Chapter 12 Spencer Nash

That Damn Mustard Allergy

The Day of the Wedding

Fuck it.

I'm getting blasted.

It's bad enough to know I was being cheated on, but to learn that the woman I loved—the woman I asked to spend her life with me—was just using me the whole time for my money?

On a different level.

What a horrible, awful, terrible person.

I'm not sure what else to do besides numb myself to all of it, so I beeline for the bar the second the elevator doors open.

The bachelor party is still in full swing out by the pool. My three brothers are out there, none of them any the wiser about the inner turmoil Gracie Newman just brought upon me.

What the fuck is wrong with Amelia?

No shit she didn't give me the ring back. Of course she didn't. She probably already pawned it off for cash.

Fuck her. Fuck Drew. Fuck the vineyard and the will and all of it—except for Gracie.

She's the only one who was honest with me. I wonder how she feels about all of this. I wonder why she felt like she had to fly out to tell me this. She said it warranted an in-person discussion, but she could've done it over the phone. Instead, she cared enough to show up for me.

I've been nursing beer all day, but I go straight for what's going to get me drunkest the fastest. "Double shot of tequila," I say to the bartender. He drops it by a minute later.

I suck it back. Fuck, that tastes like shit.

"More," I say, holding up the empty glass. "Or better yet, a glass of it, neat, and start me a tab."

"Yes, sir," he says, and he pours me a nice, steep tumbler with tequila.

I sit back and sip.

As if it didn't hurt enough to find out she was sleeping with someone else when I put my trust in her, now this.

How long was it going on? I hadn't had sex with her in nearly a month by the time I finally ended things with her, so ever since I found out about the infidelity, I allowed myself to believe it was just for that month. The alternative is thinking I was somehow inadequate in bed, but I don't really believe that.

I think she met me, scammed me, and was planning to take me for some money—as if I ever would've been stupid enough to enter into a marriage with her without an air-fucking-tight prenup.

But despite wanting to believe it was just for that month, something tells me she was sleeping with Drew long before she ever even met me.

She was lying to me our entire relationship. How will I ever trust another woman again?

I don't know the answer to that. Right now…it seems pretty bleak. I've embraced the belief that people will only disappoint me in the long run. I've started to feel like I'm better off alone.

I've spent most of my time over the last six weeks in San Diego getting to know the town and my teammates as I avoid women completely, and that seems like the right path to continue down. It's just safer that way.

"There you are," a voice beside me says .

I glance over and spot Grace. She's the bearer of bad news today, but she's been a good friend over the time I've known her.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"No. Want to drink with me?"

She chuckles and nods.

I wave the bartender over. "Add whatever she wants to my tab."

He raises his brows at Grace, and she says, "Paloma."

My brows dip as the bartender nods and walks away. "What's a paloma?"

"Tequila, lime juice, and grapefruit soda. What's that?" she asks, nodding to my glass.

I hand it over for her to try, and she makes a face. I can't help but chuckle.

"Why are you down here drinking tequila by your lonesome?" she asks.

"Trying to numb the ridiculousness," I admit.

She scrunches up her nose. "I'm sorry I came. I'm sorry I interrupted your party."

"It's nice sitting here with you, despite the news you brought."

"I'm glad you said that," she says, bumping into my shoulder with hers. "Because I was thinking about heading back home."

"May as well stay a night or two," I suggest. "Hell, stay for the wedding if you want. Are you hungry?"

She nods. "I haven't eaten since early this morning."

"There's a happy hour menu," I say, nodding toward the little stand with our options.

"I'm down for anything."

The bartender comes back with her drink, and I order a few appetizers for us to split. He walks away, and I glance over at Grace as I let out a long sigh.

She holds up her glass, and I hold mine up, too.

"What should we toast to?" I ask.

"To new beginnings," she suggests.

I touch my glass to hers, and we each drink. She makes a face of approval at her first sip .

We each drink quietly for a few beats before I break the silence with a question. "So, what do I do?"

"About what?" She takes another sip of her drink, and it's going down quickly. So is my tequila.

"About your sister. About…all of it."

"Oh. Uh, I had an idea, but it's sort of out there." She chugs a little more of her paloma, and I get the sense she's gearing up with liquid courage for whatever it is she came here to say to me.

"What is it?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

"You get revenge," she says.

"I'm not really the revenge-seeking type," I admit. I take another sip, and curiosity gets me. "But what are you thinking?"

She draws in a deep breath, and then she says, "Marry me."

Tequila sprays out of my mouth and all over the bar at her words. "What?"

She picks up a napkin to wipe her cheek. I guess I sprayed more than just the bar.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. But… what ?"

She offers a small, awkward laugh. "Marry me. Stay married to me for a year, and then I get the vineyard. She's out. You get revenge, she gets karma, we all win."

"We all win?" I repeat. How, exactly, is this proposal of hers winning for me ? I mop up the mess on the bar I just made with some tiny napkins. "I suppose next you're going to tell me you want to have a kid with me for the Temecula land, too."

She blows out a breath and stares at her drink. "No. I would never do that. These rules Nana made up were meant to be kept secret. It all was supposed to happen naturally."

"How did Amelia find out?" I ask.

She shrugs. "No idea. But she found out, and then I found out, and now I'm going to take what's rightfully mine. You know…if you're up for my revenge plan."

"This is ridiculous, Gracie. I can't marry you."

The bartender walks over with some plates filled with food, glancing up at me as he catches my words. "Drunken shrimp and nachos," he says as he sets the plates in front of us .

He stays out of it, thankfully, but we probably shouldn't be having this conversation publicly.

"It's fine," she says quietly. "I knew it was a longshot. I just…don't want her to get the vineyard. She doesn't even like wine. It's a money machine for her, and that's all, but it's been my dream to run it since I was a kid. I just need a year. If you want a part in running the vineyard, you're welcome to it. If you don't, you can walk away from it and never hear from me again."

The thought leaves me feeling hollow and alone.

I don't want to never hear from her again. I reach for a shrimp and bite into it, chewing thoughtfully.

Could I really do that? Could I really marry Grace to help her get her vineyard?

Grace grabs a shrimp, too, and we both chew quietly. She takes another one, and I do, too.

And then my mouth starts to feel a little funny…tingly, like it's almost itchy. "Oh shit," I mutter at the same time Grace starts scratching her arm.

"Does this sauce have mustard in it?" she asks, glancing at what's already becoming a rash on her arm.

"Wait, are you allergic to mustard?" I ask as panic starts to rise.

She nods.

"Holy shit. So am I." What a weird coincidence. "My mouth is getting itchy and tingly."

"Shit," she mutters. She starts to dig through her purse, pausing to scratch her arm. "I keep Benadryl in here just in case. Want one?"

"Two, please."

She locates the pills and hands me two, and I swallow them down with tequila as she takes two, too.

I call the bartender over. "More drinks. And take the shrimp."

He eyes us both for a beat. "Are you okay?"

I nod. "We're both allergic to mustard."

"Oh, the barbecue sauce has a mustard base. Can I get you anything? "

"We both took Benadryl," Grace says.

"Are you sure you want another drink, then?" the bartender asks.

I glance at the woman who just proposed to me over mustard shrimp at a bar in Vegas. "Yeah, I'm sure."

And by the time the next drink is gone, the Benadryl has started to kick in, and my mouth is tingling for another reason entirely—well, two reasons.

One, because of the tequila.

And two, because I'm suddenly itching to kiss Gracie Newman.