Seduce Me Sweetly (Heron's Landing Book 1) (8 page)

Jaime came to stand by him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

Adam had to restrain himself from snapping back. But he knew his friend meant well, and that he’d do anything to help River’s Bend and Adam. Standing up, he replied, “I guess we’ll have to, won’t we?”

Leah, a middle-aged woman who did the wine-tasting classes part-time, walked along the rows of vines, clicking her tongue. A small-statured woman with a sharp tongue, she generally considered any event like this one of God’s divine retribution. Devoted to the church, she’d never married, but preferred to read her Bible and come out to Heron’s Landing to show unsuspecting tourists how they had no idea how to drink and appreciate wine properly. Today, though, she said nothing, and Adam knew that that wasn’t a good sign. Leah always had an opinion.

The day was sticky with humidity, and he slapped a mosquito off of his arm. Continuing to wander along the rows, he found one length of vine that was mostly intact. It was a small hope, in the grand scheme of things, but seeing those white buds bursting from the vines felt like the greatest of victories. At least there was something. At least they could harvest a few grapes. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but Adam was determined not to despair entirely.

Later inside, closeted with his employees, Adam went over their options. “As you all could see for yourselves, the weather this year has not been kind to us. Without buds, there are no grapes. And you already know what that means. If this had been just this year, we could’ve salvaged things.” He swallowed, thinking about the previous two years of bad harvest. His temples throbbed, and he wished he could go home and drink until all of his worries faded away in a haze of liquor.

The employees present were only a handful—Kerry, Jaime, Leah, and Chris, who was the overseer of the harvesters come the fall. But they made up a hard-working, bright group of people, and Adam was glad that he had them to rely upon.

“Do we have any idea how much the harvest will actually yield?” Chris asked. A man close to Adam’s father’s age, Chris had salt-and-pepper hair with a neatly trimmed beard. His skin was the tanned skin of a man often out in the sun, although his wife had been bugging him about wearing more sunscreen as of late. After reading about the depletion of the ozone layer, she’d been scared to death that Chris would develop melanoma; Chris, for his part, preferred to ignore his wife’s arguments and do as he pleased.

Adam shook his head at Chris’s comment. “We’ll have to wait and see how many of the buds turn into actual grapes. But I can say that the harvest will have been depleted by two-thirds, just by looking at the vines.”

The group inhaled all at once at the number. They glanced around at each other before Kerry spoke, her voice tentative. “So the harvest is bad. What about doing events, like we’d discussed before?”

Leah glared at Kerry—she wasn’t fond of events like Adam—while Chris scratched at his chin. Jaime, undeterred, said, “It sounds like that’s our only option now. We’re not bringing in the revenue in the restaurant itself, we’re not bringing in the revenue from the wine-tasting classes—sorry, Leah, but it’s true—and now that we aren’t going to be selling as much wine, we need some other source. Simple as that.”

Adam gritted his teeth. Jaime was right, and he knew he was right. He didn’t want him to be right, but such was life. Memories of the disaster of the last time they’d tried to do events filled his mind, and he rather wanted to say no and end it there. Couldn’t they find another way? A voice in his head niggled. Something, anything?

But looking at Jaime, who had an eyebrow raised, Adam knew that denying the obvious would be absolutely foolish. He sighed inwardly—his last sigh of defeat—and pushed all of his misgivings aside. Doubts wouldn’t help anyone, and they sure as hell wouldn’t help River’s Bend survive.

“You all know events aren’t my strong suit,” Adam said. Jaime snorted; Adam glared. “So I’ll need everyone’s help with planning and getting it running. Unfortunately, we don’t have the cash flow to hire a full-time events manager, so it’s going to fall on all of us to do bits and pieces and make it work.”

“I’m not an events manager,” Leah said bluntly. “I can teach the wine-tasting like usual, but working with brides and such? No way.”

As if to cushion Leah’s words, Kerry said quickly, “I can help with any social media and marketing, and reach out to any local blogs and sites to get things rolling.”

“Thank you, Kerry,” Adam said. They needed more than a few Facebook posts to get this started, but having at least one employee on board was helpful.

The afternoon and evening waned on as the team put together a competent strategy, going over what went wrong the first time around and how to avoid such mistakes again. Each employee—including Leah—was given tasks of a sort; even Chris, who preferred to be outdoors at all times had things he needed to do. The majority of it landed on Adam, though, which he had expected as the vineyard’s manager. If he needed to work eighty hours a week and never go home, he’d do it.

Afterward, Jaime met Adam at his truck, everyone else had already gone home for the night. It wasn’t dark yet, but twilight was settling in. Adam saw that Jaime looked tired, and he hated that in the next coming weeks, he and everyone else on staff would only have to work longer hours with no overtime pay. He’d explained that he couldn’t pay them and that he didn’t expect them to work, but all four had agreed without protest—even Leah.

“You think it’ll work?” Jaime asked.

Adam leaned against the driver’s side door of his truck, rubbing his forehead. “If I were honest? I don’t know. I want it to. I want to hope that we can get out of this black hole. But it’s a long shot.”

Jaime stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t want to say this in the meeting, but I talked to Joy this morning when she came by, when you were still out in the field.”

At the mention of Joy, Adam stilled, memories resurfacing. All of it flooded back in an instant, and he was reliving that kiss—every facet of it. He hadn’t intended to kiss her when he’d found her down by the creek. But she’d looked so beautiful, almost ethereal, standing amongst the blinking lightning bugs, that it was like he’d had no choice. He shifted, feeling himself react to the memory of that kiss, of Joy’s sweet smell and taste and the silk of her skin.

Jaime just watched him, and Adam coughed, embarrassed by his daydreaming. “Why was she here?”

“Well, she wanted to talk. To me.”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “To you? Do you even know her?”

Jaime smiled. “She’s the type of person who knows everyone. I think she knew everyone’s names—first, middle and last—by the third day after she’d arrived.”

A bite of jealousy burned in Adam’s gut, and, annoyed with himself, he pushed it away. What did it matter that Joy was talking to other people in Heron’s Landing? Even if it was Jaime Martínez, blindingly handsome chef extraordinaire (per Grace, earlier that week).

“So, she did what? Told you her life story and then you guys sang around the campfire?”

“Not exactly. She asked me about the vineyard, how it was doing. And then she told me she was working on a story about it.”

Adam froze. Hadn’t she promised him she wouldn’t write a story without consulting him?

Jaime continued, “I know how you are about journalists. I don’t agree with it, but I know that you’d want to know. I told her nothing that isn’t already known, but she seemed to imply that she could publish it within a week or two. Specifically, it would focus on the vineyard doing events again, to draw interest, she said.”

There it is
, Adam thought.
That’s the reason behind it all.
On the surface it may have seemed like a nice way to help River’s Bend, but he knew journalists enough to know that it was all about site hits and ad revenue. Plus, Adam hadn’t publicly announced anything about them doing events, and having someone unrelated to the vineyard driving the brand? It was, in a word, infuriating.

“I told her not to do anything without talking to me,” Adam finally ground out.

“Look, I knew you wouldn’t be happy. But don’t jump to conclusions. She seems like a good person, and I think she genuinely wants to help.”

“We don’t need her help. And she’s doing something expressly against what I asked.” Realizing he was taking out his anger on Jaime, Adam said in a level tone, “I’m not going to storm into her place right this second. But if she thinks she’s going to get away with it, she has another thing coming.”

Jaime sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Just, think on it, okay? Don’t do anything fucking stupid. You’re already stressed and angry. I know it, we all know it.”

Adam knew Jaime was speaking sense, but he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. Opening the truck door, he climbed inside, turning on the engine. “I’ll see you later, Jaime.”

Jaime stepped out of the way of the truck, and Adam reversed and drove away with Jaime shaking his head in the rearview mirror.

Driving home in his large truck, which was one of the few vehicles that could successfully drive on the muddy roads, Adam couldn’t stop shaking his head. Had that kiss meant nothing to Joy? He fumed and clenched the steering wheel, restraining himself from punching the horn. Did she not care that he’d asked her for basic consideration? Why was that so much to ask? So what if it seemed extreme? It was his business, his vineyard, and he had a right to control what was said about it.

When he arrived home, he pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, breathing deeply. His logical side told him he was overreacting. He knew it. He knew he was being ridiculous. But the entire thing—stories and journalists and using others for their own gain—made his stomach twist and his head throb. Memories of reporters banging on his door, seeing headlines splashed across the Internet, forced him to close his eyes.

Adam hadn’t always been against journalists. In fact, he’d supported them as much as anyone else, agreeing that the best ones were doing a civil service in uncovering the truth. Some were hacks working for an easy buck, but others placed themselves in danger for stories that needed to be told. Otherwise, they didn’t factor into his life, any more than any other profession.

Until Carolyn. Carolyn Danvers, nee Young, had been a famous rich girl of the Young family, which owned a department store chain spread across the United States. She’d made a name for herself in her charity works, walking the biggest red carpets and becoming a household name. Along with her charity efforts, she cemented her fashion icon status quickly, wearing designers that Adam had never heard of and couldn’t name to this day. How would he know who Alexander McQueen or Monique Lhuillier were?

But all of that ended when Carolyn had died in a car accident not far from their home three years ago, her car hitting a tree and killing her upon impact.

Inside his house—their house—he stared at their wedding photo. She’d worn a deceptively simple gown that had cost more than the house he stood in. But he didn’t see the gown: he saw her smile, and he saw his own. He’d adored her. And now, he missed her with a fierce, all-consuming ache.

After the accident, the reporters and journalists had hounded him. They’d dug deep into his history and hers, bringing up any possible sordid detail to be consumed by the fascinated public. An arrest when Adam had been seventeen and stupid, a shoplifting arrest when Carolyn had also been young and stupid. But it was when the headlines had turned vicious that Adam had had enough: he’d seen his family suffer enough from the constant barrage of whispers and questions and paranoia, fearing that someone would be listening and report their findings to the media. They could barely leave their house without being hounded.

Adam shook his head, shaking away the memories. He couldn’t let them take hold of him again. Going into the kitchen, he grabbed the decanter of whiskey and poured himself more than enough for the night. He didn’t normally drink much, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Slugging back the liquor, the burn of it slid down his throat, settling like a stone in his belly.

The night waned away as he drank more and more whiskey, his vision going hazy. Muttering to himself, he paced around the house. How dare Joy do something like that? How could she lie to his face? And after they’d kissed! He’d so stupidly thought there was something between them, despite their initial dislike, but apparently that had been a mere illusion. Had she let him kiss her to lull him into a false sense of security?

At the thought, he shuddered. He was becoming paranoid again, like when Carolyn had died. He couldn’t let himself go into that place again, when he was checking his house for wires like the goddamn CIA was on his trail and investigating him. Finishing off the whiskey, he went to the bathroom before falling into a restless sleep.