While You Were Texting: Digital Dating, #2

By Delancey Stewart and Marika Ray

Lincoln Cunningham doesn't do relationships. Mostly because he learned in college that he doesn't do them well. Translation: book smart guys focused on learning the art and science of vineyard tending aren't always girl smart, and the humiliation that comes from being the only one invested in the relationship, well, that's enough for him.

 

Lincoln's mother, however, isn't so sure. Her oldest son found his match, and now her sights are set on Linc. Why she insists on setting him up at the Paint it Pal pottery shop is beyond anyone's grasp.

 

Hannah Delacourt never dreamed of a life spent handing customers ceramic monkeys and pots of paint and explaining the inner workings of a kiln. But she also never intended to spend a year trying to figure out whether the vineyard she inherited should be sold or might actually produce wine.

 

When the same cute guy comes in to paint on date after miserable date, she figures out what's going on pretty quickly. He slips her an SOS and she texts him to help him out of the latest painful date. When he texts later to thank her, they hatch the perfect scheme.

 

She'll pretend to be his girlfriend while he helps her figure out if her grapes are worth keeping. Everyone wins, right? But what happens when you fall in love when you're texting with your fake boyfriend? Worse yet, what do you do when he's clueless?

 

From two USA Today bestselling authors, a RomCom so sweet you'll want to hug your ereader and never look at texting the same way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delancey Stewart
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224989508

Delancey Stewart

Delancey Stewart writes contemporary romance. Stewart has lived on both coasts, in big cities and small towns. She's been a pharmaceutical rep, a personal trainer and a direct sales representative for a French wine importer. But she has always been a writer first. A wife and the mother of two small boys, her current job titles include pirate captain, monster hunter, Lego assembler and story reader. She tackles all these efforts at her current home outside Washington D.C. Find her at www.delanceystewart.com

Book preview

1

LINCOLN

O kay. I tried for a smile as I stood. But my cheeks ached from all the fake smiling I’d been doing for the last hour. 

The red-headed woman, who I was pretty sure was at least twenty years older than I was, looked confused. Okay? She stood up from the table across from me, a paintbrush still in her raised hand. 

Right, I said. Goodbye then. 

Um, she said, glancing around like maybe she thought she was being pranked. Goodbye? 

Her name was Kami, and a lot of the things Kami said sounded like questions, but technically should have been statements. It was one of the things that made me certain that this setup—like every single one of those my mother had orchestrated so far—was not going to result in any kind of happily ever after. 

Yep, I confirmed, since she insisted on continuing to look confused. 

Okay, she said. 

I took that as agreement and picked up my latest hastily painted ceramic frog and delivered it to the tall dark-haired girl behind the counter, who offered me a sympathetic smile. 

All done? she asked in a way that made me think she understood exactly why I’d been in here painting ceramic frogs with women I’d never see again over the last few months. Ah, I see you’ve entered your blue period. 

Yeah, thanks. You can just put it with the others. 

We both glanced at the shelf behind her, where at least ten ceramic frogs sat in a row. She was right. I’d been through my red and green periods, and was now hurtling into a blue depression that would probably not let up until my mother relented in her never-ending efforts to make sure I was every bit as happy as her oldest son, my newly engaged brother Boston. 

Have a good day, the girl said, smiling in a way that actually made me feel a little better about my plight. 

Thanks, I said, holding her gaze for just a second. We were practically friends now, the Paint It, Pal girl and me. We saw each other at least every other week, after all. 

Kami watched me leave with a look somewhere between anger and confusion on her face, and I gave her a little wave as I headed out into the Solano Creek late-summer sunshine, hopped into my bright red electric car, and drove back to the winery to tell my mother, once and for all, that this needed to end. 

Mom was at Cunning Ham Winery, which was to be expected. The new winery was her dream come true—something we’d worked to help make happen after Dad had died about eighteen months ago. Boston had taken care of most of the financial side of things, and my younger brother Dalton and I did a lot of the manual labor required to get the place going. I focused on the vines, since I’d gotten a degree in viticulture and loved to be out in the quiet vineyards, where it was just me and the grapes. 

We had a winemaker, Jacques, who was slowly teaching Mom to make wine, but he’d confided in me that he wasn’t sure she had the palate for it, or the actual interest in the chemical side of winemaking. I spent most of my time at Cunning Ham among the rows of grapes, and that was likely to become even more true as we headed into our first crush in the early fall. 

When I stepped into the back of the winery, Mom was standing with Jacques, and he was pointing at several tiny beakers full of red wine and going on in his thick French accent about tannins. 

Mom looked my way, and an expression of pleased relief crossed her face. There you are, Lincoln. Excuse me, Jacques, I really need to speak with Linc about the, uh, eastern vineyard. 

Jacques looked immediately concerned, his thick moustache drooping at the edges as his dark eyes widened. The syrah? he asked, clearly worried. Eees dere something wrong weeth ma Syrah? 

Mom flapped her hands in his direction, shaking her head. No, no, don’t be silly, it’s not about the grapes. She hooked a hand around my elbow and hauled me into the tasting room where El and Boston stood behind the tasting counter, helping a few people who’d stopped through to taste our wines. Those two were cute enough together now that they’d gotten engaged that even I noticed, and I didn’t notice much unless it had to do with soil pH or the brix level of the grapes on the vines. 

You saved me, Mom said, leaning into my shoulder once she’d hauled me to the corner of the tasting room. 

From what? I asked, suddenly a little worried. I’d been looking out for my mother since Dad died, but hadn’t noticed that she needed saving from anything. 

From another endless lecture from Jacques on how to determine when it was time to take the merlot out of the barrel and bottle it. She shook her head. 

Wouldn’t that be important to learn if you hope to be a winemaker one day? 

She sighed. Probably. But it just doesn’t make much sense. 

He’s a very experienced winemaker, I pointed out. We’d lured him from an apprenticeship in France where he was never going to have a shot to be in charge, in exchange for teaching Mom to make wine. He was well paid and had total freedom over the blending and other decisions at Cunning Ham. 

We should just let him be the winemaker then, maybe. I don’t think I’m cut out for it. She looked sad for a moment, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I hated seeing my mother sad, but I wasn’t good at solving problems on the fly, especially not ones that involved feelings and relationships. It was part of the reason I spent most of my time alone. Even when I thought I understood people, I was usually wrong. 

Mom perked up. How was the date? 

About that, I began, trying to find a way to put an end to my mother’s continuous matchmaking that wouldn't hurt her feelings. I’m not Boston, Mom. 

She cocked her head to the side, her nose wrinkling up. I know that. Oh, did I call you the wrong name again? I usually only do that when I’m mad. Or if I’ve been tasting too much wine with Jacques. 

No, you didn’t call me Boston. I’m saying, I’m not like him. I don’t need to find my match or whatever. I’m happy alone. 

No one is happy alone, Mom said. 

I don’t think that’s true, I argued. I actually am. It’s easier to be alone. It’s exhausting trying to make conversation with all these women I’ve never met before and who I have nothing in common with. Plus, I don’t want to be in a relationship, Mom. 

Everyone wants someone to love. She frowned at me, looking—not for the first time—like I was a problem she struggled to solve. 

I don’t think I do, I said, though it didn’t feel completely true. I just didn’t want to find myself sitting across the table painting ceramic frogs with even one more woman who I knew on a cellular level was not a good fit. It was going to take a very unique person to love me, and I wasn’t sure she existed. And even if she did, I’d probably find a way to screw it up anyway. I was bad at love. I preferred to stick to things that were logical, that made linear sense. 

I thought Kami was a good fit, Mom complained. 

She was kind of … older, I pointed out. 

That’s true, I guess. But maybe an older woman is what you need, Lincoln. 

I shook my head, sighing. Mom, you’re not getting it. I don’t need anyone. I’m good on my own. 

We just haven’t found the right person, she suggested. 

Mom. I made my voice stern and her eyes widened slightly. No more setups. I crossed my arms to try to make my point. 

Okay, she said, sinking into a chair at the little table in the corner. I sat across from her. She traced a circle with her finger on the tabletop, and for a second I thought about how small she looked, how sad she appeared sometimes since Dad had died. It’s just that, I already arranged one more date for you. 

I shook my head. No more dates. Then I thought about that a bit. Wait, but you knew I was on a date today. Why would you set up another? How did you know I’d need another one? 

I figured we could always cancel it if things worked out with Kami. 

Cancel it now then, I suggested, trying to ignore the fact that even my mother had been pretty certain I’d screw up today’s date, apparently. 

I don’t want to hurt her feelings. 

I sighed. This could not go on. This is the last one. 

She smiled at me across the table. Oh good. You won’t regret it. I’m sure she’s the one.

2

HANNAH

The house wasn’t much to look at, but I had to admit the landscape was nice. Okay, fine. More than nice. I’d never been on a nicer run than through the vineyards of Solano Creek. And if I said nice one more time in my head I was going to scream.

Aged cheddar was nice. That moment when I took off my Paint it, Pal apron at the end of an excruciating shift with screaming toddlers was nice. My life, though? Shouldn’t it be described with a better adjective? How about exhilarating? Perfect. Beyond compare. I wanted more than just a nine-to-five until I shriveled up and died. If anything, life so far had taught me it was a fickle beast. I‘d better get to living now if I wanted to squeeze something more than nice out of this existence.

Which was why I was here, in the middle of a town I knew nothing about, in a tiny house that held nothing familiar yet had my name on the deed. Thank you, Aunt Betty, for the gift in your will. A pang of guilt hit me, but I pushed it aside. I had too many things on my to-do list to get caught up in debilitating guilt because I’d never even met or gotten to know the last living relative I had before she passed.

I pulled the earbuds out of my ears and entered through the back door of the house set on ten acres of untended vineyards. The peeling paint on the outside was a warning for what awaited inside. Everything was clean, of course. Aunt Betty wouldn’t have stood for anything less, according to Mom’s old rants. But dang, Aunt Betty had been living in the 70s, and they wanted their pea green ‘fridge back. 

I looked at the clock on the tiny microwave, which I’d learned only burnt food to a crisp, realizing if I didn’t hurry, I’d be late for my shift at the ceramics place. I couldn’t lose the job that kept me fed, and in actuality, I was grateful for it. According to the Hallmark movies I binged at Christmastime, small towns didn’t take kindly to strangers looking for work, although Solano Creek had proved Hallmark wrong so far, by giving me a much-needed job. The crazy townsfolk, though? They nailed it. And I liked the concept of painting projects; I just didn’t like the tiny humans who frequented the place.

While I washed my hair in super speed—the hot water ran out after three minutes—my mind wandered to the tall, lanky guy who came in weekly to paint the ugliest frogs I’d ever seen. I understood the desperation of being single and wanting to find your happily ever after, since I was twenty-six and already divorced. But why on Earth would he come in week after week with women who were clearly unsuited to him? And on what planet would Paint It, Pal be the ideal spot for said dates? Regardless of his dating problems, the guy was hot. Scruffy beard, dark brown hair that was always too long, and eyes that hinted at actual intelligence, sometimes obscured a bit by dark-framed glasses. 

A weird squeak disturbed my last thirty seconds of steamy water and man-centered daydreaming. I looked up to find the source of the squeak, only to get hit over the head with the shower curtain contraption as it decided clinging to the opposite walls was too much for the tension rod. I grabbed the knot forming on my skull and tried to push the plastic shower curtain off me. The inanimate object decided it would try a second life as tape, sticking to my wet skin and almost making me wipe out on the slick bathtub bottom. Icy cold water hit my skin next.

With an expletive I wasn’t proud of, I stepped over the edge of the tub, the curtain still stuck to my legs, kicking and dancing about in a way that would have been comical. If it had been happening to someone else.

Lord have mercy! I said through clenched teeth. 

Great. Three weeks in Solano Creek and I already sounded like I grew up here. Mom must be looking down on me from heaven right now, laughing her behind off. She’d always teased me about moving us back here eventually, but the car accident took her before she could make good on that threat.

With the shower curtain piled on the floor in defeat, I headed to the bedroom to put on my plain black jeans, a T-shirt, and the ever-popular yellow Paint It, Pal apron. Why Barb, the owner thought baby-poop yellow was the ideal brand color choice, I’d never know. As long as she kept giving me a paycheck, I would keep my color opinions to myself. I threw my hair into a slicked back high ponytail that would certainly cause a headache in a few hours but would also keep my hair out of the paint I poured for customers, and headed to work.

Unfortunately, the second I grabbed the door handle to exit the bedroom, the whole thing let out a crack and tilted to the side. In horror, I realized the top two hinges on the door had given way, leaving it precariously hanging from the bottom hinge that didn’t look to be in any better shape.

I sucked in a huge breath and tried to calm the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Looking up at the ceiling, I tried to keep a lid on my anger.

That’s enough now, Aunt Betty. I’m sorry for not visiting you when you wrote. Okay? 

The ceiling didn’t answer, and neither did Aunt Betty, but I hoped she somehow got the message. Very carefully, I leaned the door against the wall and hoped for the best. 

Godspeed, little hinge, I said to the last hinge standing. 

Yes, I was talking to hardware now. I’d been living alone so long, I had to make friends where I could. At least I hadn’t stooped to the level of the guy who had come in to paint last week with a mannequin sitting across from him. That had given me the creeps, but the guy was perfectly nice. Maybe I should rethink my stance on mannequin companionship.

Things were looking up when my old cherry red Honda Prelude started on the first try. She only let out one backfire as I rumbled down the long driveway, giving me a sense that maybe today was my day. I’d gotten in a great run. I’d remembered to pick up some protein bars at the store the other day and felt decently fed going into work. Things were going to change today. I could feel it in the way people waved hello as I entered the downtown area. It was in the late-summer sun that warmed me through the window of my tiny car. And it was definitely a good sign when a parking space opened up right in front of Paint It, Pal as I swung down Main Street.

Not twenty minutes after opening for the day, the bell above the door jangled and in walked the cute guy I’d been daydreaming about this morning. Today he had a long, dark Henley on with jeans that had seen better days. Probably for the best, given the nature of painting crafts. But it was the way his brown eyes drooped at the corners that got to me.

Morning! I trilled as he approached the counter.

His lips quirked up, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Hey. Can I get a frog please?

It must