Page 11 of WASP

“Yeah, um, probably,” Annie said before Max was off and Annie was once again left staring at the most perfect ass to ever grace planet Earth.

“Well, she seems…sweet,” her mother commented, gaze trailing after the pair before turning to land on Annie who was about to respond when another hostess called their name.

“Dillinger, party of two.”

For the rest of brunch, Annie’s mind was fixated on one thing and one thing only—Max Martin, the cute girl from the country club and her perfect ass.

FOUR

MAX

“You are going to be late.” A man’s voice chided Max through the doorway of the back office, tucked away in a little hallway off the main tasting area. It was Jack Norwich, the head winemaker at Norwich Vineyards, with that stupid-looking, dopey grin on his face. “But seriously, doesn’t your shift at the club start in five minutes?” he asked, entering the small, disorganized office space shared by far too many people, casually leaning against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

“My dog is having a medical emergency,” Max said flatly, still looking at the schedule she was fine-tuning on the computer screen in front of her.

Jack grinned, deep dimples appearing as he shook his head, his dark, perfectly floppy hair shifting with the movement. “You don’t have a dog.”

Max tapped a few keys, shifting Jerome’s shift from Tuesday to Thursday and moving Kennedy into his place. With a flourish, she tapped the return key. All done.

“Sure I do.” Max caught Jack’s eye as she stood, reaching for her faded leather messenger bag that she preferred to cart all of her daily belongings in. She refused to use a purse on principle. Something about them had always felt a little too patriarchal for her. “Well, at least to anyone at McCallum-Windsor, I have an eleven-year-old beagle named Daisy.” She grinned conspiratorially. “I made her up when they hired me. She’s been a great excuse to have in my back pocket for days like today when I knew I would get tied up working on something.”

Jack looked at her skeptically. “You’re joking,” he said, his uneasy grin wide across his face.

“I’m not. It works like a charm. Daisy has a litany of ‘health’ issues that take us to the vet from time to time. And who’s really going to be the dick that questions me about needing a little time here and there for a sick dog?” She laughed, jingling her keys in her hands. “The key is not to overuse the excuse.” She winked.

“You know, just when I think I know everything about you, you drop something like this…” Jack followed her out of the little office, flicking the lights off behind him as he pulled the door closed. Standing next to her, Jack looked like he could be her older brother: jet-black hair and pale blue eyes. Winery patrons had made that mistake more than once, and Max could understand why. “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re juggling too much?”

“Not once,” Max said dryly, glancing at her phone, face falling as she scanned a panicked text from Chloe. “Bills, bills, bills,” she muttered.

“If it’s about money, I told you, I’m happy to talk to my dad about your salary,” Jack offered earnestly, which Max appreciated more than she knew how to convey to him. It wasn’t about that—not really. Yeah, a pay raise would definitely help out, but Max had always liked earning things on her own. She didn’t need any handouts. She was more than capable and had learned long ago that she was the only person she could truly count on.

“And become a wine nepobaby like you? Never,” she joked.

Jack grumbled what sounded like “I’m not a nepobaby” under his breath, and Max’s smile grew.

“I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”

Again, Jack grumbled his response. “Norwich.”

“And the name of this vineyard?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Norwich Vineyards. Point made. It’s not my fault that my parents own a vineyard and I love making wine. I still did the grunt work. I worked the harvests and spent my twenties flying all over, learning how to make wine. Hell, I make all the creative decisions for the wine Norwich produces now. I’m award-winning,” he protested.

Max reached out, patting Jack’s muscled bicep. “I know you do. And you do it so well. I retract all nepobaby remarks, okay?” Her phone vibrated in her hand, Chole’s name popping up on the screen. “Shit, I need to take this. I left Chloe in charge and she’s not the sharpest crayon in the box…” She adjusted the messenger bag over her shoulder, pushing through the large rustic wooden doors leading to the parking lot, hurriedly speaking into the phone. “Hey, Chloe, what’s up?”

“Are you still coming over tonight?” Jack called after her as she headed toward her car. “Drew and I are hanging out. I was going to crack open a 2010 cabernet franc I’ve been sitting on.”

She turned to respond, giving him two thumbs up, mouthing, Count me in.

She had just finished talking Chloe off a ledge, something about an unexpectedly large party coming in and not knowing how to accommodate them. God, sometimes it would be nice if Chloe could access the same part of her brain that enabled her to graduate a year early from MIT to problem solve even the most basic work obstacle, but unfortunately, that seemed like too much to ask.

Her phone buzzed again from its holding spot in the slightly sticky cup holder. Max glanced down at the number, only to see UNKNOWN CALLER listed in white text. She wasn’t totally sure what made her answer this call out of all the unwanted and overdone spam calls that seemed normal to receive these days.

“Hello, this is Max,” she said, her tone short.

“Hello!” An excited voice came through the speaker of her car. “Is this Maxine Martin?”

“Yes. Who is this?” she asked, still with that lingering air of coldness as she turned onto the main drive leading to the employee entrance of the McCallum-Windsor Country Club.