AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Wilson took Atley’s agreement as a sign we were done, and the two men left me standing in the middle of what would either be the scene of my greatest triumph or my utter ruin. Slowly, I turned around, stumbling over a discarded two-by-four as I drank in the details one more time.
A premonition of the dancehall restored to her glory stole over me. I envisioned white gauze draped from the rafters, baby’s breath in rustic jugs on the burlap-covered tables. A bride with a crown of daisies in her hair held in the arms of a groom in a tan seersucker suit twirled around a dance floor. Staff in starched white shirts with the Blue Star logo embroidered on the chest delivered wine to the guests.
With a smile on my lips, I made a last sweep of the room. My heart thumped hard and steady, driven by the slow build of determination. Fears and second guesses wouldn’t stop me. I’d gotten here, and Wilson had offered me all I asked for and more. The new full life I wanted dangled within reach, I only had to leap and grab on to it.
“Hey, you coming?” Wilson called.
I jogged to the door, jumping over the board that I’d tripped on a moment ago on my way out. “Sorry. Just getting excited about the potential.”
I nearly slammed into Atley’s chest as I flew outside. The word potential and my palms on his chest were the only things separating us. He closed his hands around my bare upper arms, anchoring me in place. Not letting me fall and not pulling me close. I curled my fingernails into his pecs, through the material of his UV-blocking work shirt.
A charge like a bolt of lightning arched between us when our gazes crashed together. The shock curled my toes inside my canvas sneakers and tightened my nipples behind my sensible beige bra. Need, want, desire—all of it simmered there in the airbetween us. His nostrils flared, and he sucked in a lungful of my scent, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he inhaled.
It was the longest three seconds in the history of Elmer, Texas.
Chapter 7
Atley
I’d gone two dayswithout seeing Rae… if dreams didn’t count.
Her real-life absence hadn’t driven her out of my thoughts. She was as firmly entrenched in my head today as she had been the day we met.
At night, I tossed and turned over her plans to exploit Blue Star and what I was willing to say or do to stop her. I’d seen where commercialization led, and it wasn’t pretty—track houses where cattle once grazed. When I did finally fall asleep, she followed, starring in a never-ending loop of X-rated dreams. I woke hard as a rock and in a foul temper.
Only Wilson’s express invitation had me showing up for this meeting today at the winery. Otherwise, I’d have continued toavoid her at all costs until I had a plan, or at least a goal. Right now, I had nothing but a jumble of shit I was pretty sure a shrink would labelconflicted feelings. Feelings about Rae and feelings about the unnecessary commercialization of Blue Star. Fuck ‘em all.
I pulled the reins and my horse, Jet, obediently slowed to a walk as we approached the ugly metal building that housed the wine production facility. I’d pushed my luck and arrived twenty minutes late and on horseback so no one could talk me into staying long. An excuse about leaving Jet out in the heat would get me in and out of here in record time.
I dismounted and made quick work of securing Jet to a nearby fence rail in the shade. I patted his forehead and gave him a sugar cube from my pocket. He’d be as happy to nap here as in his pasture, but I wasn’t telling anyone else that fact.
I slipped in the side door of the building between the rows of twelve-foot-tall stainless steel fermentation tanks. The first thing I heard was Rae’s sweet, seductive laugh echoing through the industrial space, and the bottom fell out of my stomach like I was plunging down the first drop on a rollercoaster. I stepped up my pace, the promise of being in her presence pulling me forward.
I wove my way past more of the large equipment we used to separate and juice the grapes and toward voices. Our production facility had not been built for wine tours. It was starkly unromantic. Concrete floors, metal walls, and exposed spray foam insulation on the ceiling. The only spot of color was a bright orange pallet jack.
Around the corner from a double stack of cube-shaped 275-gallon plastic totes, I found Wilson and Cami standing by a wine barrel with two open bottles on top.
“It appears that my sister knows wine.” Wilson held a glass of red in one hand, swirling it like a connoisseur.
Drinking at the meeting, things must have progressed well without me.
“And not like I know wine. As in all wine is good wine and I’m sure it pops from the vines already sealed in a bottle.” Cami took an appreciative sip of her white. She was being modest; her palate was better than mine or Wilson’s by a long way.
Rae and Gabriel stood near a rack of oak barrels at the back of the building. Her back was to us. The couple leaned close together, talking a mile a minute. They looked thick as thieves. Occasional words from their conversation like microclimate and high tannin content were all I could pick out at this distance. The facial tic in my cheek threatened to reappear when she and Gabriel shared another laugh.
What the hell is funny about the fermentation process? Nothing. It’s half science and half mystical woo-woo that only a handful of pretentious jerks understand. I know that because I interviewed and hired that jerk, Gabriel Fournier, for Blue Star five years ago. He was a Frenchman that had gone to a Napa wine expo looking for work in the USA, and I brought him here.
In retrospect, I should have hired the Australian woman who was my second choice.
Gabriel topped off Rae’s glass, and she thanked him with a pat on the arm. If he kept smiling at her like that, he’d learn the hard way that since I’d brought him to Texas, I could kick him out, too, with the liberal application of my boot to his bony backside.
I opened my fists and then shoved my hands deep in my pockets where I’d not be able to wrap them around Gabriel’s throat the next time he said something in French.
“I know.” Returning my focus to Wilson and Cami, I forced a reply through my clenched jaw.
“How is it possible you know Rae is a wine expert and Wilson doesn’t?” Cami asked as Wilson refilled her glass.
“It takes her fifteen minutes and a battery of questions to order a glass of wine at an airport bar.” It had been interesting watching her. The server knew more about the arriving flight schedules than he did about wine. And Rae’s questions sent him running for help from a bartender who was equally clueless. She’d schooled the two men on their list before selecting a 2019 New Zealand Syrah that she declared an overlooked gem.
