The sex is rough and dirty, the words coming out of my mouth and the cries coming out of hers neither gentle nor romantic, but it’s what we both need.

I hold out as long as I can, but the warm heat of her combined with the slap of my hips against her ass has me losing my mind in what feels like a matter of seconds.

Determined to take her with me I reach my hand down, pressing just above the spot where we’re joined.

Lucy arches with a feral cry, clenching around me, and my free hand acts of its own volition, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back as I come harder than I ever have before.

When I can finally remember how to think again, I slowly release her hair, and she drops her head forward, breathing hard as she sinks all the way to the mattress.

I lie beside her, the reality of how roughly I’ve just taken Lucy—the girl I once vowed to protect with my own life—creeping in.

Somehow I don’t think this is what her parents had in mind when they asked me to look after her on the damned road trip.

I lie on my back and swallow, racking my brain for what to say, when she shifts, lifting up slightly and turning her head around to face me.

I brace for the censure, maybe anger, but I make myself meet her eyes.

The lower half of her face is hidden partially by her arm, and I can’t read the expression in her eyes.

Then she lifts her face slightly, and my heart starts beating again when I see that she’s smiling.

Grinning, actually.

“We’re in trouble here, huh?”

I smile back, relieved beyond belief that she’s not going to give me the lecture I deserve.

And yet, she’s right. “Yeah, Luce. We’re in trouble.”

Chapter 31

Lucy

I’m prepared for the car ride to be tense, or, at the very least, fake cheerful, but by the time we’ve loaded our bags into the car and set off for Wyoming, we’re more or less back to normal.

And by normal, I mean fighting over the radio. In the end, he gives in, letting me listen to the remainder of a Reba McEntire ballad.

I smirk. My reward for putting out, I’m pretty sure.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, changing lanes to pass the slow bus in front of us. “Do you even like country? Or do you just like torturing me?”

“Little bit of both. Now your turn to tell me something,” I say, deciding to take advantage of the fact that his shoulders seem a little less tense than usual, his face less guarded.

“Pass.”

I ignore this, and ask anyway. “So. Napa.”

His eyes narrow just slightly. A little wary. “What about it?”

“What’s your endgame?”

His knuckles tighten briefly on the steering wheel, the only sign that the invasive question bugs him. “What do you mean, endgame? I want a fresh start and a paycheck. The new job gives me both.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “But what about long term? A year from now, five years from now? Ten?”

I’m all but holding my breath, hating how much his answer matters.

He’s silent for nearly a minute and doesn’t glance over when he finally responds. “I don’t really do long term. If life’s taught me anything it’s that it can be short and brutal and you can’t plan on shit.”

Reece’s answer makes my heart hurt, even though I understand it. His voice is monotone and ice cold, his jaw solid steel in his resolve, but it makes sense. Here’s a guy who lost his mother way too young, had his sister bail on him, and has spent the past few years caring for a father who barely registered his existence, only to lose him too.

Still, the optimist in me wants him to see that it doesn’t have to be that way. That just because his past is full of pain doesn’t mean his future has to be.

“They have some great winemaking classes in the area,” I say, turning and glancing out the window, hoping the suggestion seems off the cuff.

“I already know how to make wine.”

“I know, but California is different,” I say as gently as I can. “There’s a ton of competition if you want to move from being an assistant stuck tending the vineyards to the guy in charge.”

This time he does glance over, and though he’s wearing his usual aviators, I can feel the anger in his gaze. “ ‘Stuck tending the vineyards’? When have I ever given you the impression that I felt stuck?”

Uh-oh. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did, Lucy,” he interrupts. “You think your side of the business is better. It’s not. It may require fancier clothes, but all you do is sell the wine. I know how to fucking make it.”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t power play me, Reece. We’re both experts in our field.”

“But you more so, right? Because you have a fancy degree that says so? Never mind that I was actually doing work while you were just reading about it.”

“Hey!” I say, stung by the way he’s belittling years of hard work and dedication. “Without people like me, nobody would even know about what people like you do all day.”

“Well I’ll be sure to send you a fancy thank-you gift. Oh wait, I can’t afford it, what with me not having a ten-year plan or being brutally ambitious.”

“Brutally ambitious?” I sputter. “Is that what you think I am?”

“I don’t know what you are,” he mutters, turning on his blinker and getting off the freeway. “We need gas.”