“I Love Lucy, yep.”
Laine laughs, returning my big, happy smile, then peers inside. “It’s filled with grapes!”
“It’s the unusable stock. We usually host a grape crush the night of the first Community Harvest, but after theEveryday Bon Vivantnews, I decided these grapes are just for us.” I smile, strangely nervous thatLaine won’t understand why this tradition means so much to me. Why sharing it with her, and only her, means so much more.
Nobody makes wine like this anymore—have you seen people’s feet? But the weighty tradition connects me to this ancient art that’s existed long before I was born and will last long after I die. It’s comforting, being a part of something eternal. Joining my mother there, in the crush of grapes, the pour of wine, where she still lingers. Mom’s hands under my arms, lowering my tiny body onto the crushing pad, laughing as I laughed, delighting in my delight with each popping burst beneath my little feet. I find her memories waiting for me each time I step inside and share that delight with friends, letting their laughter fill me where I’m empty.
I want to join Laine there, too. In the eternal. Infuse this tradition withherandnowand all the happiness I feel.
She hauls off her shoes in a funny hopping-stumbling-run heading straight for the grapes. “I’ve always wanted to do this!”
My own smile stretches as she swings her legs over the edge and lands with a squish. Laine swipes at her hair dangling in front of her eyes, laughing as she squelches through the grapes beneath her feet. “This isso—weirdly—satisfying!Coming in?”
She holds out a hand, her twinkling eyes a gift only for me. I want to memorize this perfect image of her. Laine, calf-deep in a wooden barrel filled with pale green grapes. Her strong thighs holding her steady, the rivets of muscle fascinating me before disappearing beneath a layer of black bike shorts that honestly? Should be illegal for the workplace. I’ve been staring at the peach of her ass all day. Her thin gray tank kisses her everywhere I want to, revealing the inky bluebells etched into her skin, the muscular set of her shoulders, and the heady contrast they make with the swell of her breasts. Her body is a topographical map, with dips and valleys and long expanses of smooth skin I know are there and wish my fingers could travel across. And her face?
It’s beautiful. Without any effort and after a long day of sweaty work that began at dawn, Laine Woods is still unfairly, incomprehensibly beautiful. The day’s sheen makes her high cheekbones glimmer, and her lips are full and lush and alive. More than that, I love how this edition of Laine is transposed on all those that came before, from teen soccer starCharlaine, to grown Laine glimpsed on her rare visits home, to Napa-snob Laine who made faces at each of our best-selling wines. And now,thisLaine, her eyes lingering on my face like I’m the sunrise, and she’s gotten up early just to see me. Happy-to-be-here Laine.
My Laine.
Before I can second-guess it, I whip out my phone and take a picture of her standing in the grapes she grew for my family. Forme.
“Hey, you sneaky little paparazzo. Get in here, or I’ll drag you in myself.”
I huff out a laugh, though the thought of Laine putting meanywhereleashes my desire andyanks. “Oh, will you now?” I kick off my shoes and socks, abandon my phone and keys, and launch myself into the barrel. Not trying to brag, but I’ve been known to do cannonballs in here. I tumble straight into Laine, and we’re both laughing as I yip and curse and knock her off balance into the grapes.
“Save me!” I yell theatrically as my head starts to sink below the surface. I reach a hand above the skim of grapes and burble loudly for dramatic effect since there’s almost no juice in here yet. Laine yanks me up, pulling me to where she sits, back propped up against the barrel.
“Save you?” She pants with laughter as I struggle to right myself before falling into her again. “I should let you drown for taking me down like that.”
Our chests are pressed together, me lying halfway on top of her. Even without moving, the grapes continue to pop beneath us, little bursts tickling the tops of my thighs and stomach. I glance up at her, not quite breathing from the proximity. Laine’s eyes are dark and playful.
“Laine?”
“Yes, baby?”
“There’s something you should know …” I clear my throat, then retrieve a cluster of grapes that tangled into a crown upon my head and hold them up to the light.
“I play dirty.” Then I resolutely squash them right into her ear.
Laine gasps in outrage, and I can’t help it, Igiggle.
Her eyes narrow, and an evil smile alights on her face. She flings the grape cluster to the side and pulls me back down. “Oh, it’son!”
I’ve never participated in a mud-wrestling match before, but I’d guess it’s something like this as Laine topples me sideways in a spray of bursting grapes. This time, she’s on top of me, though her torso is splayed across my hips like we’re a human plus sign. She’s so strong it’s no contest at all, but like I said, I play dirty. I smush more grapes into her face, and she sputters, spitting them away and laughing hysterically as she tries to maintain her pin on me. I wriggle out, sliding easily in the slick, juicy grapes, my nipples burning they’re so hard from the symphony of sensations against my body. The press of Laine’s hot skin slipping against mine, her tight, furtive grips around my wrists, sticky bursts against my sore arm, the full, heavy weight of her across my lap, then landing between my legs, and the pressure there, goodgod, it’s all I can do not to drag my aching core against her. Our laughter is heady as tears stream down our faces, our wriggling and shoving losing steam as other impulses heat and begin to sizzle.
If Laine’s eyes were dark before, they’re positively molten now, and I feel their heat burning across my face, my neck, the juice dripping down my V-neck shirt, into the tunnel between my breasts.
“Wait a second,” I say breathlessly, then shove up to sitting. “There’s something else I want to share with you.”
Laine reluctantly lets me go, then helps me to my feet. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t know whether to trust me or pin me down again, lest I try more bullshit.
I wade over to the edge, then reach behind the barrel for the bottle of wine and two glasses I’d stowed there.
“Is that—” Laine takes the bottle gently from my hands, one of the last three of my mother’s famous reds. She glances up at me with a tentative hope. “Are you sure you want to open this?”
I run my hand up and along her arm until it rests on her shoulder, then trail the other one up to meet it around her neck. “We have a lot to celebrate.”
“Zoe Brennan, as I live and breathe,” she says, almost purring as I draw her closer. “Are you courting me back?”
