

“He’s lonely. I swear, in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him with a woman more than once,” Ivy explains. “He’s a bit of a serial dater. He needs to find a steady woman. One he can count on.”

Ugh. Well that’s not good. That means he’s a commitment-phobe.

“He was a pro baseball player,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm because come on. “You’re telling me he had a hard time finding women?”

“No, certainly not. But he does have trouble finding a good one,” Ivy says.

“But he’s definitely the least cynical of the three,” Marina adds. “Which is to your advantage, Bryn. He’s not such a nonbeliever.”

My head is bouncing from one to the other, like I’m watching a tennis match. I have no idea what to believe, who to believe. It all sounds like dreamy, Cinderella-type stuff.

And I’m not one who believes in the fairy tale.

“Such a nonbeliever of what?”

“Why love, of course.”

Matt

“YOU, MY FRIEND, are a grumpy asshole.” Gage points his beer bottle in my direction before he takes a swig, Archer chuckling and nodding in agreement.

Assholes. The both of them. Calling me a grumpy asshole. I have reason to be grumpy. I’m working my fingers to the bone trying to get this winery in top shape so I don’t become the laughingstock of the Napa Valley. All while they’re perfectly happy and content, living with their women, established in their careers. Hell, Archer’s getting married soon and having a baby.

I’ve had to start completely over. And it sucks.

“Both of you cheated,” I grumble, peeling the label off my beer bottle, shredding it to bits, and leaving a mess on the table for someone else to clean up.

And I really don’t give a damn.

We’re at the golf resort’s lounge, having a beer after an intensely sucky game on my part. I just want to go home.

Or drown my sorrows in plenty of beer.

“Hell, no we didn’t cheat, you sore-ass loser. I won fair and square. It’s not our fault you never have time to play golf anymore,” Archer says, his look pointed as he watches me from across the table.