Chapter Nine Memphis
Chapter Nine
Memphis
“We house our wine in a few different vats, depending on the kind of qualities we want a particular wine to have.”
I turn, gesturing to the more than three hundred oak barrels stacked on top of each other in our wine cellar.
“Our most common are the oak barrels you see here. These are key in developing some of the more pungent flavors and aromas that winemakers discuss when they’re sharing about their wines. You’ll hear wines described as having hints of vanilla or cinnamon, hazelnut and tobacco, among other things. And all of that has to do with the type of wood that makes up the barrel, and how it was toasted during its manufacturing.”
The couple on the tour—Max and Jolie—wander down one aisle scanning the oak barrels as I continue to share.
“We primarily use the barrels for our red wines, making up about seventy-five percent of the grapes we produce—merlot, cabernet sauvignon, and pinot noir. However, if you look to the other end of the cellar, you’ll see we also have about fifteen stainless steel vats that we use for our whites—those are the chardonnay and pinot grigio.”
I go on to explain the differences between the barrels and the steel vats, how many bottles of wine each can produce, and why we use different storage techniques for different varieties. It’s my favorite part of the tour, and something I can recite in my sleep.
But I don’t care how well you know something—having an attractive woman flirting with you while you’re trying to provide information is incredibly distracting.
Vivian’s not doing anything overtly outrageous as we take the tour. In fact, she seems genuinely interested in the information I’m providing. She has asked a few really insightful questions, too.
Doesn’t mean I’m not hyperaware of her presence.
“Why are the stainless-steel vats so big and the barrels so much smaller?” Jolie asks.
“Great question. We want the red wine to be influenced by the barrels—grabbing those aromas and flavors I mentioned. And the more surface area a barrel has, the more liquid is touching that wood, resulting in either a faster absorption in a smaller amount of time, or a denser absorption over a longer amount of time.”
Jolie nods, then turns and says something to Max.
I give them a few minutes to wander around, and as the couple turn down a new aisle, Vivian steps up to my side.
“I love winery tours,” she says, gazing around the room. “Each winery does a lot of things exactly the same, but still, each vintage is completely unique.”
I chuckle. “That’s the magic and the downfall of winemaking. It’s nearly impossible to create the same thing more than once even if you have almost identical circumstances. Because no matter what, something is always different. The weather, the soil, the new barrels ...”
“Speaking of magic and creativity,” she says, tucking her hands behind her and then bumping me with her shoulder. “I want to talk to you about something very important.”
I purse my lips in a reluctant smile. “Vivian.”
“Memphis.”
“I don’t have time for whatever is causing that mischief on your face.”
She beams at me. “I certainly have no idea what you’re talking about. I am the least mischievous person I know.”
“I find that to be unlikely.”
“Besides, you look like you have time right now.” Then she turns, waving her hands around us. “In fact, it seems to me like you literally have nothing but time.”
“There are other guests on this tour.”
“Who have probably snuck off to go make out in a corner. Have you seen the two of them? Talk about handsy.”
I cross my arms and pin her with a look.
Vivian likes to play, something I’m not accustomed to and something that definitely flips a switch I didn’t know I had. It’s not that she’s funny, exactly. Except she is.
Or maybe it’s just that she’s fun.
That she doesn’t take anything too seriously.
As much as I hate to admit it, almost everything in my life has been far too serious for far too long.
Maybe that’s what draws me to her so much.
The fact that I smile around her more than I’ve smiled about anything in ... god, in years, maybe.
“So what do you think? Five minutes? Maybe ten? And if you don’t like what I have to say, I promise I won’t bug you again.” She lifts her hands and gives me the rock symbol, her pinkie and pointer finger raised up. “Scout’s honor.”
Letting out a long sigh, I decide to give in.
It’s only five or ten minutes, like she said.
And realistically, I’ll probably spend at least that much time thinking about what it is she would have said to me had I given her the few minutes she’s asking for.
“Fine. Five minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Five.”
“Nine.”
I pin her with a look, and she pins me right back.
“Eight.”
She beams at me, then sticks her hand out. “Deal.”
I don’t imagine the little thrill that runs through me when I take her hand in mine. I release her just the same to peer down a few aisles. I finally find Max and Jolie—I want to laugh—making out in a corner.
Returning to where I’d previously been standing, I call out to the room, my voice echoing against the concrete walls.
“All right, I think we’re going to move on to the tasting room.”
Thirty seconds later, the two of them walk out from the row where I’d found them, hand in hand.
“The barrels are so cool,” Jolie says.
I glance at Vivian, unable to hide the smile on my face. “They definitely are.”
“Enjoy dinner,” I call out, giving Max and Jolie a wave as they head off along the pathway back to the restaurant. Then I mumble to myself, “If you even make it there.”
Vivian snickers behind me.
She hit the nail on the head when she said the two of them were handsy. I can’t say I’m not happy to see them go after watching Max grab Jolie’s ass through the entire tasting portion of the tour.
“Thanks for the tour, M,” she says as I close the door to the tasting room’s patio and turn the lock. “Though I’ll be honest, I’ll never understand why your reds are where you put all your energy. Your whites are”—she kisses her fingers—“chef’s kiss. Especially the chardonnay.”
I tuck my hands in my pockets and lean back against the door. I cross one leg in front of the other, surprised by her opinion.
Mostly because . . . she’s right.
“Historically, people have consumed far more red wine than white,” I tell her, repeating what my dad always said when I brought up this topic in the past. “Our reds have always been the dominant vine, but I agree ... our whites are better. They always have been.”
“So ... why don’t you make more?”
I laugh, kicking off the door and crossing the room to where the tasting glasses are scattered on the counter in the corner.
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her, collecting each glass and placing it on a tray. “Whenever you plant a new vine, it takes several years before the crop will produce grapes. And that doesn’t include all the work that goes into getting it established. Ripping out the old vines and setting new trellises. Then there’s the soil analysis.”
Vivian joins me at the counter, collecting the handful of glasses I can’t fit on the tray and walking with me over to the sink.
“And on top of all the added expenses and years of work, the vines that are now gone aren’t producing anything that can be sold in the meantime while you’re waiting for the new vines to produce.”
“So what you’re saying is that it’s far more complicated than just ‘why don’t you make more’?”
I chuckle softly. “It is.” And then, before I can stop myself, I add, “And with how tenuous things are right now, we have to be really calculated about the risks we take.”
Vivian tilts her head and glances at me, a crinkle in her brow.
I don’t know why I said it, and I immediately backtrack.
“But anyway, that’s all a bunch of vineyard business stuff that’s boring as hell.” I glance at my watch. “You have eight minutes. Starting now.”
Her eyes fly wide. “What? Not fair! I’m not ready.”
I cross my arms and lean a hip against the counter.
Vivian groans. “Okay, fine. Jeez, way to put me on the spot.” She licks her lips and twists her fingers together in front of her chest. “How much has Murphy shared with you about me?”
“Not much,” I reply. “Just that you were friends from LA. That you write music together sometimes.”
“Well, I’m a singer. And a songwriter. But mostly a singer. And I was signed over the summer by a record label to create an album.”
My eyebrows rise. “Really?”
She nods. “Yeah. And I’m supposed to go into the studio soon to record, but I’m still working on the last few songs, which has been”—she sighs—“a nightmare for more reasons than I’d like to share. When you spend years perfecting the music that gets you the recording contract, and they turn right around and want you to pump out more music ... It can be really hard. And I haven’t been inspired by much recently.”
Then she reaches out with one foot and taps me on the shin.
“Until the other night at The Standard.”
I blink a few times, feeling like she’s saying ... What is she saying?
“I don’t even know how to explain it, Memphis, but my muse is back. My creative well has been refilled, and you had something to do with it. Sex with you, I mean.”
At that, I bark out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
“So, what ... my penis is your muse?”
Vivian laughs, and then we’re both laughing. And I’m thankful that at least she realizes how laughable it sounds.
“I’m not joking around, okay?” She shrugs a shoulder. “We are ... very obviously attracted to each other,” she says, her hand waving back and forth between us. “And I want to propose a very casual, no strings attached, no expectations ... fuck fest.”
There’s a beat of silence before we both burst into laughter again, the feeling of it like a dam breaking, something inside me that needed to laugh like this bursting forth.
“Why are we laughing?” she asks, her hands over her eyes and a smile stretched wide on her face, that beautiful giggle continuing to echo through the tasting room. “It’s not supposed to be funny! It’s supposed to be sexy!”
Which makes us cackle even harder.
Finally, our fits of laughter begin to subside, and we each take a moment to catch our breath. Vivian checks her makeup in the reflection of a plaque on the wall, wiping the mascara beneath her eyes.
“Okay, let’s try this again,” she says, spinning back around, her hands on her hips. “I am proposing a friends-with-benefits situation. But I guess we’re more enemies than friends so ... enemies-with-benefits. Bene-mies.”
“We are not enemies,” I assert, rolling my eyes. “We’re just ... easily incited.”
“You mean we want to light each other on fire.”
I chuckle again, though it fades quickly. “I mean, you set me ablaze.”
Her mouth parts when I say it, and I realize that with those words, our laughable conversation has grown more serious.
I meant what I said. There’s something about Vivian that sets me on fire in a way I’m not familiar with.
I’m not sure exactly what it is. Maybe it’s the lighthearted, playful banter that keeps me on my toes. Maybe it’s the explosive physical chemistry that has my skin tingling anytime she’s near. Maybe it’s a perfect cocktail of both.
But I would be a fool to deny that I’m more than eager to get naked with Vivian again. My mind is quickly making a convincing argument that I could afford to lose an hour of sleep here and there to find a way to make this proposal work.
“Okay, so, how do you envision this working?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning back on the counter. “Because I’m not making excuses when I say I’m busy. Things are hellish right now, and the harvest starts next week, which is going to put even more demands on my time.”
Her lips purse, her mouth twisting side to side as she thinks it over. “I’m not sure. All I know is that I want this to happen. In whatever shape or form it needs to for you to be on board.”
I’m on board. I’m more than on board. There isn’t anything else she needs to do in order to convince me.
“I want it to happen, too,” I tell her, finally deciding to just ... say it. To put it out there so I can’t keep pretending it’s not true.
Vivian beams at me, her eyes bright. “How about we ... keep in contact,” she offers, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you have free time and you’d like me to come around. Or vice versa.”
I mull it over. Playing it by ear is probably the only option that really meshes with the erratic nature of my schedule right now.
“I could do that.”
“Great, well ... I should give you my number, then?”
I nod, tugging my phone out, and Vivian does the same.
Once we’ve exchanged, I slip mine back into my pocket, only to feel it buzz almost immediately. And when I glance at it, surprise rolls through me.
Vivian: Busy tonight?
I smirk and look at Vivian only a few feet away.
“You’re determined.”
“I prefer tenacious.”
Licking my lips, I think it over, knowing I need to get back to the restaurant to help, especially since Wes is on leave for a family thing and still in San Francisco.
“How about this,” she says, seeing the obvious conflict behind my expression. “If you find that you have time tonight ... no matter how late ... stop by the Firehouse.”
Vivian steps forward, her hand reaching out and hooking through one of the loops holding my belt. She tugs me toward her, bringing our bodies flush.
Then she bumps her nose gently against mine.
“Maybe we can have some more ... ice cream.”
She kisses my cheek and backs off, giving me a flirtatious little wave before walking out the door.
Desire skitters along under my skin, commanding that I call her back. That I make good on the picture I had that first night I met her of the two of us on the tasting room couch. That I make it so her cries of pleasure bouncing off the stone walls are a reality instead of an imagined sound in my mind.
But I tamp that desire back. I now have a very real opportunity to make it happen in the future.
Before, the idea of hooking up with Vivian was a lark. An improbable thing that I never would have made a plan for. Then, it became a one-time reality that I quickly wrote off.
Now, though, it’s going to be a tease that lingers on the tip of my tongue, at the edge of my subconscious, barely within my grasp.
And knowing I can reach out and take it whenever I want—whenever she wants.
God, if that isn’t a delicious sensation.
It’s after midnight when I finally send the text.
Me: What would you say if I told you I’m parked outside?
After the tour and her flirtatious proposition earlier, I did exactly what I’d planned to do for the rest of the evening. I went to the restaurant and rotated between managing and busing tables, basically roving around and stepping in wherever it seemed like I could help. With Murphy and Wes gone, it was definitely needed.
No job on this vineyard is too small or too unimportant. My grandfather always said, “There’s no such thing as a job that is beneath you.” It’s something that has guided me for years, especially during the times when it felt like my only contribution was too small to matter.
So when shit needs to get done—whether it’s busing tables or laying mulch or suckering the vines—I’m always willing to get my hands dirty.
By the time we wrapped for the night, I was set on heading back to the house and crashing, my early day tomorrow an exhausting reality in the back of my mind. But as I stood in the shower, rinsing away the sweat from the day, I realized I wasn’t as tired as I thought. Instead, I felt rejuvenated. Almost amped up.
It only took me ten minutes to shower, change, and hit the road.
Though it did take me a few extra minutes to muster up the courage to text her once I realized how late it was. If there was ever a text that said “this is a booty call,” it was this text.
Ultimately, my desire for her won out.
Vivian: I’d say give me five minutes. Room 301
My pulse races at her response, and when I glance up to the third floor, I see a light flip on. It’s definitely her, and I can only imagine what she’s doing up there right now in the five minutes she requested before I come up.
Eventually I head inside and up the stairs, thankful that there isn’t anyone at the front desk to spot me sneaking up to a room in the middle of the night.
When I knock, I hear the soft pad of her footsteps before the door opens.
Her hair is up in a messy bun at the top of her head, and she’s wearing a pair of peach-colored silk boxers and a white tank top that is see-through enough for me to see her nipples.
She’s sexy as hell. I shamelessly drink her in.
“Hey,” she says, pulling the door wide and stepping back to invite me in. “I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you.”
“I wasn’t sure if it would work out tonight,” I answer honestly, crossing the threshold and walking a few feet into the room as Vivian closes the door behind me. “But then I pictured you here, wearing something not too different from that,” I continue, gesturing to her top, “and I figured I could forgo a full night of sleep.”
Vivian grins, and her expression turns teasing. “Well, thank you so much for your great sacrifice,” she says, poking my stomach.
I want to laugh. I do. But that desire from earlier is thudding through me and doesn’t leave room for much else.
So instead of giving into the usual playful banter, I grab the hand that’s poking me and tug her forward. Her eyes widen in surprise, but then my mouth is on hers and she opens for me immediately, just as desperate for this to begin as I am.
I crowd her against the wall at her back, my hands on either side of her face as our tongues dip and slide against each other, my body pressed against hers.
She wraps her arms around my neck, her fingers digging into my hair as she nibbles on my lower lip.
“The bed this time,” she says as I kiss my way down her neck. “I want to ride you.”
If I wasn’t already fully hard, I am now. I groan, rotating my hips and pressing my dick against her, desperate for her touch.
“What if I want to ride you ?” I ask, imagining her on all fours with her ass in the air.
Vivian pulls back and gives me a seductive look. “We can make time for that, too.”
“Fuck, the shit you say ...,” I tell her, but then my mouth is on hers again, and I’m moving us across the room. Once at the bed, I give her a gentle push.
She drops down, her tits bouncing with the movement. I tug my shirt over my head in one fluid movement.
But when I reach for my fly, she sits up and bats my hands out of the way, taking over. She tugs my pants and boxers down, and my cock springs free, rock solid and ready to go.
“God, it’s like unwrapping a Christmas present,” she says, wrapping her hand around it and pressing the flat of her tongue against the underside and swiping from root to tip.
My head falls back, the wet heat of her mouth making pleasure coil tight inside me.
When I look down again, I find her watching me. She has a devious look behind her eyes, something filled with mischief, probably planning to tease me until I combust.
“Fuck, me,” I whisper.
She lets out a seductive laugh.
“I plan to,” she says, before taking me to the back of her throat.