At Wits' End - Kenzie Reed Page 0,84

you can show me that you sent it, we can continue this conversation. I will trust you.”

I quickly log on to my computer and check my email. It’s still sitting there in the draft folder. I never sent it.

Graham’s face is so pale that his freckles stand out in sharp relief.

The rest of the meeting does not go well. Constantine cuts it short, his tone abrupt. And I know, with a sinking feeling, that I’ve let my best friend down after I promised him I wouldn’t, and I’ve tanked our deal. I’ve managed to take a sure thing and turn it into a hell no.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

SIENNA

It’s been almost a week since my mother disappeared, and I’m so distracted that I can barely get any work done.

Donovan came back to Greenvale for a few days, and I could see him measuring his every word. I know he thinks my mother left on purpose, but he doesn’t really know her like I do. He did manage to find out that the rental car was left in the rental car lot, with its keys dropped through the drop box, but anybody could have done that.

Everything seemed so bright and sunny before. The vineyard was thriving, Donovan and I were hot stuff, and Linda was acting like a real mom.

Now my aunt’s not speaking to me, which makes caring for the vineyard an exercise in heartbreak, my mother’s AWOL, and my own husband thinks that I’m so worthless that my mother wouldn’t bother to stick around for my birthday.

That’s probably not really his take on the situation, but it’s hard for me to think clearly these days. When he has to go back to Los Angeles to continue working on salvaging his deal, I feel abandoned and mad all over again. I miss him the minute he walks out the door to get in the cab that will take him to the airport.

To take my mind off things, I decide to do a little investigating into Liam Ferguson, and Ferguson Property Holdings. I try the obvious stuff, using all the search engines I can think of, even though I’m sure Carrie has already done it. I just don’t want to ask her what she’s found out, because it will re-ignite her obsession with sabotaging our deal, and for now she seems to have moved on. She’s become a born-again dater, plowing through all the apps and having Tonya’s husband fix her up with his single friends. From what she’s told me, so far she’s been disappointed.

I don’t find anything on the computer. I know that Rocco told me that they’ve built a couple of similar subdivisions, but I don’t find any record of that online, and there’s not a lot of information about them. That doesn’t mean anything bad. Rocco’s working a million hours a week these days, and Uncle Vito’s got some heart issues that have him in and out of the hospital, so I don’t want to bother them.

I spend the morning in the winery office, updating our social media sites, answering emails, taking phone orders, and doing fruitless computer searches. Finally I give up and call Donovan’s father. He’s the one in charge of the deal with Ferguson. His younger brother Phillip’s just a yes-man who does whatever Montgomery tells him to.

I know that he’ll at least take my call. After the fight at the restaurant, when both of our families realized they’d nearly blown the entire deal, we’ve turned to an icy civility.

He answers with an irritable grunt. Either he’s got caller I.D., or he’s always a crabby mo-fo when he answers the phone. “Yes?”

We won’t be wasting time on phony pleasantries, then. “I understand that Mr. Ferguson has a track record of building subdivisions like the one he’ll be building behind our property,” I say. “Can I get the names and locations of the subdivisions?”

“Why?” he says impatiently.

“Because I’d like to know more about the property that’s going to be located right behind our land, thanks.”

“This is between us and your aunt and uncle and cousin. You’re not even legally part of this deal.”

“Well, my signature’s on the agreement, and I agreed to a marriage of convenience to your son to convince Mr. Ferguson that we’re all besties now, so yes, I am.” I’ve raised my voice.

“Be quiet!” he squawks at me. “Can anyone hear you?”

“I’m sorry, did you just tell me be quiet? I suggest you never do that again!” I yell at the top of my lungs.

“I