AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Do you need to know a lot about wine to work here?”
Another shrug. “It’s a script. We learn about the wines here, and I know what to say when someone really goes in for the detailed info.”
I can’t help but feel disappointed. Of course, it makes sense. For some people, a job is a job. Doesn’t matter if they’re bartending in a hot bistro or pouring small tastes for day drinkers at a winery. I try not to let the idea kill my enthusiasm.
“You want a refill?” The man winks. “We’re not supposed to, but you’re cute. I make an exception for cute.”
He pours before I answer and pushes a glass toward me that’s nearly filled to the rim. “Thanks.” I have no intention of drinking it. The last thing I plan to do is get behind the wheel of a car with alcohol in my system, given that my parents were killed by a drunk driver.
“Don’t mention it.” He wraps a bar towel around his neck and grins.
I give him a once-over. Objectively, he’s handsome—all his features are in the right place. Angular nose, pretty green eyes, a dimple in his cheek when he smiles. I almost feel like yawning, and it freaks me out.
What happened to me? One hour with Jackson Corbett and my homing device for attractive men is completely broken.
That does not bode well for me, especially since I’ve offered to work for him. It’s one thing if I get hired by his brother to work in the tasting room. I probably won’t even see Jackson. But I had to go and offer to be his nanny. Clearly, the heat has wilted my brain.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts while I sip the crisp sauvignon blanc that I miss half a conversation I didn’t realize I was having. “So that’s when I started working here. Tips were better at the bar, though. You having a leisurely day?”
“Doing research. Killing time.” I tell him about my job interview, only sort of paying attention.
“Yeah? Didn’t know they were hiring.” I follow his gaze through the open door of the tasting room and can see the unmistakable hill that gave Buttercup its name.
“I’m so turned around. Is that Buttercup right over there?”
“Yeah, we’re neighbors technically, but not really since their entrance is all the way around on the other road. I doubt they know we exist.”
I’m saved from having to prop up his ego when his co-worker summons him to retrieve a bottle of wine. While he goes to a corner where wooden wine crates are stacked three high, I pour the remains of my wine into the spittoon and slip out the door. “Thank you!”
Never have I ever run so fast from a guy that good-looking. Something is definitely wrong with me.
Walking through a small flower garden behind the tasting room, I realize how sleepy I am after waking up so early, driving around all day, and being in the hot sun. There’s a very welcoming hammock hanging from another oak tree—the theme of the day.
It takes my weight easily, and when I close my eyes, it feels awfully nice.
* * *
“Holy shit.” A butterfly landing on my cheek startles me awake, and then I startle it. The orange Monarch flutters away as I puzzle through what just happened. Wine… A guy winking at me and pouring…
Then,gah! I’m due at Buttercup Hill Vineyards for my interview.
“Shit, shit,” I say to no one, flipping myself out of the hammock and landing on one knee. Fortunately, there’s grass beneath me. Of course I didn’t set an alarm on my phone because I didn’t plan on falling asleep. And now it’s…a quarter to six.
I hoof it down the path to my car while recalling what the man said earlier about the Buttercup entrance being on a different road. My car sits in the shade of an olive tree, and I whip open the door and shove myself into the driver’s seat. I have ten minutes. Because of the way the roads wind around the low mountain behind Buttercup Hill, it’s ten minutes away, nine if I gun it.
I gun it.
On the drive to the vineyard, I practice some deep breathing and try to make my heart stop racing. Between my accidental nap and my pre-interview nerves, I’m a hot mess, speeding down the highway and praying no motivated police officers are waiting in a hidden driveway, trying to fill a ticket quota.
Sneaking a look at myself in my rearview mirror, my fears are confirmed. My hair is a hornet’s nest of red waves everywhere, and there’s no hope of taming it. I’ll have to ignore it and try to compensate with some red lipstick that might distract from my sleepy eyes.
“Focus here. Listen to what I’m saying,” that lipstick needs to convey. I give myself the eye-roll I know my mother would give if she were here.
“I know,” I tell her ghost. “I know.”
* * *
The long drive from the highway has eighteen oak trees on each side—I count as I change out of my shorts and into the blue sundress, hoping there are no hidden cameras catching me. Planted ten yards apart to give their branches ample room to spread, the trees are a couple hundred yards of shady welcome for visitors.
