Page 3 of Let It Breathe (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #1)

“ I don’t see why I have to change my shirt,” Larissa argued.

Reese stared at her cousin for two beats, wondering which would emerge first—smoke from her own ears or Larissa’s boobs from the purple push-up bra thrusting said boobs to terrifying heights.

“Because I’ve seen prostitutes dressed more conservatively,” Reese said. “This is a wine tasting room, not a strip club.”

“This is a barn ,” Larissa said.

She did have a point. Since Sunridge Vineyards didn’t have an official tasting room yet, they’d been holding tastings in the winery itself.

With barrels stacked everywhere, a drain running the length of the concrete floor, and the scent of fermenting grapes saturating the air, it was hardly the ambiance Reese wanted to create.

Still, the hordes of wine tourists appearing each week assured Reese she was on the right track.

Mostly on the right track, she amended, looking at her cousin in the purple lace bra and sheer yellow blouse. Reese flipped the end of her own gold-brown ponytail over one shoulder and tried to keep her voice calm.

“Look, Larissa—we’re trying to build a professional reputation for Sunridge Vineyards, and part of that is looking like professionals. Not professional streetwalkers.”

Larissa folded her arms over her chest. “Is the baby opossum in your pocket part of our professional image?”

“I’m not working with the public right now. You are.” Reese touched the front of her flannel overshirt and felt the tiny creature stir. “I ran out of incubator space and he needed lunch.”

“You’re breastfeeding?”

“His bottle’s in my office. Come on, Larissa. Work with me here.”

“Fine.” Larissa sighed. “Do you need me to go raid your closet for a knee-length flannel shirt, or can I use my own wardrobe?”

“Your own clothes are fine.”

“Damn right they are. I just wore that kick-ass blue dress when I convinced the buyer for Anthony’s to start carrying our ’24 Pinot Noir and the ’25 Pinot Gris. That’s nearly thirty restaurants in the whole chain.”

Reese stared at her, stunned. “Wow. Larissa, that’s—great job.”

Larissa beamed, her cheeks pinkening. “Some of us just have what it takes to market wine.”

“Oh.” Reese’s tone flattened. “You slept with him.”

“So?”

Reese sighed. “Just change your top. Please? For me.”

“Fine. But only because you’re my third-favorite cousin.” With that, she sashayed out of the room.

It was best not to dwell on the fact that she was, in fact, Larissa’s only cousin.

Larissa’s parents had run off to Bali when Larissa was fifteen and Reese was ready to graduate from high school.

Larissa had stayed behind in the care of Reese’s parents, eventually following Reese to college and sticking around the vineyard to handle sales and marketing.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of more wine-tasting visitors. Reese straightened her crewneck T-shirt and dusted some cracker crumbs off the bar. Larissa must’ve closed the door on her way out, so Reese strode over and opened it.

“Hello, welcome to?—”

The words died in her throat.

A jolt of recognition ran through her. But this wasn’t the same man she remembered trying to fill her livestock water trough with beer six years ago.

His face had thinned, with angles and planes replacing the mottled puffiness of his cheeks the last time she’d seen him.

The shoulders were still broad and his hair was still the same caramel shade, but it was shorter now—almost a buzz cut. And what was that tattoo peeking out from beneath his T-shirt sleeve?—

“Hello, Reese.”

The warmth in his voice made her stomach flip like it always used to. She would have known that voice anywhere. She was more familiar with the sound of it phoning from jail at two a.m., but still. She gripped the edge of the door harder and took a deep breath.

“Hello, Clay,” she said as levelly as she could manage. “Eric said you were back in town.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “So you know I’m the foreman on the project?”

She nodded. “And I know you got sober. Congratulations on that.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes dropped to her breasts, and Reese felt an unexpected flutter of desire. A pleasant tingle started under her sternum and sent a pulse of heat all the way to her nipples.

Then she remembered her passenger.

“It’s a baby opossum I rescued,” she said, touching a finger to her shirt pocket. “I didn’t grow a mutant nipple, in case that’s what you’re thinking.”

She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I wasn’t thinking about your nipple. Or anyone’s nipples.”

“That’s a first.”

He blinked. “I’ve changed, Reese.”

Something about his words knifed straight through her core. Maybe it was Eric’s accusation that she hadn’t changed. Maybe it was the question of how much Clay had. Maybe it was something else entirely.

She weighed her next words carefully, not sure how to bring up the subject. “Aren’t you worried that—um—well, working at a winery?—”

“I’ll climb into a barrel of Pinot and drink my way to the bottom?”

“Something like that.”

“No.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

He gave her a small smile. “I am.”

“You always were.”

“True,” he said, shifting his weight to lean against the doorframe. “But I’ve been sober almost four years now. I’ve earned it.”

Reese nodded, still taking him in. He was the same, but different.

They’d been buddies in college—her, Eric, Clay.

The Three Musketeers. Back then, he’d been Eric’s roommate and one of her best pals.

That was before she and Eric got married and Clay dropped out of college to work construction and drink himself into oblivion.

He’d been crazy even then, was probably still crazy now.

But had his eyes changed color? They’d always been brown, but usually more bloodshot than anything. They looked clear now, and the most remarkable shade of root-beer brown with tiny flecks of?—

“I suppose you’ll want to see the area where you’ll be working,” Reese said, stepping back a bit to put a few feet of distance between them.

“Reese—before we get started, I want to say something.”

“Oh?”

She felt the baby opossum wriggle in her pocket and saw Clay’s eyes drop to her chest again. She touched her fingers to the flannel, and Clay didn’t look away this time.

“You were always so soft,” he murmured. His eyes widened the second the words left his lips. “A softie ,” he clarified. “A softie with the animals.”

He shook his head and took a deep breath. Reese waited, not sure what to expect.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Really, I know I wasn’t a very nice guy those last few years, and you bailed me out more times than I deserved. It couldn’t have been easy on you or on your marriage to Eric, and I want to apologize for?—”

“You didn’t wreck my marriage to Eric,” she interrupted. “That was a mistake from the start.”

“Of course it was, but I know my behavior—” He stopped, probably sensing from her expression that he’d misspoken. “I didn’t mean to imply your marriage was a terrible idea.”

“It doesn’t matter; it was.” She swallowed, not sure why she felt so flustered. She’d never been heartbroken about the divorce, not even when the wounds were fresh and she and Eric fought all the time. Now it was more a dull emptiness. Mourning for what was supposed to be, instead of what was.

She cleared her throat. “Eric and I were meant to be great friends, but nothing more. Didn’t take long to figure that out.”

“Right,” Clay said, and Reese could see him regrouping. “My point is that even after you two split, I hung around for years and made life miserable for both of you. And then there was that business at Finnigan’s, the night you got hurt?—”

“You already apologized for that,” she said. “You called from rehab four years ago, remember?”

“Right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of it, Reese.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

Clay shifted awkwardly, and Reese wondered what to do next.

Hug him? Slug him in the shoulder like an old friend?

She tried to imagine what his shoulder might feel like under her hand and then realized she knew exactly what it felt like.

She remembered it well, hard and solid and bare beneath her clutching palm . . .

“Let’s look at the construction site, shall we?” she blurted, her cheeks burning.

Clay nodded and started to reply. He stopped, turning as a trio of middle-aged women came giggling up the walk behind him in a cloud of perfume so thick Reese could taste it.

“Is this where the wine tastings are?” called a heavyset blonde woman in a pink cashmere sweater and a diamond ring that could double as a paperweight.

“Yes,” Reese said, moving to one side as Clay stepped to the other and held the door open for the women to pass.

A second woman wore designer boots and clutched a dog-eared copy of Wine Trails of Oregon .

The third woman toted a handbag Reese knew cost more than her car.

All three were flushed with wine and the exertion of climbing up the walkway.

Reese was glad the new tasting room would be on lower ground with a parking lot and a picnic area and?—

“Aren’t you a gentleman, holding the door for us?” giggled one of the women as she beamed up at Clay. “Very sweet.”

“Ma’am,” Clay said, and pulled the door closed behind them.

“Welcome to Sunridge Vineyards, ladies,” Reese said as she moved toward the wine bar. “Are you here to do some tasting?”

“We are,” agreed Pink Cashmere. “The guy in the tasting room at Larchwood Vineyards said you weren’t open, but I knew you would be.”

Reese gritted her teeth, silently cursing the neighboring vineyard owner. “He does that sometimes, but I can assure you, we’re open. Seven days a week, eleven to six. Will you pardon me for just a moment?”