Page 11 of Blush Crush

“I just assumed you were irritated about Whitney.”

My shoulders tense. I guess that means everyone’s heard. Nora spreads family gossip faster than an outbreak.

It’s not so much that I’m irritated my ex-girlfriend is getting married at my winery—it’s that she’s sneakily gone behind my back about the whole thing, conspiring with my mother. It’s as if everything has been determined and no one bothered to run it by me first. Makes me question if I’m actually in charge or just a figurehead my parents can hide behind.

“Nope, not irritated at all.”

Blake pushes to his feet, probably sensing my mood isn’t improving anytime soon. I don’t usually let outside shit get under my skin like this. What’s worse is that I’m annoyed in the first place—and even more annoyed that I can’t seem to shake it.

“I’ll catch you later,” he says as he exits. “And let me know who you’re going to hire for the tasting room.”

Last week, I conducted interviews for a manager, two sommeliers, and a handful of part-time candidates for the newest tasting room, but I still haven’t decided who I’m hiring. Blake’s best friend Sierra applied for one of the part-time positions, so I’m sure that’s the real reason he’s hovering. He wants to know if she got the job.

The plan was never for me to run all the tasting room operations myself, but I’ve been dragging my feet about handing over the reins. Selfishly, because I kind of enjoy the escape it gives me from everything else.

But I can’t keep spreading myself this thin. Something’s bound to slip if I do. I’ll have to make a decision soon.

The morning continues on as usual. I alternate between the office and cellars, reviewing invoices, then checking on fermentation, then back upstairs for another call. It’s a balancing act I’ve nearly mastered in the two years I’ve acted as both CEO and head winemaker.

As I’m about to head off to open the tasting room in town, I come down the steps that lead to the lobby, taking two at a time, my mood lifting with each bounce. There’s a mixture of conversations and laughter from the guests. It’s not until I reach the bottom that a certain laugh in particular stands out against the rest. When my eyes land on the source, I freeze in place.

Whitney.

Like she sensed me or was expecting me, her gaze flits to mine, lips drawing into a smile.

It’s been years since I last saw her, but I’d recognize her anywhere. Icy blonde hair, honey-brown eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a spark in her eyes that tells me she didn’t come here for a random visit.

And it’s all made worse by the person standing beside her. My mom.

I had a feeling Whitney and I would be seeing each other soon. I just didn’t realize how soon.

Slowly, I cross the foyer in their direction, a sense of dread settling over me.

“Cole.” Her smile widens. “Hi.”

I can feel my mom’s gaze on me, her expectant stare as she waits for me to respond. “Cole? Aren’t you going to say hello?”

A familiar tightness knots in my chest. Years of memories rush in, along with that ever-present pressure I’ve never been able to escape whenever our families were watching us interact. Whitney and I were never allowed to simply exist—not without the assumption that it was only a matter of time. I think we could’ve been great friends if not for the unofficial arranged marriage looming over us.

“What are you doing here?” It comes out harsher than I intended, and I notice her lips start to turn down.

Her arms cross as she stands taller. “I’m sure your mom mentioned that my fiancé and I want to get married here.”

She settles her left hand high against her arm, the diamond on her ring finger flashing like a trophy.

If she means to make me jealous, that ship has sailed. It might’ve never even existed—more like an inflatable raft that started leaking the second it hit the water.

I put on an easy grin, my gaze connecting with my mom’s. She’s the picture of innocence—you’d never know how conspiring she really is.

“Can’t say that she has. First I’m hearing about it.”

“Oh.” Whitney swallows. “I just assumed.”

“I was going to meet with you about it today,” Mom recovers smoothly.

“I’m sure you were.” I smirk.

I’m being a dick. I should probably stop. But then again, what kind of fun is that?