Zoe
Everyday Bon Vivant planning meeting at 4:30 p.m. in the tasting room.
I hit send and watch Laine where she’s still hunkered down fixing the trellis. Will she stop to read the text? Will she resent my business tone? Should I have asked and saidplease?
I forcibly put my phone down instead of waiting for the screen to light up with her reply. Naturally, this results in me staring out the window at her instead.
Laine pauses, sets the pliers on the ground, and reaches for her back pocket. I inexplicably hold my breath as she glances at her phone’s screen. Her face is impassive as she rattles off a quick reply.
Laine Woods, Interim Vintner
Depends.
Laine Woods, Interim Vintner
Are you going to give me a taste?
My mouth drops open. This is a business meeting! A workplace matter! The phone’s in my hand in an instant, my fingers flying with righteous indignation:
Zoe
Come thirsty.
I stare at the message, blinking rapidly, as it’s sent, delivered, read. What am Ithinking? A tiny smirk perks up one side of Laine’s mouth before she shoves the phone into her back pocket, packs up her tools, and walks off.
I leap out of my chair. I’ve got to get dressed for the meeting.
The thought of seeing Laine after that flirty round of texts makes my momentum stutter, but like an old engine turning over, it eventually catches and vrooms again. While I’m over the debilitating crush I had on her growing up and fine keeping things professional after our accidental threesome, I can’t help feeling excited to show off Bluebell’s offerings to her tonight. Sure, Laine’s used to more sophisticated fare, but our white wines are sweet, simple, and true to our mountains. Every sip feels like a Blue Ridge afternoon. She’s from here, too; she’ll see that. Then maybe the snooty disdain for our vineyard that her manners don’t quite mask will be dispelled for good, and together, we’ll come up with ideas to transform our struggling red line, making Bluebell Vineyards stronger than ever.
I shimmy into a tight pair of dark jeans and pick a soft black shirt that dips in a V so low, it shows off the hollow between my breasts, the swell of flesh in stereo. Side boob is great, but in-between-boob? Goddess tier. A bold red lip, a touch of cat-eye, a pair of black heeled ankle boots later, and I’m ready.
I immediately frown at the hot lady in the mirror. Ready forwhat, exactly?
This is date-night Zoe, or more accurately, pre-fling Zoe. Not workplace Zoe. I shake my head like there’s water in my ears instead of pent-up sexual energy and knot a heavy plaid shawl across my chest.
There. That’s better.
I set off for the tasting room, strolling through the same Chardonnay block Laine was in earlier. The vines are already starting to bud, and in a few short months, their canes will push out a heavy drape of lush foliage. The Chardonnay vines are always the first to awaken from the vineyard’s long winter sleep. It seems so foolish to push out new life when frosts still regularly threaten our cold mountain nights, but that doesn’tstop the Chardonnays from sticking their necks out and leaving their survival to chance.
Stupid grapes.
In the large, airy tasting room, the lighting’s warm glow mixes with the pale afternoon sunlight painted across the floors. The public-facing part of our winery is framed out with tall windows that let in the sun and gentle breezes riffling down from the mountains and are original to the structure. But while Mom and Dad may’ve scored with the windows, the 1990s were otherwise alive and well with cherrywood everything and those frosted overhead lights that popped from the ceiling like nipples when I first took over operations. Now the floors are finished in pale maple, the U-shaped bar topped with waxed butcher block below and white marble above, trimmed in a thin band of brass, and the lighting is pure vibes. Globe lamps hang in a line, gently illuminating the people drinking below and highlighting everyone’s best features. River’s always been my favorite cousin, but after helping me make this place magical, he’s become nothing short of a blood brother.
Tristan appears from the back, holding a fresh crate of glassware. He eyes my outfit, complete with plaid shawl, with an eyebrow jacked damn near to his hairline. “Ah.”
I narrow my eyes, daring him to continue. “Ah,what, Stan?”
But then the big double doors open from the back patio, and Laine saunters in. “Here for the meeting, boss.”
“Mm-hmm.” Tristan replies as if that’s all the answer that’s needed, then starts unloading the crate, looking smug as hell.
When Laine draws near, the earthy smell of a day’s work outside tickles my nose—soil, sunshine, and the scent of her sweat, surprisingly familiar. Dirt is streaked across her cheek; the knees of her faded jeans are tinged with earth. The urge to knock her flat, push her down in the grass, and get the backside of her just as dirty floods my system.
“Thank you for coming to this business meeting.” The words rush out, a little too loud for the space. I clutch my shawl tighter. “A colleague will be joining us, but he’s not here yet.”
A small smirk appears on Laine’s face, as though she sees right through my efforts at professionalism. “Sure, boss.”
Annoying.I breathe deeply through my nose, spin on my heels, and march toward the bar. Growing up, Laine spooked me in a way no one else ever has, but I’m no kitten scared off by the big tomcat. Not anymore.
