I grab her by the shoulders, sinking my fingers into the firm muscles there. “No. They won’t.” My voice is commanding, deep. It forces her to focus on me. “We won’t let them write us off. You know why?”
Laine blinks, her eyes begging me for rescue. “Why?”
I step closer, tilting my chin up, defying her crackling insecurity with a million volts of pureboss. “We’re about to charm them out of their goddamn minds. They’re going to be in love with us, with Bluebell Vineyards, withall of itby the time they leave here today. We’re going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.” Laine swallows as I run my hands along the line of her shoulders, smoothing her shirt. One hand goes renegade and tightens around the back of her neck. “Whatever it takes,” I say, repeating our mantra from Rachel’s field day. “Do you understand?”
Laine sucks in a breath, her eyes flashing heat. The alcohol’s loosened all my impulses, and I let go of her suddenly, shaking my head to dispel the horniness that’s descended upon me like a fog. “I’m—sorry. I—”
Laine catches me by the wrist, deliciously present once more. “Don’t be, boss.” She runs her thumb over my pulse point, sending a thousand shooting arrows of lust straight through my core. “Now, let’s go win this thing.”
We each grab a few bottles to bring out. My head feels woozy from the encounter with Laine, like I drank a bottle ofher, and it’s gone straight to my head.
We bustle back into the tasting room, and Laine, full of a sexy, new confidence, pulls out the corkscrew and begins describing the crisp acidity our grapes achieve in this climate. The team listens enraptured, and I lean on the counter, placing my chin in my hands, listening to her, too. This is goinggreat. Laine is pure competence and grace. I am the picture of sobriety and good cheer. Hospitality personified. I am—my chin slips out of my palm, and my head jerks toward the counter, but I save myself before I crack my jaw open. One of the others, a short brunette with suspicious eyes, frowns at me.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes.” I wave a hand at her. “Allergy season, that’s all.” I grab a bevy of stemmed glasses before anyone can think too long aboutthatexcuse and set the glasses down artfully in front of each of the events team, thanking the Universe for muscle memory kicking in. Altogether, there are four of them. Marisol; the suspicious little brunette whose name is probably Agatha (she justlookslike an Agatha); a younger man with hip metal glasses and a tablet, positively dripping with executive assistant energy; and a softly jowled man who looks like he eats Tums by the barrel.
I push a small pour of Electric Daisy toward the nervous man first. “You must be the logistics person,” I say conspiratorially.
He blinks at me with wide, owllike eyes. “How did you know?”
“You look like you’re planning a hundred different contingencies right now based on this unexpected detour.” I wink at him. “Always ready to save the day. Am I right?”
“Well, I—” He laughs a little, slides a finger under the tight collar of his shirt to make room for his sweating neck, then undoes the top button. “I do have an eye for detail.” He sniffs the wine’s bouquet appreciatively. “Like wildflowers. Lovely.” He smiles shyly back.
One down, three to go.
I slide glasses toward Marisol, Agatha, and Mr. Bright Future and watch with as casual a gaze as I can muster as they sniff and sip their wine.
Marisol’s smile is as kind as ever as she declares Electric Daisy a perfect refresher on a hot summer evening, but Agatha winces subtly. Laine and I both see it, and we trade apprehensive glances.
“If you’re ready to stretch your legs after the long drive from Atlanta, how about a tour of the property?” Laine’s tone and manner are professional, congenial, perfect. It’s hard to believe the same woman was singing Faith Hill songs unironically at the top of her lungs a couple hours ago at Jamal’sKeep Calm and KaraokeWednesday afternoon programming. It’s harder to believe she was ever scared at all. She’s slipped her tortoiseshell specs on, which goes a long way toward hiding the relaxed set of her face that comes from a long day sipping wine in the sun. “Zoe can tell you the beautiful story of Bluebell while the sun sets over the vineyards. It’s one of the prettiest places in the world.”
My insides warm with happiness. “You really think that?”
Laine glances at me, her cheeks pinking beneath her frames. “I do.”
“Oh my goodness, you two are just the perfect pairing, aren’t you!” Marisol exclaims, delighted. “My son just married his partner of ten years last spring. Beautiful wedding.”
“Congratulations,” Laine says with genuine feeling, her eyes soft at the corners, completely unshaken. “You must be so proud.”
“I am! With two sons, I like to say I’m surrounded by handsome men now. Were you two married here, as well?” Marisol’s smile is warm below her twinkling eyes, rendering me speechless at how quickly this misunderstanding has escalated. But I can’t regret it. Marisol’s vibes have gone from polite professionalism to sweet, caring, and maternal, her eyes glowing with happiness for the young queers in love.
“Um, n-no,” Laine stutters out while I stare, dumbfounded. She adjusts her glasses and smiles nervously. “At least, not yet.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes. My heart explodes into a gaggle of red and pink confetti, as fooled by her words as theEveryday Bon Vivantteam.
Stupid heart, get your shit together!
“Well, lead the way, lovebirds. We’ll take this delicious wine to go.”
Laine’s eyebrows rise over her frames as she smiles giddily at me, then offers her arm. “Shall we?” The question’s layered, and though my head is spinning on a different axis than the rest of my body, I know she’s asking more than whether I’m ready to go right now.
Shall we give the people what they want?
Whatever it takes, right? I grasp her arm, bringing her close to me.
“Yes, we shall.”
We set out on the new gravel path that winds through our vineyards. It’s magic hour right now—the last kiss of sunlight gilds the rows of leafy canopies, turning green grapes golden as we make our way to the top of the hill, toward Mom’s tree and the first majestic viewpoint. The blue skies are ablush with apricot and honey, pinkest where the emerald-green curve of the Appalachian Mountains presses against them in the horizon. The whole world feels vivid and alive.
