AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My bedroom faced the front of the manor. The circular driveway was in plain view from the window. I could see that a limo was taking Trey to the airport. Thatcher was standing outside with him holding a leather duffel bag as Trey spoke to the driver. Trey held his leather briefcase; his suit jacket was slung over his shoulder. He looked like a model. He got into the limo as Thatcher handed him the leather duffel, closing the car door. The limo moved down the driveway. I watched it getting smaller and smaller, until it was a speck. I felt lonely and empty.
I padded down to his room to get my belongings. I felt closer to him just being around his things. I looked at the rumpled sheets and covers on his bed. I suspected he'd slept restlessly last night; the sheets were un-tucked at the end of the bed, the blanket and duvet twisted around each other. His boxers were on the bathroom floor where he'd stepped out of them. The bathroom still smelled of toothpaste, mouthwash, and his delicious aftershave. His navy blue terry robe was on the hook of the bathroom door.
I decided that although I wasn't going to sleep in his room this week, there was no reason not to enjoy his amazing bathroom. I shut the bathroom door and stripped off my clothes. I wanted to take a shower where he'd been just an hour before. I shampooed my hair with his shampoo and conditioned it with his conditioner. I rubbed his body wash all over me, and shaved my legs with his razor.
Once dressed, I realized I'd need to return to my cottage to get more of the essentials. I'd have someone go along with me later after work. I went downstairs and nearly collided with Thatcher as he came into the entrance hall from the dining area.
“Good morning, Ms. Preston,” he greeted me. “I trust you rested well last night?”
“Very well thank you. Please call me Tylar, won’t you?”
“As you wish. May I get you some breakfast, Tylar?”
"Don't go to any trouble on my account, Thatcher."
"It's no trouble, I assure you," he replied, smiling. He went to the kitchen and returned with my breakfast asking if there was anything else I needed. I assured him I was fine. I was anxious to go to work. I couldn’t imagine spending the day here having nothing to do. I ate my food and started to clear the table when Thatcher returned, taking over. I guess I wasn't to lift a finger here.
I went upstairs to collect my purse. I noticed that my bed had already been made up. Trey’s robe was hanging on a hook on the back of my bedroom door. I'd be pissed if someone moved it back to his room or, heaven forbid, laundered it. I heard the sound of a car horn outside. Glancing at the clock on the dresser I saw that Mrs. Johnson was right on time. Trey was right, two minutes into the drive over to the Belle; Mrs. Johnson insisted I call her “Becky.”
She told me I'd be busy all week helping in the winery. She’d provided an employee nametag for me, instructing me it was mandatory to wear at this location because of tourists. It was primarily a security measure.
We arrived at the winery, which looked like a regular barn from the outside but was entirely refurbished inside. There was a door leading to the wine cellar, the site of my new assignment. I followed her down the narrow wooden steps to the cool dampness of the wine cellar. This wasn't too bad after all. I was going to like this. If nothing else, it was a great way to beat the heat outside. She led me through a narrow corridor, and then opened a wooden door to a large room that held the corking machine. It was fairly loud, and Becky shouted for the girl that was operating it to shut it off.
“Here’s your help, Gina,” Becky said to the girl.
“Tylar, this is my niece, Gina,” she said. “Gina, this is Tylar Preston, your help for the week.”
Gina cracked a dazzling smile as she walked over to me, wiping her hands on her pants and smoothing her short-cropped strawberry blond hair. “A fellow ‘cellar rat,’ welcome,” she said, holding her hand out to greet me. I shook her hand, confused by the job title. Gina laughed at my confusion.
“Don’t take offense; that's just what everyone in the wine business calls this entry-level position.”
“I’ll leave you to the training, Gina,” Becky said, making her way to the door.
“Don’t worry Aunt Becky,” Gina replied, still smiling. “I’ll have her up to speed in no time.”
“Just behave while you do,” Becky replied, shaking her head. I got the impression that Gina was a handful for her aunt.
“First off, we need to get you the proper uniform,” Gina said, selecting a clean apron from a stack on a shelf. “Tie this around you because it does get dusty down here amongst other things,” Gina said in an accent that didn’t sound southern.
“Have you worked here long?” I asked, putting my head through the apron and tying it in the back.
“Only since I was a kid,” she answered.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“That’s because I’m not,” Gina said, taking a shop rag and wiping off the tool on the machine that lowered the cork into the bottle. The machine did not look high-tech whatsoever, but then again, this wasn't a major winery.
“I’m originally from New Jersey,” she explained. “Aunt Becky's my mom’s sister. I used to spend nearly every summer here. This is not my real job,” she explained. “I just came over to help my aunt out with this bumper crop. In return, she's cutting me a sweet deal on fifty cases of wine for our club.”
“You have a club?”
“Sure do,” she said, cracking her chewing gum. “My husband, Ian, and I opened it last year in Atlanta. That’s where we live now. It's a kickin’ place.”
Throughout the rest of the morning, Gina trained me in the art of being a cellar rat at a winery. It mostly consisted of tasks such as “hold this” or “clean that.” She instructed me on how to affix the labels onto the wine bottles. It wasn't rocket science, but it was nice having someone like Gina to talk to while doing redundant tasks. Gina was the type of person who'd never met a stranger. After spending just a couple of hours around her I felt like I'd known her forever; direct and unpretentious, I liked her immediately.
As it turned out, Gina’s Aunt Becky lived about a quarter of a mile down the road from the Sinclair Manor. I told Gina about staying at the manor. I noticed the raised eyebrow and soft little smirk that escaped from her after I mentioned it.
“What?” I asked.
