Sweet Escape (Hawthorne Vines #2)

Chapter One Memphis

Chapter One

Memphis

I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, feeling a sense of exhaustion deep in my bones after another long day of trying to hold everything together.

Another day of feeling like I’ve given all that I have.

Another day of wondering if it will end up being enough.

Before I can take even a few minutes for myself, my phone beeps with a text, and I groan, sure that it’s another emergency that demands my attention.

Murphy: Cory called in sick. Can you cover the bar so I can cut Mira?

Letting out a sigh, I consider for just a moment the idea of telling my sister no. Saying I need a night to myself. A chance to go out and blow off some steam for the first time in who knows how long. Or even to hole up in my room, have a long shower, and collapse into my bed.

But I can’t say no.

I would never say no.

All of this . . . everything . . . rests on my shoulders.

And as much as I’d like to check out and run away sometimes, I can’t do that to my family. To our employees who rely on this business for their livelihoods. To the legacy I’m trying to preserve.

Me: I’ll be over in fifteen.

I drop my phone on my desk and close my eyes again, attempting to give myself those few minutes I desperately need before I push on.

I can’t ever really be sure of what the future holds, but the way things have been over the past few years has wrung me dry. In more ways than one.

And now, the future of this vineyard seems to rest on the success of the restaurant.

God, that fucking restaurant.

Part of me thinks it was equal parts the best decision I’ve made and the worst.

The best because it’s doing exactly what I hoped it would do: bring in more profit so the vineyard doesn’t continue digging a deeper hole of debt.

The worst because it’s doing the other thing I knew it would do: more than double my workload and open a whole other can of worms that I have to keep on top of.

But it feels wrong for me to resent the very thing that might save us.

Especially when it was my idea in the first place.

I put my computer to sleep and push out of my chair, stretching my arms above my head and rotating my head and neck, trying to work out the muscles that get so fatigued from the tense way I sit at my computer.

My aunt Sarah told me I need to set it up ergonomically, whatever that means, and she made all these recommendations for how to change the monitor and adjust my chair that would supposedly help. But I don’t have time to deal with that kind of woo-woo bullshit.

Hell, I barely have time to get in a full night of sleep.

I grab my phone off the desk as I leave my office, pulling up our marketing coordinator’s number and hitting call.

“Hey, it’s Memphis,” I say when I get her voicemail. “Sorry for the last-minute notice, but I need to reschedule our meeting. I’ve got a fire to put out at the restaurant. Just shoot me a message with a good time for you in the next few days, and I’ll make it work. Thanks.”

I hate marketing. It was my least favorite part of my business degree, and always the area I struggled with the most. Thankfully, we have employees to handle some of that, and I get to focus on other things that are more important.

At least to me.

I hit end as I head out the french doors to the back patio, taking the path through the vines toward where the restaurant sits on the northeast corner of the property. My eyes scan the netted vines as I walk, assessing the nearly ripened bunches and stopping every so often to take a closer look.

My family has owned and operated this vineyard for four generations ... five if I include myself, though it hasn’t officially passed over to me yet. We work the land, harvest and crush the grapes, ferment the wine, bottle and distribute the vintages, and manage the business. It truly is a family-run production.

We’re not too shabby, either. Hawthorne Vines is a wine recognized for excellence. We’ve won several awards over the past few decades, and we’re regularly kept on the wine lists of some of the best hotels and restaurants in Napa and Sonoma.

And we’re still struggling.

Which is why I’ve been on an endless quest to find every single extra cent I can.

Most of the decisions I’ve made are small. Things that don’t have a huge impact on how we operate, just on what resources we use.

Except for the restaurant. It was my biggest, riskiest idea, and pretty much altered everything about how things work around here.

I round the corner at the end of the last row of vines, my gaze falling on the crowd of customers on the back patio of the restaurant, enjoying themselves. Their laughter and chatter and the sound of utensils and glasses clinking fill the air. I pause and watch for a few moments as servers bustle around, taking orders and refilling wineglasses.

I want to smile, because it means that there are people here, drinking and eating and contributing toward the bottom line that is an ever-present, looming shadow in the back of my mind.

We opened the doors four months ago—my last-ditch effort to keep things going. Business seems to be moving smoothly so far, but I’m not sure when I’ll truly feel like the venture has accomplished everything I hoped.

Maybe when I don’t feel choked by debt.

Because even though the restaurant is doing its job, the decisions I’ve made in order to get us here ... I’ll be living with the consequences of those choices for longer than I like to think about.

But that’s why I can’t allow myself to revel in the good. There is just ... too much at stake. And it feels like there is still too far to go before the wrongs have been made right. Before the legacy that is supposed to be bestowed upon me no longer feels like an anchor wrapped around my neck, dragging me under.

When I finally slip through the front door, I give the hostess, Enid, a tight smile before scanning the room. I take in the smattering of guests at the tables and the wine bar, the guitarist in the corner strumming something lightly, and the waitstaff moving about the room.

I should feel amazing when I survey everything going on. Especially in this space, when my own blood, sweat, and tears went into every single element of this restaurant’s creation. I oversaw each intricate detail, ensuring its perfection.

It’s my baby, my project, my brainchild.

The sacrifices I made to make sure this place became what it is will be something I live with for quite a while.

But even though I feel like I’m drowning in everything that’s still going wrong, I give myself just a second to be thankful. Because the restaurant seems to be a well-functioning operation instead of the money pit it could have been if even just a little bit of bad luck had come our way.

“Thank you so much for stepping in.”

I turn, spotting my sister, Murphy, as she walks toward me carrying a tray of wineglasses and a bottle of merlot.

“Can you cut Mira when you head over there? Her daughter is sick, and she needs to get home as soon as possible.”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond, instead striding past me and slipping easily between tables, heading for whatever table ordered the wine.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Hawthorne?”

I glance at Enid, who is looking at me with wide eyes and a bright smile on her face.

“I’m fine. Shouldn’t you be cleaning something instead of standing around?”

Her face pinches, and she spins immediately to survey the host stand before grabbing a rag and a bottle of spray from underneath.

I don’t wait around to watch what she does with it, choosing to leave her to her responsibilities and crossing to the wine bar along the far wall, where Mira is pouring a bottle of chardonnay into a glass for a customer.

“Mira, you’re cut.”

The brunette bartender grins at me gratefully.

“Thanks for covering for Cory so I can dip out,” she says, finishing up her pour and setting the bottle back in the fridge. “Farrah’s caught a bug or something, otherwise I would have offered to stay later.”

I shake my head. “You’re fine. I was going to be over here eventually anyway, so ... happy to step in,” I lie.

As Mira closes out, I take a few minutes to scan through the bottles we have behind the counter and in the fridge.

I’ve only worked the bar a few times since we opened—on most nights that we’re open, I’m helping out with service or something in the dining room, the wine bar being a fairly well-contained area—but I’m the one who created the protocol and organizational system we use. So it doesn’t take long for me to assess that we’re low on reds, and that the bar staff needs to do a better job of cleaning out the wine cooler at the end of each shift.

But even though a handful of things need tending to, it’s still easy to see that the bartenders are doing their jobs. In fact, everyone is doing their jobs. From the kitchen to the waitstaff to the hosts. I might have given Enid a little bit of shit when I walked in, but Murphy has praised her work ethic multiple times.

Still, though. I can’t seem to let the little things slide, my hypervigilance a reflection of my fear.

And my frustration.

For as long as I can remember, I was told that this vineyard would be mine one day. That someday, I’d be the one in charge, and I’d be leading Hawthorne Vines into the future. But when I envisioned my life living that future, I imagined it being ... different.

More of the feeling I remembered my grandpa talking about when I was a kid.

A sense of pride.

Of accomplishment.

But I don’t feel those things.

Instead I’m just . . . angry.

Angry at my father for the mess he made that I’m having to clean up.

At my grandfather for failing to teach my dad the things he needed to understand in order to keep this business in the black.

At the stupid economy, even the weather, for never seeming to do what I need it to do at the right time.

And mostly, I’m furious at myself. Because no matter what I do, it still feels like the right choices for how to solve the problems we face—problems that I had zero hand in creating—are barely out of reach.

But I can’t dwell on that anger. And I can’t dwell on what I wish was different. There’s no point in spending time thinking about what I originally thought my life would be.

Because whatever that vision was doesn’t matter.

Not anymore.

“Have a good night,” Mira says, sliding next to me and clocking out at the register.

“Hope your daughter feels better.”

She waves, then disappears from my line of sight, and I take a few more minutes after she’s gone to survey the equipment and look through the open tabs. Then I turn to check in with the customers seated at the bar.

Which is when my eyes lock on the most ... exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Copper hair and hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles, all of which sit above lips that are tilted into a little smirk that has something twisting inside my stomach in the best way.

I blink twice, then clear my throat and give her a friendly smile, my mind leaving the stresses of the vineyard behind and instead focusing on the beauty before me.

“Good evening,” I say, leaning forward and bracing my hands wide against the bar, nodding my head. “Can I get you another glass?”

Only then do I spot the chardonnay in front of her, the one that Mira poured seconds before she clocked out.

The redhead’s smirk grows, and it’s easy to spot the humor dancing behind her eyes.

“I think I’m okay,” she answers. “I’d look a little ridiculous sitting here with a glass filled to the brim.”

My chuckle comes easily as I step back, leaning against the counter behind me and crossing my arms. “Well, I can guarantee that you wouldn’t be the first if you did.”

She laughs, and I can’t help the way that thing inside me twists tighter at the sound of her voice.

Melodious and playful and warm.

Unlike anything I’ve heard before.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it in the slightest. I had a brief but informative stint as a bartender at a nightclub a few years back.” She leans forward and dips her voice. “I felt officially scandalized after one night.”

“I can only imagine.”

I stare at her for a long moment, unable to look away.

Unusual for me. I’m rarely distracted from the things I need to get done just because a beautiful woman looks my way.

But for whatever reason, my focus is glued to her.

And she stares right back, her eyes never leaving mine as she takes a sip of her wine.

It feels brazen.

Or maybe defiant is a better word.

Like she refuses to look away just because etiquette would suggest that she should.

I like everything about it.

“What brings you here tonight?” I ask her, my eyes scanning the room only briefly. “Waiting on a date?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but the playful energy is still there. “Definitely not. I have no interest in dating right now, I assure you.”

“Oh?” I step forward and brace my hands on the counter again. “And what do you have interest in?”

It’s been a while since I’ve intentionally flirted with someone. Sure, I’ve had a run in the past of hooking up with tourists or people coming through The Standard, our local watering hole. But the past few months have been a lot, and I’ve not had the time or the inclination to head out for more than a beer with some friends at our monthly pool night.

This woman, though ... gives me the inclination.

Her smirk returns at my playful comment. “I have many interests, though I’m certain some of them would scandalize you.”

I should be checking in with other customers. Or cleaning. Or making a list of the things the bar staff needs to work on.

But instead, I find myself drawn to her. Like a moth to a flame.

“And what if I wouldn’t mind being scandalized?” I ask her.

She leans forward again, and this time I find myself doing the same.

“Tell me, Mr. Bartender,” she replies, her voice dipping low, “when you picture being scandalized, am I on my knees or on my back?”

I swallow thickly, shock ricocheting through my body. I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t something like that. Something outlandish and wild that has me beginning to grow hard inside my jeans like a goddamn teenager.

Her eyes twinkle, and my imagination takes the reins, picturing her in the very positions she just mentioned as she lifts her glass to her lips and takes a long sip.

Something delicious skitters down my spine when she winks at me, and it occurs to me how much I’ve been missing out on by relying on my imagination and my own fist. In seconds, this woman has set my entire body on fire. Has me ready to close down the wine bar and take her to the tasting room, where we have a massive couch and a fireplace and stone walls that would echo as she cried out in pleasure.

It’s equal parts the best feeling and the worst.

The best because it’s a reminder of how incredible it feels to want someone like this.

The worst because it’s also a reminder of the fact I don’t have the time to have even just a bit of fun.

One night couldn’t hurt, though, right?

The little voice comes from somewhere in the depths of my mind, telling me that I’m already here, stationed at the bar until we close for the night. And that once we close, I would just be heading to bed. No responsibilities or fires to put out until tomorrow morning.

It couldn’t hurt to take a tiny break. Give myself a night of something good to balance out all the bad. Maybe have some fun for the first time in far too long.

“Told you I’d scandalize you,” she teases. “Though I’ll be honest, it’s fun watching your thoughts skip across your face and wondering if I’m guessing them correctly.”

My lips tilt up and I lean even closer, my own voice dipping low. “I doubt you know the things I was thinking about. Maybe I would have scandalized you .”

She laughs. “There’s not much that does that anymore, I promise you.”

I lick my lips, her eyes tracking the movement, and I can tell she’s not lying.

“Let me check in with the other customers,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Then I want to hear at least one story from that nightclub you worked at. If you say working there scandalized you, I can only imagine the things you’ve seen.”

Her smile widens, and her fingers tap gently on the base of her glass.

“Sounds like a plan.”

I try to make quick work of it, stopping at each taken seat at the wine bar and offering top-ups and wine lists and beverage suggestions.

Normally I don’t mind the monotony of it. If anything, in the past, I’ve wished I could be the only person pouring because I know that I’m the most dedicated to making the sale, every single time.

But I find myself breezing through it, uninterested in closing the deal on a second—or third, or fourth—glass. And it only takes me about ten minutes to get through the five or six other customers.

After closing out a tab and leaving a receipt and a pen with the elderly couple at the opposite end, I’m finally able to make my way back to ...

“What was your name?” I ask her, setting an empty wineglass in the sink and tucking a rag into my back pocket.

“Vivian.”

It suits her. Something both refined and wild. Like she seems to be.

“Well, Vivian,” I say, extending a hand. She slips hers into mine, and I enjoy the way her skin feels warm and smooth against my palm. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Memphis.”

I wait for the inevitable question. The one everyone asks when they hear my name.

Like the city?

It can be annoying sometimes, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years.

Besides, my mother picked my name. Apparently, she and my father argued about it for months before he finally relented. It’s one of the few things I have left of her, and that’s enough for it to be important.

Only, Vivian doesn’t say what I think she’s going to say.

In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, I see a sour expression flicker across her face, like she tasted something bitter and unpleasant. All traces of the flirtatious vixen are wiped away, replaced by a look that can only be described as ... disappointed.

Then she slowly pulls her hand from mine and laughs, though there isn’t any humor in it.

“Why am I not surprised?” she says, reaching out and swirling her wine in her glass. “Of course you would be Memphis.”

I furrow my brows in confusion, unsure what she means. It’s like she’s thinking out loud rather than speaking to me.

“Because that’s my luck, right? You couldn’t be anyone else? Or be you, but not be”—her hand comes out, and she gestures to me where I stand—“all of that.”

I blink a few times, completely lost.

“I’m sorry, did I miss something?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

“Lots of things.”

It feels like whiplash, swinging from the flirtation just moments ago to ... whatever this is.

Gone is the woman who looked at me with a twinkle in her eye, like we were sharing a secret, and in her place is someone who apparently can’t stand the sight of me.

And I can’t for the life of me figure out what changed.

Before I can say anything in response, my sister slides in right next to the woman across from me, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Standing a few feet away is Wes, our head chef and the man Murphy’s been seeing for the past few months.

“Thanks again, Memphis,” she says. “It’s been busy tonight, and normally I would have found a way to cover it myself, but sometimes it’s so much better to have the extra hands.”

My eyes flick back and forth between my sister and Vivian, wondering what’s happening.

“Besides! Vivian is here and I’m so excited!” She waves a hand between the two of us. “V, this is my brother, Memphis. Memphis, this is Vivian Walsh. She’s my closest friend from Santa Monica. And Vivian, this is Wes.”

Vivian looks away from me, her genuine smile returning when she greets Wes, the two of them exchanging that “nice to meet you” that most people share when they’re introduced to someone important.

Very unlike the way she looked at me when she realized I’m Murphy’s older brother, which feels incongruous.

Murphy, unaware of my discomfort, launches into a story that I only half listen to ... something about how the two of them first met at her old waitressing job and Vivian slapping the manager. I barely hear it until I catch the very end of what Murphy says.

“... will be staying with me tonight.”

My head jerks, and I unlatch from where my eyes had been locked on Vivian, turning toward my sister.

“Did you clear that with Dad?”

Murphy rolls her eyes. “It’s just one night, Memphis. It’s not a big deal.”

“Maybe not, but some of us don’t like being surprised by strangers wandering around our houses in the middle of the night.”

Wes laughs, but Murphy pins him with a glare before she returns her attention to me.

“Jesus, Memphis, what crawled up your ass?” she demands. “Stop being a prick.” Then she looks at her friend. “Sorry, Viv.”

“You don’t have to apologize for him,” she responds. “His behavior matches with everything I’ve heard about him.”

My entire body bristles at that, and I pin Vivian with a look. “ Excuse me?”

“You’re not excused,” she replies, then hops off her stool and digs into her purse. She looks at Murphy as she drops some cash on the bar. “I’ll finish my glass outside. Come get me when you’re off for the night. Nice to meet you, Wes.”

Then without looking my way again, she strides to the door that leads out to the back patio and pushes outside, leaving me and Murphy behind.

My gaze follows her as she goes, and I wish there was a way to rewind the past five minutes and return to the way we interacted before she knew who I was.

Not that I understand her sudden attitude change. At all.

“What the hell was that about?” my sister hisses.

Wes dips forward, his lips pursed, and I can tell he’s trying not to smile or laugh or something.

“I’m gonna head back to the kitchen,” he says, glancing between us both. Then he plants a kiss on Murphy’s forehead and gives me a wave, before returning to his domain.

“Seriously, Memphis, I know you can be a grouch, but you couldn’t be nice to one of my best friends for five seconds?”

I grit my teeth and stay silent, because honestly, I’m not sure how to answer her.

One minute Vivian and I were flirting, and then suddenly she looked like she wanted to light me on fire.

“And since when is it a problem to have friends stay the night?”

“What did she mean when she said ‘everything I’ve heard about him’?”

Murphy crosses her arms. “She’s the person I talk to about almost everything, Memphis. You think I moved away and didn’t shit on you and Dad a little bit in the nine years I was gone?”

I grab the cash off the bar and give Murphy a glare. “Oh, thanks. That feels great.”

My sister lets out a long sigh, one I’ve heard aimed my way many times. “Look, I don’t have the mental capacity for this right now. I need to get back to work, and I’d rather not continue arguing in front of anyone. Can I trust that if Vivian comes back inside, you’re not going to be an ass?”

Glancing to the side, a bit of relief rushes through me when I see that the people at the bar are all enthralled in their own conversations. It’s rare for me to lose my cool like that in front of customers, and I’m even more irritated that Vivian was able to crawl so easily under my skin.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Murphy spins and heads over to the host stand, and I turn my gaze through the large windows, out where I can see Vivian sitting alone in an Adirondack chair looking over the property.

Clearly, my sister’s friend has a few choice thoughts about me. Though I’ll be honest, I can’t imagine anything I’ve done or said to my sister warrants a reaction like that one.

The only conclusion I can make is that Vivian must be a drama queen. Someone who latches on to things that are none of her business.

I shift my attention to greet two new customers as they take a seat at the bar, and I push the redhead as far out of my mind as I’m able to do.

Murphy said Vivian is just staying one night.

Hopefully, our exchange tonight is the extent of our interactions.

Judging by the way she talked to me, I’m assuming she wants the same.