With Shelly clinging to him, Mitch mounted the ladder one-handed. At the top, he paused, adjusting his grip, and stepped in.
Ivy saw the exact moment he misjudged the weight distribution.
Still holding Shelly, Mitch came down on a particularly slick patch of pulverized grapes. His feet shot out from under him, and Shelly screamed.
They hit with a tremendous splash that sent grapes splattering in all directions.
Shelly shrieked as Mitch disappeared under the purple mass.
Ivy and the rest of them stumbled, grabbing the vat’s rim for support. They all dissolved with laughter as their friends cheered them on, capturing the action in photos and videos.
Mitch surfaced first, spitting grape skins, his toga plastered to his chest. Grape pulp clung to his hair and eyebrows, and his blond hair was purple now.
Shelly was beside him, gasping and laughing. She tried to stand and immediately slipped again, catching herself on Mitch’s shoulder.
“You dropped me,” she said, grinning.
“I slipped, babe.” Mitch wiped his eyes, smearing more juice across his face. “There’s no traction in here. It’s like ice skating in fruit.”
Their friends had gone wild, cheering and whistling. Someone started a new chant, though Ivy couldn’t make out the words over the music. Her stomach ached from laughing.
Emilie waded toward them, somehow managing to look graceful even hip-deep in crushed grapes. “You’re such a good sport. This is why we asked you to bring swimsuits and stay overnight. After we clean up, we’ll relax in the hot tub.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Ivy said, chuckling. “I had no idea we were going to be the entertainment. What a blast, though.”
Next to her, Bennett was stomping with full commitment now. The vat trembled under their combined movement.
Shelly gave up standing. Instead, she sat waist-deep in the grapes, howling with laughter, while Mitch attempted to pull her upright. Every time he got her halfway up, his feet would slip, and they’d collapse again into a fresh explosion of fruit.
“Come on,” Tristan called over the music. “Let’s finish with style.”
They all helped Shelly and Mitch stand and formed a ragged circle. They managed to stomp sort of in unison to the music for nearly a minute.
Ivy couldn’t remember when she’d had so much fun.
Their friends cheered and cameras flashed. Carol Reston had claimed a prime spot near the torches, directing video angles like she was staging a production. Ivy caught a glimpse of her own shadow, looking like a giant figure dancing in a vat of grapes.
The absurdity of it hit her again. She was stomping grapes in a makeshift toga while people filmed the mayor of Summer Beach doing the same thing. This would be all over social media by morning.
She didn’t care at all.
Her feet found rhythm in the chaos, and Bennett’s hand found hers. Their skin was sticky with pulp.
“We did it, sweetheart.” He squeezed her hand and raised it overhead in victory.
Someone in the crowd whistled.
Emilie directed them to cluster at the vat’s center. “Everyone together now. Let’s get the final photos.”
They pressed close, arms around shoulders, trying not to slip. The grapes shifted beneath them. Ivy felt Bennett’s strong arms around her as Shelly clung to her on the other side for dear life.
Ivy tilted her face skyward. Stars pierced the darkness above, more visible here than in Summer Beach, away from the coastal fog and town lights. The Milky Way stretched overhead.
This is living in the moment, she thought, filled with happiness.
Bennett turned his face to hers. “I love you for going along with this.”
“I couldn’t let you have all the fun.” She laughed and kissed him, tasting grapes on his lips.
