Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (6 page)

“No argument there.”

“I had no right to accuse you of anything, darling.”

She pulled her elbow away gently, bristling at the endearment. She wasn’t his
darling
. Frankly, after spending all day mooning over Cameron Winslow and wondering when he’d ask her again about visiting The Five Sisters, she really didn’t want to be Shane’s . . . anything.

“Well, it’s settled now. Let’s not be late for Father.”

She turned to go, but he reached for her elbow again, pulling her closer to him and looking deeply into her eyes. “Do I have anything to worry about, Margaret?”
“Worry about?”

“You know what I mean. I’ve grown fond of you. I have . . .
feelings
for you, Margaret.”

Her face flushed uncomfortably “Oh, Shane . . .”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice lower and more serious than she’d ever heard it before.

The front door opened suddenly, and Margaret turned away from Shane, grateful for the distraction.

Her breath caught at the sight of Cameron Winslow dressed in a form-fitting royal blue tank top, black running shorts, and white sneakers. His inky black hair was windblown, his cheeks were ruddy, and his face glistened with sweat. The shirt clung to his damp chest, outlining his pecs and abs, but his arms were bare, and her eyes landed on them, lingering, unable to look away. Those tan, veined arms, corded with muscle, had hauled her against his body twice, once on the sidewalk and once in the doorway of her apartment, and all she wanted to do was reach out and touch them. She wanted to feel the hot slickness of his arms under the coolness of her fingertips.

As she slid her eyes up, she found his face bright, grinning at her with a smile so pure and beautiful it almost made her wonder if—

Suddenly his eyes narrowed, trailing down her shoulder to find Shane standing behind her, still holding her arm. Cameron clenched his jaw as he dropped his gaze to the floor, and when he looked up, his face was stony.

He’d stopped in his tracks when they made eye contact, but now he approached them, offering a clipped “Margaret. Olson.”

She kept herself from flinching at his tone, but it hurt to hear him call her Margaret. It hurt even worse that his eyes were so cold.

“Winslow,” said Shane, nodding.

“Hi, Cameron,” she said, wishing she could spend an extra moment chatting with him, but unable to think of anything clever to say or ask. “Were you just out jogging?”

He’d already sauntered past them, headed toward the elevator, so she asked the question of his back. He pivoted around to look at her, his eyes still narrow, almost furious. “No, Margaret. I was leading a world financial summit for the pigeons in the park across the street. This is the go-to look now for young urban bankers on Saturday afternoons.”

“You’re such an ass,” said Shane. “There’s no cause for—”

“Save it,” said Cameron to Shane, without dropping Margaret’s eyes.

He took a predatory step closer to her, though Shane still held her elbow. He seized her eyes with his, holding them fiercely before sliding to her lips, her throat, her breasts. Her nipples beaded for him as though on command, and he rested his gaze there for a long moment before leisurely sliding back up her body to find her eyes again and smirking with satisfaction. His voice was low and silky, edged with anger, when he said, “I guess we’ll have to save that glass of wine for another time, eh, Meggie?”

She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her with such intensity, such hunger, and her heart raced from the sudden clench and release of her sex muscles, a surprise flood of wet heat dampening her panties.

As if he knew, he licked his lips slowly, glancing at her still-pert breasts before turning away.

“Have a good night, kids,” he said, heading for the elevator and pressing the call button.

Margaret pinched her lips together, staring at his back wistfully before dropping her eyes to the lobby floor. She hated that he’d seen her with Shane, obviously in the midst of an intimate exchange. She hated that he’d tried to embarrass her by speaking to her and looking at her so disrespectfully, and still her body had responded to him. But most of all, she hated that their truce, their playful warmth from Tuesday night that she’d loved so much, seemed lost. She grieved it. She wanted it back desperately.

“That guy is so full of himself, assuming you’d want to have a drink with him, when we’re obviously together,” said Shane, commandeering Margaret toward the front door, where his black Mercedes waited for them at the curb, guarded by a smiling Franklin. “Never liked the Winslows much myself. They’re all rather wild.”

“Please don’t speak about him that way,” she said softly, yanking her elbow away from Shane, her cheeks still flushed with heat.

“Why, Margaret . . .”

“We grew up together.”

Shane tsked softly. “Of course. How stupid of me. You’re family friends.”

He helped her into the car, and she chastised herself for rushing to Cameron’s defense when he had, in fact, just been a jerk to them.

“We were interrupted, Margaret,” said Shane, turning the key and pulling away from the curb. “And maybe now’s not the time, but I’d like to talk about our future at some point soon. As you know, I’m very vested in the success of Story Imports, and I feel strongly that you and I . . .”

She didn’t hear a word Shane was saying, because suddenly she was reminded of Cameron’s face when he first entered the lobby and saw her. He’d smiled, right? Yes. Oh Lord, yes. He may as well have tattooed that smile on her brain—she’d never be able to forget the beauty of it. He’d seemed glad to see her and then . . . and then . . . and then he’d been such an incredible jerk.

She gulped softly, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth as Shane droned on beside her.

He’d been a jerk the moment he realized she was with Shane.

Blinking rapidly, she stared out the window, a gathering feeling in her chest making her feel suddenly light-headed as synapses fired in her brain, trying to make sense of what she’d seen, and . . .

Oh my God.

Was it possible that Cameron Winslow was jealous of seeing her with Shane?

No, that was impossible. They’d only buried a lifelong hatchet three days ago and hadn’t bumped into each other since. To be jealous, he’d have to have
feelings
for her, and that was impossible. The only feelings he’d ever had for her were feelings of wanting to torment her, not belong to her, not . . . not . . .

But her heart raced as she suddenly remembered the way he’d looked at her in her blue sweater on Monday morning on the sidewalk . . . the way he’d held her for an extra moment when she’d fallen into his arms on Tuesday night . . . the way his thumb had grazed hers oh-so-softly when he repeated the words
,
“and you’re not quite that exclusive yet.” The way he’d asked if he could visit The Five Sisters . . . the way he’d promised they’d still have that glass of wine another time . . . and just now, the way his eyes had flashed with anger when he realized she was with Shane . . . the way they’d raked over her body with such desperate hunger, making her suddenly feel things deep in her core that she’d been waiting a lifetime to feel.

Her heart clamored, and her breathing, already quick and shallow, froze as her mind scrambled to put all the pieces together. Three days simply wasn’t enough time to have developed such intense feelings for her which meant . . . which meant . . .

Oh God!

. . . he’d felt like this for some time.

“Margaret!” thundered Shane, making her jump.

She jerked her neck to face him.

“I’ve said your name four times!”

“Did you? Oh, I . . . I, uh . . .”

“You’re so distracted lately!” he said, rubbing his chin, no doubt remembering her head smashing into it on Monday. “Did you hear a word I said?”

“Yes,” she lied. “Of course I did. I’m sorry, Shane. I was . . .”
thinking about Cameron Winslow and whether or not he might . . . might have . . .

Shane huffed at her, glancing at her once with exasperation before looking back at the road. His fingers were tight on the steering wheel, but his voice was gentler when he said softly, “So you agree? About us? Our future?”

“Our future,” she repeated.

Wait. What? Their
future?

And in that moment Margaret knew beyond any trace of doubt that, biological clock be damned, her father’s wishes would never come true. She and Shane had no future whatsoever, and it was high time she let him know. Shane was a good man, an asset to Story Imports, and her father patently adored him. She needed to figure out a way to let Shane go without jeopardizing their working relationship or invoking her father’s wrath. Margaret cringed inside as warm, lovely thoughts of Cameron skittered away. She had quite a tightrope to walk, and she had no idea how to take the first step.

“We should talk a little more,” she said gently, hoping it would buy her some more time.

“Oh, of course.” His body relaxed, and he reached over, patting her hand gently. “Of course. There’s plenty of time to sort out the details. I just . . . well, I’m so glad we’re on the same page.”

She nodded weakly, glad that Shane seemed appeased, but dreading the awkward conversation they’d need to have very soon. Perhaps tonight, after he drove her home, she’d invite him up to her apartment and try to explain that they simply weren’t meant to be. Shane patted her hand one more time, reached for the radio, and tuned the channel to his favorite classical station.

Without meaning to, her thoughts shifted seamlessly back to Cameron, and she turned her head toward the window to conceal her smile from Shane as her heart fluttered with realization, leaping at the possibility of Cameron’s hidden feelings.

Little boys teased little girls they liked, didn’t they?

Maybe grown men teased grown women they liked too.

A tiny giggle passed from her lips, swallowed by the hum of the car engine, but Margaret felt something warm and new in her belly, and it felt like happiness.

Was it possible that all this time—throughout the many years they’d known each other—that Cameron had secretly liked Margaret just as much as she had secretly liked him?

“You’ve made me very happy, Margaret,” said Shane from beside her, his voice tender and soft. “Very happy indeed.”

Margaret gave him a polite smile as they pulled into the driveway at Forrester, ignoring the guilt she felt at the thought of breaking things off with Shane, but quietly giddy about the prospect of following the newly unearthed hope in her heart.

As he rode up in the elevator, as he stalked down the hallway, as he threw his keys across his apartment, as he stripped and showered, Cameron cursed himself.

He had acted like a total and complete jackass to her . . . and why? For the same reason he’d annoyed her as a child. Because he liked her. And because it really fucking bothered him to see her standing there with her goddamned boyfriend. Exclusive or not, she was in Olson’s car right now, headed somewhere
probably
romantic that would
possibly
lead to sex, with Olson’s fucking hands all over her body.

“Fuck!”
he yelled in the shower, pounding his fist against the tile wall.

Cameron didn’t need this. Didn’t
want
this. Didn’t want to be distracted by Margaret
fucking
Story when he needed to work tonight, when he needed to work
every
night, every
minute
of the goddamned day. He didn’t have time to be thinking about her, to be distracted by recent memories of her deep brown eyes looking into his, her lips sighing over a bottle of wine, the softness of her thumb under the pad of his finger, the way she’d looked at him while Olson held on to her arm in the lobby, the way her nipples had pebbled under her flimsy blue blouse, the way her cheeks had flushed and—

Fuck.

Stop fucking thinking about her.

Except he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t been able to stop since Tuesday night. It was like Margaret Story, who had always been a tiny orange ember deep inside him, had suddenly erupted into a crackling blue flame, consuming every other thought he dared to have, and replacing it with a ceaseless longing to think about her instead.

And he wanted her.

Fuck, he wanted her so bad, his cock twitched, thickening as he imagined freeing her dark hair from its bun, taking off her glasses, and pushing her against the nearest wall. He’d snap the buttons off her blouse as he tore it open, plunging his hands into her bra until her nipples indented the skin of his palms. She’d hike up her skirt and pull down her panties just enough that he could bury his cock so deep inside her, he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

“Ahhh,” he grunted, coming against the shower wall as his fantasy carried him away. He rested his forehead against the warm tile and closed his eyes.

This had to stop.

He couldn’t live like this.

A swift memory of Olson’s hand on her elbow made him grimace as he turned his face into the shower. She didn’t belong to him, so why did he feel like he was on the verge of losing her? And why did it feel so goddamned awful?

“I don’t lose,” he growled, squeezing shampoo into his hand and scrubbing mercilessly at his hair. Backing up into the hot spray, he let the water beat down on his head until little white bubbles sluiced down his muscular legs and into the drain. Bracing his hands flat on the wall in front of him, he repeated, “I don’t lose. Not in business. Not in life.”

And yet Cameron’s sad reality was that he was, in fact, losing at both. And he had a feeling that if the two somehow got tangled together, it would only get worse.

He’d been testing and teasing Margaret for years, but lately he’d had a funny feeling that if he reached for her, she wouldn’t pull away. And that single thought tormented him almost more than any other. Because she felt available to him for this split second of time, and this split second just happened to be the
wrong
second for his life.

Realistically speaking, if he got involved with Margaret, the time he needed to spend keeping his business afloat would go to her, and any chance of salvaging C & C Winslow would evaporate.

On the flip side, he knew he’d let her down, destroying things between them before they could even find their footing. No matter how much he wanted to see her, he’d postpone a date when he got tied up in a conference call. He’d cancel dinner because he wasn’t finished with a client’s M&A agreement. He’d promise to show up at her beloved vineyard and never make it out there because one call turned into five.

And each time, it would pick away at whatever they were trying to build. Eventually, she’d hate him, and he’d lose her.

And the only thing worse than not having Margaret Story at all would be having a chance with her before losing her forever.

He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped his body in an oversize towel. A puff of thick steam followed him into his bedroom as he grabbed some sweats and a clean T-shirt from his bureau and quickly changed.

He was just about to grab a beer from the fridge when he heard the buzz of his phone and turned to see who it was. He had a mountain of paperwork to sift through tonight. He didn’t have time to catch up with—

Jessica.

His little sister.

He immediately pressed Talk.

“Jess?”

“C-C-Cam?” she sobbed.

He clenched his fist as fear made his blood run cold. “Are you okay? Jessica, tell me you’re okay.”
Right. Fucking. Now.

“I’m o-okay.”

He relaxed only a little as every protective instinct rose to the surface, ready to beat the shit out of Jessica’s fiancé, and Cameron’s good friend, Alex English, if he had anything to do with the reason Jessica was in tears.

“What happened? Is it Alex?”

Please tell me it’s Alex. I’m in the mood to fuck someone up.

“A-Alex? No! Alex is f-fine.”

“Then Christ, Jess! Tell me why you’re crying. You’re scaring me to death! What the fuck is going on?”
“C-Cameron,” she hiccupped, “you’re not very nice when you’re w-worried.”

Cameron took a deep breath and counted to five in his head. And this was yet another reason he should stay away from Margaret Story. When he cared for someone, he couldn’t bear to see them upset or in pain or unhappy in any way. And his drama queen of a youngest sibling kept him busy enough. He didn’t need to add another woman to the pile.

“Jessica Fairchild Winslow, you are taxing my patience . . . but I am calm now. So, tell me, why are you crying?” he asked in a tightly controlled voice.

“W-W-Winterhaven c-canceled the w-w-w . . .,” she wailed, her voice almost unrecognizable.

It took him a moment to decipher her words. Winterhaven. The place she was having her. . . Oh, shit.

“Wait. Winterhaven canceled your
wedding
? What do you mean they
canceled
it? We paid the deposit months ago. You’ve been there fifty times to plan things out. What the
fuck
are you talking about?”

She blew her nose loudly into the phone, a reminder that Jessica, for all her charm and grace, had been raised alongside four older brothers.

“They c-canceled it. The s-secretary of state wants it for an international gala.”

“Fuck that! We paid our deposit. It’s ours.”

“Apparently it was in the contract. If the Office of the P-President wants to use Winterhaven, they have the right to cancel p-private events.”

“This is fucking nonsense!” yelled Cameron, grabbing a beer out of the fridge and stalking into the den.

“Now what am I going to do? How can I get m-married now? We’re having the engagement p-party at Westerly—I can’t get married there too. And B-Brooks won’t do my auction, and P-Preston is still being a moody jerk.” She sobbed softly. “This family is a m-mess.”

He’d sort out the mystery auction and Preston’s moodiness in a moment. For now, they needed a solution for Jessica’s wedding. Their father was dead, she was clearly at odds with their two older brothers, and she’d come to him for help. And damn it, he was going to help her.

“First things first. The wedding.”

“W-what wedding?” she wailed. “It’s c-canceled.”

“Stop being an idiot, Jess. It’s still four months away. We’ll figure it out.”

“How? We already printed the invitations!” She blew her nose again. “And
you
stop being an idiot, Cam! It t-takes a year to plan a g-good wedding! F-Four months is a j-j-joke!”

Her voice was a cross between a wail and a screech. Cameron took a deep breath. He was frustrated and worried, which was making her more upset. Picturing his oldest brother, Brooks, he channeled a sense of confident composure and lowered his voice.

“We’ll reprint the invitations,” he said gently.

“And what v-venue are we going to find on this short notice, Cam? T-tell me that!”

When it’s ready, I want to have events there too: weddings, parties, tastings. I want it to be a destination, you know? A fully functional vineyard and winery.

“Jess,” he said, “are you listening?”

“Mm-hm,” she sniffled pathetically.

“How about a vineyard?”

She sniffled again, a breathy, sobby sound. “What do you mean?”

“A vineyard. A winery. For your wedding.”

“A vineyard?” she squeaked.

“Yeah,” he said, warming to the idea. “A vineyard in the Pennsylvania countryside. Somewhere really picturesque.”

“Well,” she said, her voice still pathetic, but slightly more thoughtful, “
Martha Stewart Weddings
had some amazing vineyard ideas last month.”

“Uh-huh,” he encouraged her. “And it would be different, right? Everyone gets married at a country club or hotel or Winterhaven. This would be memorable. Unique.”

She sniffled again, but her voice was stronger, interrupted only by little gaspy sobs she couldn’t help. “And ch-charming. A country wedding with long tables and Mason jars bursting with w-wildflowers.”

“And great wines,” said Cameron.

“Maybe a hayride,” said Jessica. “And th-thousands of twinkle lights.”

“We’ll rent a tent.”

“It could be amazing,” she said. “But, Cameron . . .” Her voice broke again, and the tears came back. “We don’t
have
a v-vineyard.”

“I do,” he said quickly, hoping that he wasn’t promising something he couldn’t deliver. “I mean, I don’t, but Margaret Story does.”

“Margaret? She has a vineyard?”

“She does. About an hour outside of town.”

“Oh, Cam!” she exclaimed. “Do you think—”

“I’ll make it happen,” he said. “No matter what.”

“You will?” she wailed.

But Cameron smiled to himself because he knew that her tears were coming from a place of hope and relief now. “I promise you, Jess. You have my word.”

“We’d need to see it soon. And you’ll come with me, Cam? I barely know Margaret. You’ll help me?”

“Whatever you need, Jess.” He sat on his couch and crossed his legs as he tipped the beer back and took a satisfying gulp. “Now tell me about this auction Brooks won’t help you with . . . and when you want me to kick Preston’s ass.”

***

Margaret blinked, opening her eyes to the morning sunlight streaming through the diamond-shaped cut-glass window just over her head. For just a moment she reveled in the plush softness of her country bed, covered with a thick down comforter and smelling of fresh-cut grass and her own lilac perfume. But all too soon the memories of last night invaded her peaceful good morning, and she cringed, turning to her side and picking up her phone to check the time. Ten o’clock. She’d overslept by hours.

Huffing softly, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the sharp angle of the ceiling. Her bedroom at The Five Sisters was in the converted attic of a thatched-roof cottage she’d had completely renovated, and although it was a tiny room, she loved it more than any five-star hotel suite in the world.

Exposed beams peeked through white stucco in a sharp inverted V that sheltered her full-size bed snugly, with just enough space for a petite end table and lamp on each side of the bed. The lamps were clear glass, filled with fresh herbs that emitted a lovely smell when the lit bulbs gently warmed them from above. Beside her lamp was her Kindle, her phone, and a glass of half-drunk wine.

Wine that she’d needed last night.

She’d never gotten to speak to Shane about going their separate ways, and to say the evening had been awkward, disjointed, and downright upsetting would be the understatement of the year.

It all started when Margaret’s younger, very bohemian sister—twenty-seven-year-old Priscilla, whom Margaret hadn’t seen in almost a year—opened the front door of Forrester to greet them.

Priscilla had interned at Story Imports last summer, while she was trying to get her act together, but it had been a short-lived stint that ended with her chasing one of their French wine reps, Xavier, back to Paris.

Suddenly home again, she was decked out in a colorful muumuu. Her long brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in fairy-tale waves, a dozen bracelets covered her wrists, and bright aqua feathers hung from her pierced ears. When she swung open the door, she practically fell into Margaret’s arms.

“
Marguerite!
” she exclaimed, crushing Margaret with her embrace. “Oh God, I’m so glad to see you!”