All Over You by Sarah Mayberry

it another hundred feet before the spike heel on her left shoe snapped off in an ant hole. Swearing like a trooper, Grace whipped off her shoe to examine the damage. It was a clean break, and she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew a shoe wizard who would be able to resuscitate her prized vintage Roger Vivier green-suede peep-toes — some solace, at least.
    Tugging off her other shoe, she let out a gasp of pure ecstasy as she flexed her overheated foot. Her relief was short lived — by the time she’d traversed another fifty feet she was hobbling from walking on the sharp gravel.
    The worst thing was, she had no one to blame but herself. She wanted to blame Mac — oh, how she wanted to — but she knew that she was the only one responsible for her current situation. She’d been a sniping, vitriolic, sarcastic cow all day and the man had copped her abuse like a gentleman. But even gentlemen had their limits, and now she knew Mac’s.
    After ten more minutes of cursing and pain, Grace shook her head. There was no way she was going to make it to the shop. It wasn’t even a speck on the horizon — it was obviously miles off. She looked toward the vineyard, biting her lip. There really was nothing for it but to walk back and eat a large slice of humble pie before asking Rusty to call her a cab. But before she went anywhere, she was giving her poor, tortured feet a break. A rail fence separated the road from the open pastureland that fed into the rows of vines, and she stepped over a drainage ditch and climbed between the top and bottom rails so she could sink her feet into the cool grass. It felt so good that she rested her butt on the bottom rail and closed her eyes, relishing the sensation.
    But as much as she wanted to concentrate on only the cool of the grass on her sore, hot feet, she couldn’t stop her mind from picking at the tangled mess she’d made today. She’d gone a little overboard on the protecting-herself thing. She’d been unprofessional. She’d been stupid. She’d been the queen bitch from hell, basically. And she wasn’t particularly proud of herself.
    She had a lot of excuses lined up: he pushed all her buttons, reminding her of age-old resentments and ancient insecurities. He was the epitome of so many of the values she’d fought against all her life. And, to her everlasting embarrassment, she had a crush on him that she knew would never be reciprocated.
    But none of it was good enough when put in the balance against her poor behavior. Beneath all the sass and the attitude and the Bette Davis drawl, she was a fair woman. She owed him an apology. Big time.
    Her eyes were still closed when she heard the sound of a car approaching and slowing to a halt. Even if she hadn’t recognized the distinct burble of the Corvette’s engine, she would have known it was Mac by the way all the small hairs on her arms stood on end.
    Secretly, she’d been hoping he’d relent and return for her. It had taken him nearly an hour, but he had. It didn’t escape her attention that she’d kept him waiting for an hour back in the office, too. He hadn’t looked as though he cared, but he had. He’d just bided his time and waited for an opportunity to serve her up some of her own medicine.
    Clever.
    Swiveling, she ducked her head beneath the top rail and peered at him.
    “Ready to go home now?” he asked.
    He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and there was a distinct challenge in his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the Popsicle he was holding in one hand. While she’d been vandalizing her shoes, he’d been snacking.
    A wry smile found its way to her mouth. He knew how to rub a woman’s face in her wrongdoings, that was for sure.
    “That would be very nice, thank you,” she said, determined to show him she’d learned her lesson.
    Crouching and easing through the rails, she stepped back over the drainage ditch. He pushed the passenger door open for her, but she hesitated before crossing the