Authors: Tawna Fenske
“Thanks, honey. Blueberry this time?”
“Perfect. I call dibs on the crust.”
“I call dibs on the orange coffee mug.”
“All yours, baby.” He kissed her temple, then turned and sat down in the seat across from Clay. As Jed picked up the saltshaker, he studied Clay from across the table. “You’ve seen the plans for the new building, then?”
“Looked them over last week with the branch manager,” Clay replied. “That’s great you guys are going green, doing the LEED certification and all. Environmentally conscious building is the hot ticket in Oregon wine country right now.”
“That’s why they sent you.”
“That’s why they sent me,” Clay agreed.
He paused, waiting to see if Jed would add anything else. Jed seemed content just fiddling with the condiments, spinning the pepper shaker around in lazy circles. Clay remembered a joke he’d heard about a woman with a medical condition that caused her to have an orgasm each time she sneezed.
What are you taking for it?
the joke went.
Pepper.
Clay opened his mouth but shut it again fast.
You’re a sober adult now. No more dirty jokes.
“So are you still leading wine country bike tours, sir?” Clay asked.
Jed laughed. “Sir,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I can’t get over that. Yeah, the bike tours have gotten pretty big these days. We’ll have three dozen people out with us at the height of summer.”
“No kidding?”
“Nope. Business is booming. June’s still managing the business end, of course, and Eric’s still making great wine for us. Larissa’s doing marketing, and we’ve got Reese running the vineyard full-time now.” He grinned. “She’s got plans to make Sunridge the next big thing in Oregon wine country.”
“And she’s succeeding?”
Jed nodded with fondness and leaned back in his seat. “Ever known Reese not to succeed at something she put her mind to?”
“No, sir,” Clay said, though he knew damn well Reese would disagree. After all, her marriage to Eric hadn’t gone according to plan.
A marriage you never should have let happen, dumbass.
Clay cleared his throat, forcing his brain not to venture down that path. “How’s Grandpa Albert doing?” he asked, hoping like hell the old man was still alive.
“He goes by Axl now.”
“Axl?”
“It’s his street name. He got it in prison a few years ago.”
“Prison?”
Jed shrugged. “He only did a few weeks. Got caught trafficking drugs, but they let him off easy since he was just selling counterfeit Viagra to a rival biker gang.”
“Isn’t he in his late seventies?”
“Just turned eighty last week, but that hasn’t slowed him down much. Actually, would you mind keeping an eye out for him and flagging him down when he gets here?”
“Uh—sure.”
“Thanks,” Jed said, standing up and clapping Clay on the shoulder. “I need to chat with the chef about the catering for a wine event in a few weeks. You’ll recognize Axl when you see him.”
“No problem.”
Jed hurried away, and Clay directed his attention to the front of the restaurant. The instant he turned, the door burst open to reveal an old man in aviator sunglasses and a black leather jacket. Spotting Clay, Grandpa Albert gave a start of surprise, then swaggered over to the table and eyeballed him.
“Well, well, well,” he said, dropping into the seat beside Clay and running a hand through his wispy white hair. “If it isn’t the guy who face-planted in my granddaughter’s wedding cake.”
“Hello, sir.”
“And got arrested for pissing in the ashtray at Finnigan’s.”
“Good to see you again, sir.”
“And plowed down a row of Reese’s thirty-year-old Zin vines on a riding mower.”
“You’re really looking good, sir.”
Albert pulled off the aviator sunglasses—bifocals, Clay realized—and looked at him. “I always liked you.”
Clay hadn’t seen that coming. He swallowed, wondering when the lump had formed in his throat. “Thank you. I always liked you, too.”
“Of course you did. Everyone does. So where the hell you been? I thought you and Eric and Reese were the Three Musketeers for life, and then you up and left.”
Clay cleared his throat. “I had some things to straighten out.”
“Damn right you did. Where’d you go for rehab, Hazelden?”
“Good guess.”
“It’s the best. A couple guys I ride with had to go last year. Started building model airplanes with their grandkids and got hooked on sniffing glue. You know how it is.”
Clay wasn’t sure he did, but he nodded anyway and took a sip of his coffee.
Albert leaned close and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “If the rehab doesn’t take, I might have a business proposition for you. I’m not at liberty to say too much just yet, but it has to do with a special little harvesting operation and—”
“Actually, sir,” Clay interrupted, “I’m pretty committed to sobriety. And I’m going to be working at the vineyard awhile building your new event pavilion and tasting room.”
“Is that so?” Albert sat back and studied him. “Well, Eric’ll be glad to have you back.”
“Eric,” Clay repeated. “Not Reese.” He didn’t phrase it as a question but still left room for Albert to object.
There was no objection. Instead, Albert just studied him with a look so intense, Clay had to fight not to drop his gaze. “Reese always got screwed when it came to you,” Albert said at last. “And not in the good way.”
He gave Clay a pointed look, and Clay felt his neck grow hot. Albert was right, of course. Reese had bailed him out of jail more times than he could count. She’d not only endured his lame excuses but the ones Eric had made on his behalf. Then there was that awful night at Finnigan’s. The bar fight that had killed any chance he’d ever had of—
“I know,” Clay said, interrupting his own dangerous train of thought. “I’m sorry about that. About all of it. I plan to apologize as soon as I head out there tomorrow. I’m a different person now.”
The old man looked at him. “You’d better prove it. Girl’s got ambition. She’s making something big out of that vineyard with a new pavilion and the wine club and media attention and shit. Doesn’t need you making a mess of things again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Albert slugged him in the shoulder. “What’s with the
sir
bullshit? You think you’re talking to an old man or something?”
“No, si—no, that’s not it at all.”
“The name’s Axl now, dammit.”
“Axl,” Clay repeated, trying it out. “Okay.”
Axl picked up Clay’s mug, downing the rest of his coffee without comment. “So you’re not a drunk anymore,” he said, thunking the mug down on the table.
Clay cleared his throat again. “I prefer the term ‘recovering alcoholic.’”
“And you’re going to be working at a winery.”
“Yes, s—
yes
. That’s right.”
“With your best buddy making wine.”
“Yep.”
“And my granddaughter giving you orders.”
“Right.”
Axl studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “Don’t fuck it up.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I don’t see why I have to change my shirt,” Larissa argued.
Reese stared at her cousin for two beats, wondering which would emerge first—smoke from her own ears or Larissa’s boobs from the purple push-up bra thrusting them to terrifying heights.
“Because I’ve seen prostitutes dressed more conservatively,” Reese said. “This is a wine tasting room, not a strip club.”
“This is a
barn
,” Larissa said.
She did have a point. Since Sunridge Vineyards didn’t have an official tasting room yet, they’d been holding tastings in the winery itself. With barrels stacked everywhere, a drain running the length of the concrete floor, and the scent of fermenting grapes saturating the air, it was hardly the ambiance Reese wanted to create. Still, the hordes of wine tourists appearing each week assured Reese she was on the right track.
Mostly on the right track
,
she amended, looking at her cousin in the purple lace bra and sheer yellow blouse. Reese flipped the end of her own gold-brown ponytail over one shoulder and tried to keep her voice calm.
“Look, Larissa—we’re trying to build a professional reputation for Sunridge Vineyards, and part of that is looking like professionals.
Not
professional streetwalkers.”
Larissa folded her arms over her chest. “Is the baby opossum in your pocket part of our professional image?”
“I’m not working with the public right now. You are.” Reese touched the front of her flannel overshirt and felt the tiny creature stir. “I ran out of incubator space and he needed lunch.”
“You’re breastfeeding?”
“His bottle’s in my office. Come on, Larissa. Work with me here.”
“Fine.” Larissa sighed. “Do you need me to go raid your closet for a knee-length flannel shirt, or can I use my own wardrobe?”
“Your own clothes are fine.”
“Damn right they are. I just wore that kick-ass blue dress when I convinced the buyer for Anthony’s HomePort Restaurants to start carrying our ’12 Pinot Noir and the ’14 Pinot Gris. That’s nearly thirty restaurants in the whole chain.”
Reese stared at her, stunned. “Wow. Larissa, that’s—great job.”
Larissa beamed, her cheeks pinkening. “Some of us just have what it takes to market wine.”
“You slept with him.” Reese’s tone flattened.
“So?”
Reese sighed. “Just change your top. Please? For me.”
“Fine. But only because you’re my third-favorite cousin.” With that, she sashayed out of the room.
It was best not to dwell on the fact that she was, in fact, Larissa’s only cousin. Larissa’s parents had run off to Bali when Larissa was fifteen and Reese was ready to graduate from high school. Larissa had stayed behind in the care of Reese’s parents, eventually following Reese to college and sticking around the vineyard to handle sales and marketing.
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of more wine-tasting visitors. Reese straightened her crewneck T-shirt and dusted some cracker crumbs off the bar. Larissa must’ve closed the door on her way out, so Reese strode over and opened it.
“Hello, welcome to—”
The words died in her throat.
She recognized the face, of course, but this wasn’t the same man she remembered trying to fill her livestock water trough with beer six years ago.
His face had thinned, with angles and planes replacing the mottled puffiness of his cheeks the last time she’d seen him.
The shoulders were still broad and his hair was still the same caramel shade, but it was shorter now—almost a buzz cut. And what was that tattoo peeking out from beneath his T-shirt sleeve—
“Hello, Reese.”
The warmth in his voice made her stomach flip like it always used to. She would have known that voice anywhere. She was more familiar with the sound of it phoning from jail at two a.m., but still. She gripped the edge of the door harder and took a deep breath.
“Hello, Clay,” she said as levelly as she could manage. “Eric said you were back in town.”
“So you know I’m the foreman on the project?”
She nodded. “And I know you got sober. Congratulations on that.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes dropped to her breasts, and Reese felt an unexpected flutter of desire. It was a pleasant tingle that started under her sternum and sent a pulse of heat all the way to her nipples.
Then she remembered her passenger.
“It’s a baby opossum I rescued,” she said, touching a finger to her shirt pocket. “I didn’t grow a mutant nipple, in case that’s what you’re thinking.”
She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I wasn’t thinking about your nipple. Or anyone’s nipples.”
“That’s a first.”
He blinked. “I’ve changed, Reese.”
Something about his words knifed straight through her core. Maybe it was Eric’s accusation that
she
hadn’t changed. Maybe it was the question of how much Clay had. Maybe it was something else entirely.
She weighed her next words carefully, not sure how to bring up the subject. “Aren’t you worried that—um—well, working at a winery—”
“I’ll climb into a barrel of Pinot and drink my way to the bottom?”
“Something like that.”
“No.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
He gave her a small smile. “I am.”
“You always were.”
“True,” he said, shifting his weight to lean against the doorframe. “But I’ve been sober almost four years now. I’ve earned it.”
Reese nodded, still taking him in. He was the same, but different. They’d been buddies in college—her, Eric, Clay. The Three Musketeers. Back then, he’d been Eric’s roommate and one of her best pals. That was before she and Eric got married and Clay dropped out of college to work construction and drink himself into oblivion. He’d been crazy even then, was probably still crazy now.
But had his eyes changed color? They’d always been brown, of course, but usually more bloodshot than anything. They were clear now, and the most remarkable shade of root-beer brown with tiny flecks of—
“I suppose you’ll want to see the area where you’ll be working,” Reese said, stepping back a bit to put a few feet of distance between them.
“Reese—before we get started, I want to say something.”
“Oh?”
She felt the baby opossum wriggle in her pocket and saw Clay’s eyes drop to her chest again. She touched her fingers to the flannel, and Clay didn’t look away this time.
“You were always so soft,” he murmured. His eyes widened the second the words left his lips. “A
softie
,” he clarified. “A softie with the animals.”
He shook his head and took a deep breath. Reese waited, not sure what to expect.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Really, I know I wasn’t a very nice guy those last few years, and you bailed me out more times than I deserved. It couldn’t have been easy on you or on your marriage to Eric, and I want to apologize for—”
“You didn’t wreck my marriage to Eric,” she interrupted. “That was a mistake from the start.”
“Of course it was, but I know my behavior—” He stopped, probably sensing from her expression that he’d misspoken. “I didn’t mean to imply your marriage was a terrible idea.”
“It doesn’t matter; it was.” She swallowed, not sure why she felt so flustered. She’d never been heartbroken about the divorce, not even when the wounds were fresh and she and Eric were fighting all the time. Now it was more a dull emptiness. Mourning for what was
supposed
to be, instead of what was.
She cleared her throat. “Eric and I were meant to be great friends, but nothing more. Didn’t take long to figure that out.”
“Right,” Clay said, and Reese could see him regrouping. “My point is that even after you two split, I hung around for years and made life miserable for both of you. And then there was that business at Finnigan’s, the night you got hurt—”
“You already apologized for that,” she said. “You called from rehab four years ago, remember?”
“Right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of it, Reese.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Clay shifted awkwardly, and Reese wondered what to do next. Hug him? Slug him in the shoulder like an old friend? She tried to imagine what his shoulder might feel like under her hand and then realized she knew
exactly
what it felt like. She remembered it well, hard and solid and bare beneath her clutching palm . . .
“Let’s look at the construction site, shall we?” she blurted, her cheeks burning.
Clay nodded and started to reply. He stopped, turning as a trio of middle-aged women came giggling up the walk behind him in a cloud of perfume so thick Reese could see it.
“Is this where the wine tastings are?” called a heavyset blonde woman in a pink cashmere sweater and a diamond ring that could double as a paperweight.
“Yes,” Reese said, moving to one side as Clay stepped to the other and held the door open for the women to pass. A second woman wore designer boots and clutched a dog-eared copy of
Wine Trails of Oregon
. The third woman toted a handbag Reese knew cost more than her car. All three were flushed with wine and the exertion of climbing up the walkway. Reese was glad the new tasting room would be on lower ground with a parking lot and a picnic area and—
“Aren’t you a gentleman, holding the door for us?” giggled one of the women as she beamed up at Clay. “Very sweet.”
“Ma’am,” Clay said, and pulled the door closed behind them.
“Welcome to Sunridge Vineyards, ladies,” Reese said as she moved toward the wine bar. “Are you here to do some tasting?”
“We are,” agreed Pink Cashmere. “The guy in the tasting room at Larchwood Vineyards said you weren’t open, but I knew you would be.”
Reese gritted her teeth, silently cursing the neighboring vineyard owner. “He does that sometimes, but I can assure you, we’re open. Seven days a week, eleven to six. Will you pardon me for just a moment?”
She scrambled into her office and tucked the baby opossum into a small pouch she’d placed on a heat pad in the cage. Latching the cage door, she turned to scrub her hands at the sink before hustling back to the tasting area. Clay was standing at one end of the bar smiling his old familiar smile at the customers, and Reese felt her heart twist.
“So were you ladies hoping to do our full tasting menu, or just some select wines?” she called.
“The full thing,” piped the woman toting the wine book. “We hear your Pinot Blanc is just to die for.”
“It hasn’t killed anyone yet, but the day is still early,” Reese said with deliberate cheer.
She reached up and grabbed three wineglasses from the overhead rack, tugging the hem of her shirt as it rode up. She glanced at Clay, wondering whether he’d stick around or wait outside.
He was watching her with an expression that gave Reese the peculiar sense he could see right through her clothes. She ordered herself not to think too much about it as the women sidled up to the bar. It wasn’t really a bar so much as a large piece of plywood over two retired wine barrels. The linen cloth Reese had covered it with added a small touch of class, but still.
“So what’s your name, dear?” asked one of the women as she rested her hip on the makeshift bar. “Are you with the family that owns the place?”
Reese smiled and placed the glasses down in front of them. “I’m Reese Clark. My grandparents started the vineyard in 1974 growing grapes for other wineries. It wasn’t until 1992 that my parents opened the winery, and then I stepped in after college as vineyard manager and viticulturist.”
“Viti-what?” asked the second woman as she plunked her massive handbag on the bar and leaned against one of the barrels.
Reese winced as the wood wobbled, but everything seemed to be holding. She gave it a wary glance as she began uncorking a bottle of Pinot Gris. From the corner of her eye, she saw Clay move to the opposite end of the bar.
“Viticulture is the science of grape production,” Reese explained. “We look out for pests and diseases in the vineyards, deal with things like fertilization and irrigation, tend to fruit management and pruning and harvest and—”
“Oh, my, that sounds interesting,” said the third woman with a tone that suggested she found it as interesting as pocket lint. She placed her palms down on the bar and leaned forward to peer at the bottles lined up on the shelf behind Reese.
The plywood gave a faint creak, and Reese sucked in a breath, the chilled bottle poised above the glasses as she waited for the whole bar to come crashing down.
She glanced at Clay. He was gripping the edges of the plywood with both hands, trying to look casual, but Reese could see what he was doing. He was holding up her bar.
Ironic, considering how many bars had propped
him
up over the years.
Ignoring the way his biceps flexed under the thin T-shirt, Reese turned back to her guests. They were all staring at Clay.
“Pardon my reach, ladies,” Clay said.
All three fluttered their lashes at him. The woman with her palms on the bar turned toward him, leaning down in a blatant effort to give Clay a glimpse down the front of her shirt. Clay looked at Reese and gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
The woman in the pink cashmere licked her lips. “Are you a viticulturist, too?” she asked, shooting a pointed look at Clay.
Clay didn’t loosen his grip on the bar. “No, ma’am, just a carpenter.”
“Oh, join us for a drink, then!” piped the woman with the expensive handbag. “We could use a little male companionship.”
“Please?” pleaded Pink Cashmere, leaning sideways on the bar and causing it to sway as she patted the empty stool beside her. “Just one drink. It’s a girls’ getaway, but we’ll make an exception for
you
.”
Clay smiled, his expression nearly as tight as his grip on the bar. “Thanks, but I’m doing great right here. You ladies enjoy.”
Reese waited for one of them to wrestle him to the floor and pour wine down his throat, but they backed off and turned their attention back to her.
“This is our 2014 Reserve Pinot Gris,” Reese announced as she tipped it into the stemware. “As you can see from the tasting notes in front of you, it was a gold-medal winner at the Northwest Food and Wine Festival last year. We age this in steel for six months before we filter and bottle it right here on site.”