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“That was an accident.”
“I didn’t hear an apology.”
I blow out a slow breath. “I’m sorry.” I wait for the cloud of doom to lift, but it doesn’t. “Let’s start over. I’m here, and I’d like my interview. And you are…?”
“Jackson,” he grunts. “And I told you. There’s no one here to interview you.” He hefts a wine crate he seems to have just noticed, and my eyes rivet to the way his broad shoulders flex while he holds it against one hip. “Besides, I don’t even know what job you’re talking about. I don’t do the hiring. That’s my brother’s job.”
“Exactly. He’s the one who made the appointment with me. So I assume he’s here someplace, even if you’re too stubborn to help me out. Is there a number I can call?”
Fishing my cellphone from the pocket in my purse, I start scanning through my emails in search of his brother’s message to me with directions and the time and date of our meeting.
Sure enough, today is the day, and I have the time right. I hold it up for his brother to see, but either he has really excellent eyesight, or he’s not interested in what the email says.
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“I don’t.”
He’s still holding the crate, and it’s starting to make my arms hurt in empathy, so I find myself listing to the side as though he’ll do the same and prop the crate against the wall. He doesn’t. He also seems unbothered holding what is probably a dozen bottles of wine.
Instead, I’m the one who leans against the wall, letting it take my weight because, suddenly, I feel defeated. I’m going on four hours of sleep and wearing the wrong clothes for a job interview because I left my change of clothes behind. I ran out the door and hopped in my car, frazzled and in a hurry to make a good impression by arriving early. Only I forgot the very interview outfit I’d ironed and laid out on the bed.
This is what I’ve got, and it’s not my best. In a matter of moments, this guy will pack me into my car and send me away from this lovely winery forever. My head bows in acceptance of the inevitable. I bite my lips to stem the surge of emotion from failing. Again.
Today will go down as just another in a long list of crappy episodes, and I’m almost too exhausted to fight, but I came all this way.
“I really need a win.” I wince, admitting this uncomfortable secret. Not a great way to impress a potential employer. Then again, he might as well know he’s dealing with a hot mess, so we avoid misconceptions later on.
“I’d like to help…” He reconsiders. “Sort of.”
An uncomfortable laugh escapes me. “At least you’re honest.”
“I just mean that I’m not sure how much I really can help. So…” He looks in the direction of my car, and I know he’s waiting for me to take his cue and leave.
But I can’t. Not yet. This place is too beautiful. I want—no, I need—to try a little harder.
I can’t tell if the grunt that emanates from him comes from strain at holding the box or frustration at me. He doesn’t stand still long enough for me to tell, turning for the front door of the farmhouse, which appears to be the public entrance to the winery. I follow him because he hasn’t told me not to.
The cool darkness spills out from the room in a rush of heavenly air that’s so much more pleasant than the heat already sitting on Napa Valley. The fact that it’s already hot at six in the morning should give me pause. Instead, it fuels my interest in being here even more.
I watch Jackson disappear into the dark space and fear that if I don’t follow him, any chance at a job will close with the door he’s about to slam in my face. So I creep in behind him and let my eyes adjust to the dim light coming through drawn blinds.
I start noticing shapes, a large desk in the center and a couch off to the side. When the lights flip on, I squint at the brightness and hold my hands up as though I’ve been caught stealing. Jackson scans the room as if trying to see if anything is out of place.
It would be hard to imagine him finding anything, what with the tan suede sofas that look butter-soft, the perfectly-weathered, rustic wooden coffee tables, and warm globe lights that bathe the room in a honey glow. And the plants…bunches of fragrant lavender surge from fat, glass urns, and potted olive trees frame the room. It’s so homey I almost plunk myself down in the middle of a sofa when Jackson’s watchful eye lands on me.
“If you could please let Dashiell know I’m waiting, I’ll be out of your hair.” I fist my hands in the hem of my shirt because my palms have begun to sweat, and the last thing I want is for my nerves to be obvious.
I shouldn’t be nervous. Not around this guy who seems to be taking perverse pleasure innothelping me get to the man I’m supposed to see.
“He’s asleep. It’s not like he checks in with me after he comes back from a bar, but let’s figure he got in late. That’s why you aren’t going to be meeting with him anytime soon.”
“Oh. Well. That’s a problem easily solved. Could you wake him, please, and let him know I’m here?”
He starts moving through the front door, so I turn on my heel and march after him. My shoes don’t make much noise, which is probably why he doesn’t realize I’m right behind when he whips around.
I don’t have time to brace myself, but I turn my head at the last moment to avoid breaking my nose on his sternum. My cheek slams against his chest, and the hard planes of what is obviously a very well-maintained set of pecs and abs greet me like a granite rockface. His heartbeat at my ear. My hands gripping his shirt to keep from bouncing back.
His attitude may be cool, but his body is all warmth. The scent of citrus and pine hits my senses, and I inhale a little deeper.
