A Sip of You(33)

“Good morning, Miss Kelly,” the man said. “I’m Sam, and this is Nancy.”

“Um, good morning. Where’s Fernanda?”

“She has the day off, Miss Kelly,” Nancy, a woman with her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, told me a little too cheerfully.

“And William?” My cheeks burned when I said his name. Was Nancy the one who’d changed the sheets after the night with the honey? Did Sam know about the kinky stuff William and I had done? Handcuffs, sex by the pool... I wanted to turn around, run back upstairs, and bury myself under the bed covers. With William. As it was, I couldn’t make eye contact with either of them.

“Mr. Lambourne is fine,” Sam said. His hair was long, grey, and pulled into a ponytail. I hated ponytails on older men.

“What do you mean fine? Where is he? If he’s out in the vineyard, you can just point me in the right direction and I’ll walk out and meet him.”

Sam kept looking at me, his face expressionless as he answered, “He had some business, but he’ll be in touch soon.”

For a minute I was too stunned to speak as I processed what Sam just said. William couldn’t possibly have done it to me again, but it was obvious that he had. Sam and Nancy were trying to play it cool and act like it was no big deal, but William wasn’t here. He left me on my own again, this time without telling me and without waking me up to say goodbye. And that was a huge fucking deal in my book. “Some business? Where is he exactly?” I sputtered at Sam. I was about to lose it and I didn’t care if they knew.

“Mr. Lambourne is fine and will be in touch with you soon,” Sam said again.

“Is there something I can get you?” Nancy chimed in. “Coffee?”

I ignored chipper Nancy. William had left and that fucking hurt. I thought we were so past the waking up alone, leaving without saying goodbye or even a note stage, especially after the last two nights. Then the niggling thoughts began—he was never going to let me in. He was never going to be what I needed him to be, starting with honest. How could I possibly keep trusting him like he asked when he obviously didn’t trust me? I could feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes. “Great,” I said. “Just great.” Then I turned around and stormed out.

I ended up out by the pool again. I’d gone upstairs first and grabbed my laptop thinking I’d try to do some work to calm down. I was parked on my lounger for about five minutes before Sam appeared and set out a carafe of coffee along with a tray of cups and pitchers on the table.

“Nancy is bringing you some fruit and yogurt,” he told me. “Is there anything else?”

“Nope.” I glared at him. I wasn’t in the mood to be polite and I hadn’t even asked for coffee or breakfast. I surveyed the three little pitchers of milk marked skim, 1%, and 2%, the selection of sugar and its various substitutes, and the half dozen little cups of coffee flavorings I could add. There wasn’t much else I could want for.

Except William.

And explanations.

But I wasn’t going to get those, so I supposed I would have to content myself with coffee.

Yesterday work had distracted me, so I fired up my laptop again and worked for a while on the Fresh Market pictures of asparagus and cherries for the Fresh for Spring campaign. The shots were good, but they needed to be edited, retouched, and refinished. I lost myself in my work for an hour or so, but I was too distracted to really focus. I kept checking my phone, hoping for some word from William, but there was nothing.

Then my phone buzzed, indicating I had a voicemail. I couldn’t push the buttons fast enough. It was from a number I didn’t recognize, but maybe William had called from another number.

“Hi Catherine, this is Emmy Schmidt.”

As soon as I heard the woman’s voice, my heart sank. It wasn’t William. And did I even know an Emmy Schmidt? I kept listening.

“I work for Hutch Morrison, executive chef at Morrison Hotel. I’d like to set up a meeting with you and Mr. Morrison at your earliest convenience.”

Hutch Morrison? I didn’t know him, but I remembered Beckett talking about Morrison Hotel. It was one of the hottest restaurants in Chicago right now.

Emmy Schmidt rattled off her contact information and asked me to call her. I jotted down the number, but I kind of wanted to know more about this guy before I committed to a meeting. I called Beckett, but it went straight to voicemail. “Hey, Beckett, it’s Cat. I just got a call from the PR person for Hutch Morrison. She wants to set up a meeting. Do you know anything about him? Any idea what this could be about? Call or text me when you get a chance. Bye.”