The Woman from the Past (Grassi Framily)

The body was great too.

Not thin. Not plus-sized. Just… average. She had a bit of hip, ass, and chest, but the kind of lean muscle that said she probably did yoga or pilates or some shit like that pretty frequently.

Cammie.

I mean, yeah, it really was a cheerleader name, but the way her chin lifted at that made me think there was a very good chance she had actually been a high school cheerleader.

How a former cheerleader ended up with the likes of Cody Geseuli was beyond me.

He would have been the quintessential “guy from the wrong side of the tracks.”

And, I guess, that was always pretty in demand.

Hell, my entire family was evidence of that. Chicks lost their shit when they thought you were in the mafia.

When I turned to walk away, I was worried for a moment that she wasn’t going to follow.

I mean, not worried.

It would probably save me a lot of stress if she just thought better of the whole thing and just walked away.

But there was this weird tightening sensation in my stomach, an almost sick feeling, at the idea of her not following me, of me not being able to be around her for just a couple more minutes.

That was fucked up.

But there was no denying it.

The inside of the winery was a mix of styles that boiled down to industrial and modern with warm brown cement floors, massive windows that overlooked the sprawling grounds, a warm wood bar, framed art that I’d collected over the years, and various forms of seating in shades of warm red and black. The roof beams were exposed and pendant lights created a soft, well-lit atmosphere on the days when the sun wasn’t shining through the giant windows, or for later at night events.

I’d been unsure about the style when the designer first suggested it. At the time, rustic had been all the rage. But he’d managed to convince me that rustic was a trend, and that going with something more timeless would serve me better moving forward.

Several years later, rustic was out, and my place was still working. I’d only ever needed to do tweaks here and there.

When I finally heard the door close behind me, I turned, watching Cammie as her gaze took in the space with a sort of wide-eyed wonder that said she’d never seen anything like it before.

I had no idea what had happened after I’d shot her boyfriend, but it seemed like it likely didn’t involve fancy apartments—even if they were in bad neighborhoods.

“Want a glass?” I asked, waving toward the bar.

I wasn’t sure why I was offering wine to a woman whose intentions weren’t clear to me.

“It’s eight in the morning,” she said, but then quickly added, “but yes.”

With a chuckle, I moved toward the bar, looking at the wall full of choices.

I normally would have reached for one of the solid mid-tier bottles, ones that weren’t cheap, but weren’t expensive either. It was the perfect wine to please most palates.

But I found myself reaching up.

Up up.

To the row of the best shit we had.

Then, before I could think better of it, I was opening the bottle and setting it on the counter.

“Am I going to get that glass?” she asked, frowning at me.

“It needs to breathe,” I told her, shrugging.