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“And why should I do that?” I asked. “Last time I checked, Sullivan wines still had a chokehold on the market share this side of the West Coast. Hell, you were the proud sponsor recipient of a company in Spain for figuring out to grow that goddamn weed—”
“The Garnacha grape is a finicky plant, not aweed,” Mia said hotly.
“—away from its native climate,” I added, “And with a four-point two percent market share, or should I say stronghold, and three hundred and eight two million in revenue last year, I don’t see why I need to yield my profits to make yours better.”
Her jaw stiffened. “But—”
“But nothing,” I said calmly, knowing she heard the steel in my tone. “And I don’t think you came here to tell me to stay away from the contract, did you?”
“No,” she admitted. “I thought you already had the contract, and I wanted to ask you, on a purely business level, to refuse it.”
“Still doesn’t make a lick of sense to me,” I replied. “Are you sure that business degree you got a couple of years ago is valid?”
I was getting to her; her eyes were starting to shoot bullets. “I apologize for barging in, but I have reason to. Sean Clarkston said that you had intercepted the message and gone and convinced the bigwigs to partner with you instead of letting us all have fair participation.”
“And by fair, you mean the Clarkston cider guys, too?” I asked, knowing full well her family thought cider was pig swill.
“Yes.”
“Liar,” I replied. “You wouldn’t drink cider if you were on a deserted island, and it was all that was available.”
Despite my inexplicable attraction to Mia—going back further than I wanted to admit—I couldn’t ever deny that she represented the double standards I deeply despised. There was no doubt that the Sullivans thought their product was the crème-de-la-crème—why wouldn’t they when celebs, fashion designers, and even presidents drank their wine—and the rest of us were uncivilized peons.
Mia, for all her smarts, was headstrong, impulsive, and more than a little hot-blooded by my reckoning. Plus, she was still as biased as the rest of her family. Having pride in your family’s centuries-old endeavor is one thing; looking down on the rest of us is another.
Her blush deepened. “So you never got the memo?”
“Not until now,” I replied. “And why were you talking to Sean at all? Don’t you all get hives by being within three feet of acider maker?”
“Well, he didn’t tell me exactly,” Mia murmured, “I overheard him talking to Greer at Mama Macchiato.”
“And you ran with it?” I bit down on my laughter. “Still same ol’ hotheaded Mia. Have you considered why Sean would have conveniently let the info slip in your presence?”
“To start something,” she admitted.
“No, starting something would mean something isn’t already there, and as the whole town, possibly half the world, knows about our family rivalry, he was using that to build on the mutual dislike. Once again, are you sure that degree is accredited?”
She huffed, then stood. “Well, seeing as I was mistaken, I apologize. And now that I have made a complete embarrassment of myself—”
“More like a jackass,” I corrected her.
“I shall be going,” she headed to the door to pivot on her high-heeled boots. “Its…erm…I’m sorry I disturbed you. I was wrong for running in like that, and please forget about my screw-up?”
“Not even when there is a snowstorm in hell,” I replied. “And Mia, the next time you want to come and confront me about something I have not done, make an appointment, like the rest of the world, hm?”
When she left the room, I picked up my phone and called Cole, who was somewhere in Palisade. When he answered, I got right down to business, “Tell me anything you know about some big Texas bigwigs coming in for a contract—now.”
* * *
“I know that look,” Cole, my younger brother by three years, said as he knocked on my door and came in the following day. “If you keep doing that, you’ll have crow’s feet by thirty and crossed eyes by thirty-one.”
“Jokes on you,whippersnapper,” I replied. “I’m already there. You think I’m scared of thirty-two?”
“No,” Cole laughed, raking his hand through his dirty blond hair. “I’m afraid you’ll be a young guy with a grandpa's face and won’t be my wingman when we got to clubs. They’ll take a look at you and run the other way.”
“I’ve got a business to run, not skeeze at clubs,” I replied. “If you want a wingman, Jerry Clarkston knows all of them.”
Cole’s fake-horrified gasp nearly had me laughing.
