Iwantto try her. I want to stand over her, lift my boot to her shoulder, and press her furious face against the throbbing pulse she’s caused between my legs. The sheer intensity of that want is so alarming, my heart’s rhythm is thudding in fear and anticipation both, as though I might actually do it. The moment stretches between us, air charged, and Laine’s eyes snag on something in mine. Want? Anger?
Or fear?
She leans forward, eyes hungry and searching. Terrified, I snatch my phone off the desk and bring up my contacts. “My friend Jamal is the vintner at Fightingtown Vines and head of our local vineyard association. I’ve given him a call, and he’s agreed to bring you up to speed on how things are done in Blue Ridge.”
If I thought I’d seen Laine mad before, it was nothing compared to the hellfire burgeoning from her eyes now. “I don’t need anyone to bringmeup to speed,boss.”
“I’m not concerned with what you think you need.” The words are cool and calm, impersonal, and with each one, I feel my strength returning. “Your inexperience today could’ve cost us our entire crop of Seyval Blanc. You’ve got a lot to learn about how wine is made in this region, andyou’re not going to do it by jeopardizing my family’s business just becauseyou thinkyou’re better than this town and everyone in it.”
The words land like a blow to her stomach, visibly taking her aback, and for a second, I regret having gone there. Then I remember the casually dismissive way she looks at Bluebell Vineyards, like everything I have on this earth is beneath her. Like I’m beneath her, too.
And I don’t feel sorry at all. This ismybusiness, and I can’t let whatever these feelings are between us make me forget that.
I walk around the desk to where she’s still sitting and put the slip of paper with Jamal’s number into her hand.
“Call him.Today.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Seriously, Zoe, Why Haven’t You Blocked Harlow Yet
Hey, Zoe.
Seriously, Zoe, Why Haven’t You Blocked Harlow Yet
I’m sorry I accidentally set up a threesome for us with your old friend from high school. I get that it was embarrassing, but I had no way of knowing. Are you going to hold it against me forever?
And after I spend all day ignoring Harlow’s texts:
Seriously, Zoe, Why Haven’t You Blocked Harlow Yet
I guess so.
My phone buzzes against the table with Harlow’s text flashing across the locked screen. I sigh and pick up my iced tea instead. It’s not the first time Harlow’s reached out since she blew my carefully ordered world apart and left me lying dazed in a pile of rubble. I haven’t responded. It’s not that I’m angry with her, but what’s there to say?Hi, Harlow, I’ve finally learned my lesson that you+me always=extremely distracting emotional turbulence. Let’s just … not. Okay?
The sweet tea slides down my throat, ice gently clinking against my teeth, and I sigh again, looking out onto town from my spot on The Dogwood’s porch. It’s a sunny afternoon, the kind of warm that growsflowers, so I couldn’t resist grabbing my laptop and going out for lunch. Plus, I haven’t eaten a real meal in a week, instead turning the contents of my kitchen into sad imitations of charcuterie boards whenever I get hungry. The dregs of tortilla chips, bananas just past their prime, a lone slice of leftover pizza. How did food get so depressing? I needed delicious tots to ease my troubled mind.
I’m just … tired. So tired of feeling a thousand variations ofalone. I always get emotional hangovers after a Harlow visit, but this one’s rising to new heights, aided by the rest of my life going slowly insane. It’s been over a month now since Dad’s left, and our weekly calls leave more ache than comfort. I miss him, his sad eyes and gentle smile and how much simpler my life was when he was vintner instead of the prickly butch I can’t manage. Even pursuing the showcase hasn’t been able to fill me up lately. Laine’s negativity is like a black hole roaming around our vineyards, sucking up all my good energy whenever she gets too close. I thought she was going to be on my team, and now, I just feel stupid.
Laine’s not on my team—I’m not sure she’s onanyone’s. She’d mentioned this temporary leave of absence was so she could reconnect with her family, but as far as I can tell, she hasn’t gone to Into the Woods once. Before work begins, she does soccer drills up and down the vineyard rows, dribbling the ball back and forth between her feet, or practices kicks with a small foldable goal she set up by her Treebnb. After work, the lights flick on up there and stay on until late into the evening. The next day repeats, not that I’m spying on her or anything. I just keep waiting for something, some clue to help me understand her better, why she’s here, and why she seems so angry all the time.
So far, I’ve got nothing.
The door to the restaurant opens, and a high, twinkling laugh exits first. I glance over my shoulder, and a burst of adrenaline lights up my body. Rachel Woods, in all her ironed country club glory, holds the dooropen for Mayor Esposito. Rachel’s laughing her fake ultra-femme laugh, not at all like the hilarious throaty burble she had when we were kids. I’ve been trying to get a meeting scheduled with the mayor for weeks now, but when I finally cornered her assistant Elisa in the Ingles parking lot the other day, she claimed the mayor was booked through summer. I distinctly remember Elisa saying she’d be on vacation this week. InReno. You remember when someone says they’re vacationing inReno.
Torn between elbowing Rachel out of the way so I can pitch Bluebell Vineyards for the showcase and disappearing into the ether, ultimately I choose the ether, slumping down in my seat as they pass by. I shouldn’t be surprised. Flor Esposito, a strong-jawed Latina who rose in political prominence on her platform ofDoing the Unexpected!and positioning Blue Ridge as an innovator in the tourism industry, struck up a friendship with Rachel after Into the Woods hosted a successful event for Flor when she was a real estate agent with mayoral ambitions. Rachel’s been one of her most active fundraisers ever since, which is admittedly a decent use of Rachel’s toxic perfectionist energy. Mayor Esposito is great, but her success and loyalty are tied to Rachel in an incredibly inconvenient way for Bluebell Vineyards right now. Of course the mayor doesn’t want to meet with me, Into the Woods’s biggest competitor. She doesn’t want to tell me no.
Ugh.The tots-induced happiness has turned into a flat, greasy despair. Getting the mayor’s endorsement for the showcase isn’t a must-have, but it’d demonstrate toEveryday Bon Vivantthat the town is behind us, implicitly confirming that we’d experience no interference from the permitting office or city council.
I just need to rethink my strategy, that’s all. Some way to bypass the mayor or approach the permitting office first. I throw back the rest of my tea and settle the bill, ready to hole up at my desk until I solve this problem, but halfway to my car I stop dead.
Rachel’s parked two cars down from mine, and she’s leaning against the back of her sparkling SUV, rapidly typing something on her phone. Her large sunglasses lift, spotting me before I can detour out of sight. She gives a small huff of recognition, likeOh. You again.
“What areyoudoing here?” Rachel folds her arms, her long, brown hair reflecting the sunlight straight into my eyes. She’s wearing calf-high leather riding boots over dark skinny jeans and a slim-cut white button-down tucked neatly in, all cinched together with a matching leather belt. A Ralph Lauren ad in 3-D, if Ralph Lauren only hired bitches.
I wave a hand behind me. “At a restaurant? You’re really asking me what I’m doing at arestaurant?”
“You heard me.”
