P.S. T.J. Maxx has decorative roosters on sale 2 for 1, thought you should know.
I shove my phone in my pocket and speed-walk along our normal tour route, but there’s nobody in the vineyard blocks, either. Voices escape from the winery, making me frown. While we bring guests into the front of the winery to glimpse the racks of pretty barrels and the precious few stainless-steel tanks we have, the voices are coming from the back, behind the plastic sheeting divide, where Dad’s worktable and the uglier plastic tote bins that comprise most of our wine storage are. There are exactly zero selfie-backdrop opportunities in there. What’s Dad playing at?
As I draw closer, I catch a snippet of conversation:
“—it’s the Pinot Noir. My wife blended it with our Norton crops just so … Most beautiful body on your tongue—a few bottles left, yes … treasured, you see, and very important to Zoe …”
That’s even stranger. Dadnevermentions Mom to vineyard guests. It’s too loaded a subject for him, too painful, so we go through life pretending that every inch of this place isn’t imbued with her spirit, memories, and laughter. I push aside the plastic sheeting and see a flop of light brown hair bobbing thoughtfully to what my dad’s saying.
Laine?Laine’sour treehouse guest?
A strangled sound rumbles in my throat. Their heads turn in unison.
Sheis.
It’s unfair how good some people look. Last night, all I saw of Laine was her tanned skin and the inky tattoos that drape across her muscular frame like they’re grateful to be there, but it was in the middle of an existential crisis. It’s a wonder my brain didn’t explode on the spot. Her slim, athletic build always made me sigh in juvenile longing in high school, but years spent working in vineyards under the California sun have filled her out. She’s in a pair of tight, straight-legged trousers, subtly textured, a camel-brown leather belt cinched around her narrow hips. The shirt is a pale blue button-down, cut slim and made of a matte, buttery fabric that appears structured until I realize it’s the line of her strong shoulders holding it so perfectly in place. A pair of thick, tortoiseshell glasses sits on her long, straight nose, her doe-brown hair waved perfectly to the side, and I involuntarily suck in a breath at how blazing hot she looks.
Professorial butch, a profoundnew weakness. Noted.
I’m suddenly aware of my bare face, my black bob left wavy from the quick shower, and the truly giant sweater I’m currently retreating into. Laine adjusts her glasses slowly, her eyes tracking it all, and a blush wraps around my neck, flooding my cheeks with heat.
“Ah, Zoe Nicoletta! There you are!” Dad gestures for me to join them. “Do you remember little Charlaine Woods from down the road?”
A flash of muscle memoryzingsfrom my core up my spine, like every nerve ending in my body decided to squealyes!all at once.
“I do.” The echo of last night’s ride againstbig Charlaine Woodsmakes my words come out low and breathy. “Hello, Charlaine.”
A kiss of peach appears high on her cheekbones, her deep brown eyes heating.
“It’s Laine,” she says, a real-life déjà vu, only this time she doesn’t call me baby. Her lips twitch, as though she’s not sure whether to smile. Whyis she here? Our vineyard tour is optional for our Treebnb guests—she didn’t need to sign up for the first slot. Unless …
Shewantedto see me? Excitement tugs low and warm in my belly.
“I still remember when Molly and Ezra brought you and Chance home from the hospital,” Dad says, a sentimental twinkle in his eyes, completely oblivious to the sexual energy thrumming between us. “And now, look at you! All grown up.”
My eyes linger on her full mouth, before flickering up to meet her gaze. “Sure are.”
An eyebrow lifts barely, amusement flashing on Laine’s face before disappearing beneath professional neutrality. She clears her throat. “Cosimo was about to show me where you age your whites.”
“Here, of course—this is our cold storage area!” Dad points to the window AC unit rigged to blast cold air at fifty-five degrees year-round, then to the plastic sheeting flaps that keep the cold air in. “Much more cost effective than a glycol system, eh?” Dad winks.
Laine startles like a patient on the operating table who’s just realized her surgeon got licensed virtually from Phoenix University. “How resourceful.” She stares at the plastic totes with clear dismay. I sigh.
This is why we don’t bring guests back here. People don’t want to know how wine gets made at scrappy little vineyards like ours. It’s not pretty.
“A little different from Le Jardin’s operations, I imagine.” I smile, trying to telepathically assure her that we know we’re small potatoes compared to the ultra-prestigious Napa vineyard she’s used to.
But Laine winces at my words. She recovers with a tight nod, but I saw something there. Before I can make sense of it, Dad laughs and shakes his head. “A Le Jardin vintner, here in our winery! Just think of it!”
I snap my head to look at him as he steps between us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “You’ll be afantasticreplacement for me as Bluebell’s chief vintner. Welcome aboard, Laine!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Queer Mountaineers Who Occasionally Drink Beer
Queer Steering Committee
Diego
