Savor(57)

It’s really freaking disgusting.

It’s been a month since I left New York City and went back to St. Helena. I went to the winery early the next morning and cleaned all my personal belongings out of my desk. Gave my notice at my apartment, not caring that I had to pay another month’s rent for breaking the lease, even though I was leaving at that very moment.

I just wanted the hell out of there.

It took me a few days to pack up all my stuff, finalize some things, and get everything prepared for the move. But when I was finally ready to take off, all packed up and headed to the gas station before I went roaring off into the sunset, I decided to check my mail one last time. And found a check from DeLuca Winery—three months’ wages. Severance pay, it said on the notes line.

That check both burned my ass and thrilled me down to the bone. I didn’t want to take his pity pay, but I also wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, as my grandma would say.

I never did quite get that phrase but whatever. It fit.

So I went to the bank, deposited all that money and then hit the road. It took me six days, but I finally made it only to find myself with no prospects, no energy, and sadder than I’ve ever been in my life.

I miss Matt. I was dumb, running away from him and my feelings. He’d been so willing to face the troubles beside me head on, and I walked away. Let him go, let him slip right through my fingers like he didn’t matter.

God, I’d been such an idiot—I could tear up right now just thinking about it.

But crying over our lost relationship isn’t going to bring him back or bring me peace. I messed up, and I needed to face facts. Chalk it up to a mistake made and a lesson learned.

Don’t let a good man go, is what my grandma told me when I explained to her what happened a few nights ago. I’d held onto my story, my blow up with Matt for weeks until my grandma finally found me crying on the back porch and point blank asked what the hell was wrong with me.

That had been her one sentence of advice when I finished.

Don’t let a good man go.

Too late, Grandma.

Sighing, I rub at my forehead with the heel of my hand before I start scooping up more crap. I should’ve worn gloves, but I forgot. At least I’m not touching the poop directly, thanks to the shovel.

God, what a transformation I’ve undergone. One month ago, I was in New York City staying at the most beautiful hotel I’ve ever seen in my life, and now I’m digging out chicken shit.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I fill up practically the entire bucket with chicken poo, constantly thrusting the shovel in the rooster’s direction when he comes at me, always on the defensive around that guy. I’m starting to sweat, I probably stink and my feet feel all squishy and disgusting in the rubber boots.

I’ll need a shower as soon as I’m done with this horrendous chore. No wonder my grandma doesn’t want to deal with it.

“Bryn?”

I still, turning my head to the left. I swear I just heard Matt’s voice call my name. Great. Now I’m going crazy and hearing things.

“Lousy men,” I mutter, shaking my head and pointing the shovel at the rooster, who looks ready to jump me at any minute. “You’re all alike. Ready to jump on a woman and tear her apart before she can put herself back together again.”

“Bryn, what the hell are you doing, talking to a chicken?”

Standing completely straight, I turn slowly, the sun suddenly shining in my eyes. I cover them with my hand to find—

Oh my God, to find Matthew DeLuca standing in my grandma’s backyard, on the other side of the chicken coop, looking gorgeous in a pair of khaki shorts and a wine-colored polo shirt.

“I’m not talking to a chicken,” I explain, my voice weak. “I’m talking to a rooster.”

“Same difference?” Matt asks, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

“Don’t tell that to the rooster. You’ll only piss him off,” I mutter, turning and pointing my shovel at the very creature I’m talking about, who’d gotten closer to me what with my distracted state.

My heart is racing, and I can’t believe Matt’s standing here. With me.

But why?

“You uh, look good, Bryn.”

He’s a liar. I look crazy, and I know it. Turning more fully to face him, I kick out one foot, showing off the boots. “You like them?”

“They’re interesting. I prefer seeing you in those tiny denim shorts though.” He whistles low, a rush of pleasure flowing through me at the sound. “Your legs look mighty long in ’em.”

Giddiness courses through me at having him here, with me, in Cactus, Texas, checking out my legs and telling me I look good. If anyone looks good it’s him, all sexy and handsome in the shorts and the polo, his dark hair a haphazard mess, his face covered with a shadow of stubble.