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Chapter
One
PJ
When I was a kid, I killed it at hide-and-seek.
It became my all-time favorite game, if only because it was something I could do better than my four older siblings. I loved outsmarting them by finding better hiding places. As the smallest, I could find my way into tiny spots where they never thought to look.
I always stayed hidden the longest, so I always won the game. Every time without exception. With several overachievers in the family, winning was everything.
It still is.
I didn’t learn until much later that my sister and three brothers often intentionally “forgot” to keep looking for me once everyone else had been found. They’d move on to another game while I stayed curled up in a kitchen cupboard and eventually fell asleep.
I wonder now if winning is really in the eye of the beholder—or, in my case, the winner. As in, it doesn’t matter if I won according to the universal rules of hide-and-seek. Whatmatters is that I believed I won, and it gave me a few notches of the confidence I desperately needed as the youngest of five competitive kids.
In some ways, the game served me well. I can still fall asleep almost anywhere and in almost any position—in the car, on a plane, sitting up, or leaning my forehead on my hand at my desk. And I learned early on that I need to find an edge if I want to be noticed in our family.
The overachievers are still busy doing their Type A personality thing, and half the time, I wonder if they’ve forgotten I’m here.
I didn’t understand the power of not being noticed when I was a kid, but I understand it now. It makes me much more aware of what’s happening around me because no one is bothering me. It makes me hyper-observant and able to fix problems before they even become problems.
Like a helicopter sitting on a grass field amid the grape vineyards, where it most definitely isn’t supposed to be on a Wednesday morning. Or any morning.
At Buttercup Hill, our vineyard needs that field as part of our ecological diversity. We need a variety of plants—fruit trees, vegetable crops, flowers—so our grapes don’t grow in a monoculture. Since we farm organically, having pollinators from diverse crops means we can do without pesticides.
What we don’t need is the wind-producing rotors of a giant machine.
This entitled person’s helicopter probably just scared off a week’s worth of bees and bluebirds. It won’t ruin our grapes in one day, but still…
Annoying.
Some people just have no awareness. Like the ones who sit in the car, scrolling through some social media feed, while someone else waits for the parking spot. Or standing in thegrocery store waiting for the checker to put groceries into a bag instead of being a little bit useful and lending a hand.
Case in point, the guy standing in front of me at Sweet Butter, the café at our family winery, where I’d like to order my daily latte and get moving. It’s already past nine, and I have a strong case of the Monday blues, wistfully recalling how nice it felt to sleep in yesterday, go on a long hike, and leave work behind for the day.
I don’t have a lot of patience for a man who never seems to have ordered a cup of coffee before. “So the macchiato, that has less milk?” His deep rasp makes this question sound serious.
Meagan, a sweet kid from the local high school who works summers here, sweeps her dark bangs out of her eyes and stares up at him. I stand just off to the side and try to catch her eye, letting her know I feel her pain. But she stays focused on the customer. “It’s smaller than a cappuccino, so yes.”
“And the simple syrup, is that vanilla or something?”
“No, it’s basically liquid sugar.” She smiles, revealing a small gap between her front teeth. She’s so much more patient than I would be. Good thing I’m not a barista at Sweet Butter because I’d have thrown a cup at this guy’s head by now.
How hard can it be to decide? I wonder if he’s new to coffee. Or life.
I fake a small cough. Maybe he doesn’t realize anyone else is here as he asks Meagan to walk him through the entire chalkboard coffee menu. Maybe the sound of another human will startle him out of his oblivion, and he’ll pick the medium roast and get on with it.
If he hears me, he doesn’t budge. Not a flicker of acknowledgment in the broad frame that still mostly blocks my view of Meagan. “Hmm, okay. Maybe I’m making it too complicated.”
“You think?” I almost say out loud. Fortunately, my inside voice prevails. I can’t get much of a look at him from where I stand other than very broad shoulders that pull at the fabric of a frayed denim shirt. He’s tall and lean and looks like an athlete. His dark hair is damp and smells vaguely of the rosemary and mint shampoo we have in the guest rooms at the inn. It's undergoing renovations, so there shouldn’t be anyone staying there, but maybe they’ve opened a few of the rooms.
He leans a forearm on the glass bakery case, and his back muscles flex against his shirt. Tapping long fingers on the glass, he shifts from one foot to the other. His navy sweatpants hug his tight ass, and I try to stop staring. But it’s hard.
I haven’t dated in ages, and this man candy is a nice distraction on an average morning, even if he’s cramping my style with his coffee idiocy.
“Okay, well, I’m open to whatever you think is best. Do you have a favorite?” I can hear the smile in his voice. Great, now he’s flirting with the barista? We could be here a while.
