Page 29 of Third Time’s a Charm

It doesn’t take long for me to come, biting down hard on my lip to stop myself shouting just in case she followed me back to the cabin, and I slump against the wall.

Fortunately, there’s no sign of Louise when I creep out of the bathroom. For the first time since I was a teenager, I’m uncomfortable about the release I just gave myself.

It’s not the act of self-pleasure that I’m ashamed of. It’s the images of Louise I conjured while doing it. I shouldn’t think of her in that way. At least not until I know whether I can convince Tate to give the company a chance. Till I know whether I’m betraying her or helping her. But I can’t seem to help myself. It’s becoming a compulsion, and I should be mature enough, strong enough, to resist it.

Turns out I’m not.

Louise comes back to the cabin in time to change for dinner. More guests have apparently arrived this afternoon, and there’s a barbeque party for dinner.

The time we’ve spent at this winery has been more like a holiday than work, although I’ve had some serious conversations with Grahame about the business, his plans and what he needs from a distributor.

All afternoon, I’ve worked on my proposal to keep the business running and it’s essentially finished.

That said, I don’t want to take any risks. This plan needs to be so irrefutable, so balls-to-the-wall that Tate will have no option but to agree. To make sure I’m seeing clearly, I’ve reached out to my uncle. He worked in the wine business all his life, and has been my mentor since my first job working for a small winery in France. I’ve sent a copy to him, and to Edward, who has a great eye for detail, and asked for their opinions.

Once they come back to me with their thoughts, I’ll send it to Tate.

All being well, it might only be a matter of days before I can be honest with Louise. About more than just Cellar Road.

I hear the shower running. Louise humming. The hair dryer. Eventually, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Are you ready for dinner, Jasper?” Is there a flirtiness in her voice that wasn’t there yesterday? I’m not so dense that I can’t feel her attraction to me. I’m sure she’s at the very least confused after the vibes of last night and then what happened in the barrel this afternoon.

One minute we were pressed together, heat rising from the grapes, and from us, the next I’m charging off across the grass.

But it’s vital I keep my distance. At least for the time being. Wandering through the Australian bush with her, along the river, past the distant vineyards, under the massive gum trees all bathed in the golden late afternoon light is way too romantic for that.

“You go ahead. I’ll be over shortly,” I call, without opening the door.

Of course, as soon as I hear the front door of the cabin close behind her and her light footfalls on the front steps, I begin to worry. They don’t call Australian gums widowmakers for nothing. What if a branch falls on her? What if there’s a snake sunning itself on the path and she doesn’t notice? What if one of the new guests who arrived today is a creep and hits on her? The fact that none of these disasters have befallen her despite the amount of time she spends in the bush and visiting wineries is irrelevant.

Fear of loss is something that creates an active wound, especially when it happens early in life. At least it is according to the therapist my father took me to after Mum died. I’m self-aware enough to see how it plays into my inability to establish close relationships with people, especially women. Maybe one day I’ll get over it, but it won’t be the day massive tree branches are swaying over Louise’s head. Although, the fact that I’m worrying about her welfare might be seen as progress. Inappropriate progress, but forward is forward.

The shorts and T-shirt I was wearing are quickly swapped for clean jeans, my favourite shirt and a splash of aftershave. I’m out the door in seconds. I can see her on the path not too far ahead. She’s stopped to take a picture of something. I hesitate and hang back, tailing her like the potential predator I was afraid she might have met with.

I watch as Louise is greeted by all the staff as though she’s been gone for years, not minutes. She’s immediately handed a glass of red wine and drawn into an animated conversation, while I lurk in the shadows of the surrounding trees. If that’s not a metaphor for our personalities, I don’t know what is.

“She’s impossible not to like, isn’t she?” Grahame comments from behind my left shoulder.

I nearly leap out of my skin. I had no idea he was there.

“What? Oh, Louise. Yes. She’s very … engaging.”

“Being her boss would make it awkward, I guess.”

That startles me.

“There’s nothing to make awkward, I can assure you.” I’ve never sounded more like the stereotypical upper-class British twit than I do now.

A gnarled hand lands on my shoulder.

“You keep telling yourself that, son. See where it gets you.”

Having dropped his bombshell, Grahame saunters off to supervise the eye fillets being seasoned, ready for the barbeque.

I should make my excuses.

Go back to the cabin. See if Edward or my uncle have responded to my email.