Page 112 of The Difference Between

Mom, Nancy, and Banyan say nothing, but Rue and Remy stand like soldiers at attention. Assholes.

“Not that I was having doubts about doing this with just two people but thank you for being here.” They chuckle. “Today and tomorrow are very, very soft reopening days. Nash is bringing three of his tours both afternoons, but there hasn’t been any other advertising with such short notice. Maybe we get a couple drive-bys. I’m projecting thirty to eighty guests, averaging forty-five to sixty-five minutes per visit, depending how freaked out they are by Banyan.”

Banyan spins on his toes. That are covered in Crocs.

Moving on. “I’m shooting for selling twenty bottles, so if you’re mingling, feel free to plant that seed in the conversation. And the glasses”—I point to the shelves of the retail section—“are unique to Glass of Vine, but I’m not sure how they’ll move as they aren’t an easy item for tourists to transport. But—” I shrug. “They’re pretty to look at and made by a local artist, so we’ll see how it goes.”

Even though I have big plans for the future, we’re starting very basic: wine, glasses, Banyan’s pervy knowledge. I have to get a baseline to see what’s feasible and what isn’t.

“A local artist?” Remy asks in a too-loud voice followed by a too-loud laugh. “Is that what you call him?”

Nancy whispers something to Mom that leads to her whispering back, and Rue elbows Remy then scolds her, no doubt about her alcohol consumption.

Banyan says, “The fire”—he makes a fist—“and the heat.” He makes another fist then slams the two together in a fist explosion. “You feel that?”

“No.” I blow out a sharp breath. “Any questions?”

“Me,” Rue says, hooking her thumbs on the straps of her overalls. “If someone stays over their allotted minutes, are we to escort them off the premises?”

I give her a deadpan look. “I’m actually worried nobody will meet their time because when they see your outfit they’ll think this a lost scene from Deliverance.”

She sticks her tongue out, and I continue. “Anyway, I’ll be pouring wine.”

Rue says, “I’ll take the register, if it pleases Your Majesty.”

Mom says, “Nancy and I already talked about it, we’ll watch the kids.”

Said kids scream from somewhere in the vines.

Remy raises her commandeered bottle of rosé. “Quality control.”

Yikes.

“Banyan?” My gaze drops to his covered torso and the instrument hanging around his neck. “What are my expectations?”

“You know I hate that word,” he says with a shudder. “It’s vibe smothering and soul sucking. Did I ever tell you about the ti⁠—”

“No.” This is not the time for one of his torrid tales. “Tell me what I expect.”

Gavin steps in with an apologetic wave and makes my breath stutter.

He isn’t in his suit—he’s in his tee, jeans, boots, hat, new-face ensemble—but for an instant, he is. For an instant, we’re back on that dark porch and he’s telling me I’m incredible and I’m wishing that we would have spent every night since together.

Remy mouths ohmygod before fanning herself.

I make a knock it the fuck off face she ignores. Possibly because she’s already drunk.

Banyan’s nasally voice pulls me back to the conversation at hand. “Fire Lady requests that I show the guests how treating the grapes right will help them find their sweet spot of pleasure and ripeness.”

I make the unfortunate mistake of looking at Gavin. He locks his eyes on mine and says, “Like a G-spot?”

Nancy and Mom scoff like prudes while everyone else howls and heat scorches my neck.

Remy conspicuously mutters, “I know a yoga teacher who’s getting her pleasure spotted.”

Rue and I exchange a look.

“G-spot,” Banyan repeats, then blows into the contraption hanging around his neck. “That’s funny, Heater. I should work that into my repertoire. Big Mama would get a kick.”