Zoe Brennan, First Crush

Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

I cap my gel pen and lean back to admire three days’ worth of cunning. The mega-binder on my kitchen table is organized and divided by each stage of my multipronged plan to win the showcase, with an Excel spreadsheet on my laptop so detailed it’d get the sternest accountant wet. If this were a heist movie, I’d be the mastermind steepling her fingers at the beginning of the montage where I set all my diabolical plans in motion.

I’m feeling good. Even better, I’m feeling ready .

I send a quick text to Teddy to stop by after work. I need his funding to get a few initiatives off the ground, and with the empire of dentistry he’s built in Blue Ridge, he’s an excellent businessman in his own right. I want his feedback on my plan.

Movement in the nearby block of Chardonnay grapes pulls my focus from my work and directs it out the window toward a strong set of shoulders. Like a sunflower shining amid the twiggy winter vines, Laine Woods tromps around my vineyard in work boots. She comes to a halt at the end of the block. Young Zoe would be fritzing out right now from sheer proximity to her idol, but I, mature, grown-up businesswoman Zoe, am beyond such things. I casually observe that she’s clad in a slim flannel shirt rolled up to reveal lean forearms, bronzed from sun. Likewise, it’s of no import that she’s wearing high-waisted Levi’s that hug the straight line of her hips, kissing the curve of her muscular ass. And it is with scientific detachment alone that I note the beat but satisfied slant to her shoulders, the unmistakable posture of quittin’ time . It is almost four p.m., after all.

I wonder what she’s doing later. Does she have plans? Will she stop by the treehouse to shower, scrubbing her skin until all the hard work of the day washes off?

The idea is strangely disappointing.

At first, I thought Laine might resent the farming demands of being our vintner. It’s so different out west, where the big corporate vineyards have whole crews of farmhands. But in the week since she started, she’s applied herself wholeheartedly. I’ve always admired that about her—Laine’s singular focus when she wants something, that determination and steady will to succeed. I saw it growing up when she’d spend evenings doing soccer drills after a long afternoon of team practice, then camp out at the dining table after dinner until her homework was finished. In high school, when showing effort at anything was considered mortifying, Laine’s utter lack of self-consciousness about crushing her goals stood out like a shining beacon over dull, gray waters. The ambition in me saw the ambition in her and was drawn to it, charged by it.

As I watch her intently inspecting a leaning trellis, then setting it to rights, it occurs to me that Laine brought that same drive to conquer in making me come.

My cheeks warm as heat pulses down my spine, pooling between my legs at the memory.

I snap the binder closed with a sigh. I’ve already checked off masturbate on the day’s to-do list, and I’m running a tight ship here.

I pick up my phone, determined to get back to work, but bring up Laine’s number instead. My fingers hover over the screen, a small burst of insecurity alighting in my chest. But it makes sense to invite her to the meeting today. After all, she’s going to play a pivotal role in my plan to win the showcase, and this is work.

Zoe

Everyday Bon Vivant planning meeting at 4:30 p.m. in the tasting room.

I hit send and watch Laine where she’s still hunkered down fixing the trellis. Will she stop to read the text? Will she resent my business tone? Should I have asked and said please ?

I forcibly put my phone down instead of waiting for the screen to light up with her reply. Naturally, this results in me staring out the window at her instead.

Laine pauses, sets the pliers on the ground, and reaches for her back pocket. I inexplicably hold my breath as she glances at her phone’s screen. Her face is impassive as she rattles off a quick reply.

Laine Woods, Interim Vintner

Depends.

Laine Woods, Interim Vintner

Are you going to give me a taste?

My mouth drops open. This is a business meeting! A workplace matter! The phone’s in my hand in an instant, my fingers flying with righteous indignation:

Zoe

Come thirsty.

I stare at the message, blinking rapidly, as it’s sent, delivered, read. What am I thinking ? A tiny smirk perks up one side of Laine’s mouth before she shoves the phone into her back pocket, packs up her tools, and walks off.

I leap out of my chair. I’ve got to get dressed for the meeting.

The thought of seeing Laine after that flirty round of texts makes my momentum stutter, but like an old engine turning over, it eventually catches and vrooms again. While I’m over the debilitating crush I had on her growing up and fine keeping things professional after our accidental threesome, I can’t help feeling excited to show off Bluebell’s offerings to her tonight. Sure, Laine’s used to more sophisticated fare, but our white wines are sweet, simple, and true to our mountains. Every sip feels like a Blue Ridge afternoon. She’s from here, too; she’ll see that. Then maybe the snooty disdain for our vineyard that her manners don’t quite mask will be dispelled for good, and together, we’ll come up with ideas to transform our struggling red line, making Bluebell Vineyards stronger than ever.

I shimmy into a tight pair of dark jeans and pick a soft black shirt that dips in a V so low, it shows off the hollow between my breasts, the swell of flesh in stereo. Side boob is great, but in-between-boob? Goddess tier. A bold red lip, a touch of cat-eye, a pair of black heeled ankle boots later, and I’m ready.

I immediately frown at the hot lady in the mirror. Ready for what , exactly?

This is date-night Zoe, or more accurately, pre-fling Zoe. Not workplace Zoe. I shake my head like there’s water in my ears instead of pent-up sexual energy and knot a heavy plaid shawl across my chest.

There. That’s better.

I set off for the tasting room, strolling through the same Chardonnay block Laine was in earlier. The vines are already starting to bud, and in a few short months, their canes will push out a heavy drape of lush foliage. The Chardonnay vines are always the first to awaken from the vineyard’s long winter sleep. It seems so foolish to push out new life when frosts still regularly threaten our cold mountain nights, but that doesn’t stop the Chardonnays from sticking their necks out and leaving their survival to chance.

Stupid grapes.

In the large, airy tasting room, the lighting’s warm glow mixes with the pale afternoon sunlight painted across the floors. The public-facing part of our winery is framed out with tall windows that let in the sun and gentle breezes riffling down from the mountains and are original to the structure. But while Mom and Dad may’ve scored with the windows, the 1990s were otherwise alive and well with cherrywood everything and those frosted overhead lights that popped from the ceiling like nipples when I first took over operations. Now the floors are finished in pale maple, the U-shaped bar topped with waxed butcher block below and white marble above, trimmed in a thin band of brass, and the lighting is pure vibes. Globe lamps hang in a line, gently illuminating the people drinking below and highlighting everyone’s best features. River’s always been my favorite cousin, but after helping me make this place magical, he’s become nothing short of a blood brother.

Tristan appears from the back, holding a fresh crate of glassware. He eyes my outfit, complete with plaid shawl, with an eyebrow jacked damn near to his hairline. “Ah.”

I narrow my eyes, daring him to continue. “Ah, what , Stan?”

But then the big double doors open from the back patio, and Laine saunters in. “Here for the meeting, boss.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tristan replies as if that’s all the answer that’s needed, then starts unloading the crate, looking smug as hell.

When Laine draws near, the earthy smell of a day’s work outside tickles my nose—soil, sunshine, and the scent of her sweat, surprisingly familiar. Dirt is streaked across her cheek; the knees of her faded jeans are tinged with earth. The urge to knock her flat, push her down in the grass, and get the backside of her just as dirty floods my system.

“Thank you for coming to this business meeting.” The words rush out, a little too loud for the space. I clutch my shawl tighter. “A colleague will be joining us, but he’s not here yet.”

A small smirk appears on Laine’s face, as though she sees right through my efforts at professionalism. “Sure, boss.”

Annoying. I breathe deeply through my nose, spin on my heels, and march toward the bar. Growing up, Laine spooked me in a way no one else ever has, but I’m no kitten scared off by the big tomcat. Not anymore.

I’m the big pussy around here.

A vaguely crazed snort ripples through me at the thought, and I swing behind the bar, plunk an empty glass in front of Laine, and grab the first bottle. The shawl constricts my movement, though, and the corkscrew’s being a real bitch.

Laine’s smirk grows. “Need help, boss?”

“No, I’ve—got it—” Somehow, I’ve driven the cork in sideways, like I don’t do this a hundred times a week.

Laine folds her arms behind her head, clearly amused, as I break a sweat. “I thought you worked here.”

“It’s this—shawl, too tight ,” I grind out.

“Sure.”

When the cork nearly severs in half, I groan. In one slick movement, Laine leans forward and grabs the offending bottle by the neck. Her hand curls around mine, the rough pads of her fingers hot against the sensitive skin of my wrist. My hand opens willingly to her, relinquishing the corkscrew. It’s still hanging there dumbly when she hands me the open bottle, cork removed with zero effort.

Fucking athletes .

“You okay, boss?” Laine’s grin is intoxicating, and I’m drunk with the desire to wipe it right off her face.

I untie the knot of the strangling shawl, letting it fall to the ground. “I am now.”

Her grin softens as her gaze slides down my throat, across the smooth skin of my chest, to the vale between my breasts. It’s so visceral I feel it like the trail of fingertips. Now it’s my turn to smile, and it fills me with a satisfied heat. I pluck the shawl from the floor and hang it on a hook. Laine swallows, her mocking bravado mysteriously disappeared.

Well, well. Look at that.

“Now how about that taste?” I lower my eyes to the glasses I’ve set before her, the pleased smile still lingering on my lips, and deftly pour a spread of seven wines because I do work in this damn vineyard. I’ve included three of our most popular whites, followed by a rosé, then a bit reluctantly, three reds. “You’ve got to learn our offerings since you’ll be making them soon.”

“Mm-hmm,” Laine agrees absently, eyes lingering near my collarbone.

I push the first glass forward, Electric Daisy, our lightest white. It’s a honeyed Traminette that tastes like a bouquet of lightly carbonated wildflowers. I love it.

With effort, Laine redirects her gaze to the glass in her hand, which she swirls, the wine lightly swishing within. She assesses the way it clings to the glass, then brings it to her nose and breathes in deeply. Eyes closed, she tastes tentatively, swallows a miserly amount, then blinks open.

“Sweet,” she pronounces flatly, the taste shaking the fog from her expression.

Disappointment tears through the excitement I’d felt, thinking Laine might appreciate what we have to offer. I push the embarrassment down and the second glass forward, rattling off our Pinot Grigio’s attributes like a parent whose child made honor roll, but C’est la Grigio fares no better.

“Somehow? Also sweet.” Laine flicks her tongue out, like she can shake the taste off by force. The memory of it sliding between my breasts makes my cheeks heat, then heat more because I’m thinking about that instead of how she’s insulting my wine. “Imbalanced. Next?”

My fingers involuntarily flex around the stem of the third glass, and I push it forward a little too hard, nearly tipping it over. “This is Bluebell’s signature blend, (Wish They All Could Be) Georgia Girls. It’s a mix of estate-grown Catawba, muscadine, and peaches. The stone fruit—”

Laine sniffs the wine and expels a loud cough, then looks incredulously into the glass as if I’ve offered her a fresh batch of toilet wine instead of our bestseller. She squeezes her eyes closed and throws back a quick swallow, which is not at all how you’re supposed to taste wine.

“ Extremely sweet.” She reaches for a napkin and wipes her tongue with it. “People like this?”

“People love it.” I coax my expression into something cool even as warm hurt curdles in my gut. My chin lifts of its own accord. “It’s our most popular wine.”

Laine shakes her head, like she just learned her little cousin Jimmy was back in jail again.

I can’t hide my irritation any longer. I huff out a short, unamused laugh and start cleaning up a little too vigorously.

Laine arches an eyebrow as I snatch up her used tasting glasses, still full. “Look, I can’t turn off my palate just because you make”—she pauses to pick up the bottle of Georgia Girls, eyeing it with dismay—“bachelorette party wine.”

“It is not bachelorette party wine!” I look to Tristan for backup, but he’s busy tending the bar. “Also, that’s a weirdly sexist thing to say.”

“Okaaaay. It’s white-cis-het-ladies-in-pushup-bras-throwing-down-wine wine. Better?”

I put my hands on my hips. “At least it’s not your stuffy crap with notes of curdled lemon and—and—gasoline!”

Laine has the gall to look impressed. “Oh, so you’ve had Chilean Rieslings?”

I throw my hands in the air just as the door twinkles open, followed by a chorus of laughing, gleeful women, their heels merrily tapping toward the bar. They’re wearing dresses the color of cotton candy, except for a bubbly woman in a minidress covered in stiff white lace.

Fuck it all to hell. She’s got a sash on.

“ Helloooo , ladies.” Laine grins at them, earning a rowdy round of wooooo!! for her efforts. Tristan plunks three cold bottles of Georgia Girls in front of the cheering women, and Laine turns back to me, I told you so etched into every dimple of her face.

I suck a deep breath in through my nose, willing myself not to lose it. “Well, so what if it’s bachelorette party wine? Look around you, Laine.” Folks are pouring into our tasting room, with more pulling into our gravel lot each minute. I lean over the bar right into her face. “Our wine is popular.”

“Among people who don’t like real wine, maybe.” Laine says, then gives one of the bridesmaids a little wave.

I grip the bar, ignoring the irrational jealousy that wave kicked up. “Don’t they deserve wine, too?”

The fact is, the gentle clatter of bottle against glass, happy sighs after sips, and laughter dispelling a long day of work is louder than her condescending Napa bullshit. It doesn’t escape me, though, that the glasses raised in toasts and cheers are almost uniformly pale gold in color. I straighten, grit my teeth, and push the first of the reds toward Laine. If she thinks our ultra-popular whites are bad, this is going to be downright painful. She eyes the red warily, then sips, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass.

“This is—”

“—boring, I know.” I cut her off, not giving her a chance to insult me any further, and push the second glass toward her, then the third. Her expression grows grimmer with each taste of our red offerings. They’re not disgusting or anything, they’re just profoundly unspecial . Basic. Clunky. The kind of wine you don’t bother to finish. “Think you can do better?” The words come out clipped, but I can’t help it, she’s pissed me off, and worse, hurt my feelings.

“Of course I can.” The words accompany a spark in her eyes, a glimpse of July lightning on this chilly spring night. “Though that’s not saying much.”

“Good. Because I’m gonna need you to bring every ounce of this”—I pause, gesturing at the entirety of her haughty demeanor—“big vintner energy and pour it into my wine.”

Some unknowable emotion swirls across her face, chasing the arrogance away. Fear? Reluctance? Laine drops her eyes and pinches the stem of her wineglass, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger, her voice carefully neutral. “What do you mean?”

“Our grapes are good, our base wines solid. But we’re missing that just-right blend of tart and sweet, mellow yet bright, the casual boldness all the best reds have . And I need you to find it for us. Fast.”

“What, the clitoris?” A voice booms from my right as Teddy strolls in, loosening his bow tie and cackling to himself. His ability to make an uncomfortable entrance is truly unparalleled, but I’m grateful he’s here to buffer. If I hear one more dig from Laine, someone’s gonna need to take this corkscrew away. He sits next to Laine, who’s staring at him with mild alarm.

“Meet Teddy,” I explain, “town dentist, Bluebell’s informal financier, master of inappropriate jokes.”

Teddy leans in toward her. “And her best friend, though Zoe only cops to it half the time.” He sits back suddenly, frowning. “Wait a minute—an outdoorsy butch sporting an uncanny likeness to our nemesis Rachel Woods? You must be the new vintner, Laine.”

I am infinitely relieved he didn’t include Zoe’s latest fuck in that list.

One of Laine’s brows quirks up. “Pleasure to meet you, Teddy.”

“You may call me Moneybags, since that’s why I’m here.” He slaps both palms against the bar. “Now, give me a glass of Electric Daisy before you shake me down.”

I pour him a good one, open my binder, and begin.

“As one of the most popular vineyards in the greater Blue Ridge area, Bluebell Vineyards is already well positioned to snag Everyday Bon Vivant ’s showcase. Our line of white wines reflects the local terroir and region’s tastes, our mountain views are breathtaking, and best of all, we know how to throw a great party. But”—I hold a hand up—“these strengths are not enough. Not if we’re going to compete against Into the Woods and win.”

Laine appraises me, the faint stain of our subpar Pinot Noir blend lingering on her full lips. “You want to eliminate your weaknesses, too.”

My back stiffens, but I can admit where we need improvement.

Just, I’d rather not admit it to her.

“Yes. We’re going to remove every good reason there is not to choose Bluebell. Laine, you’ll tackle our red blends. We were known for having excellent reds until my father took over, and it’s gone downhill ever since. You’re going to change that for us. Be as creative as you want, just fix them.”

Intrigue and apprehension swirl in her eyes in equal part. I can’t blame her—creating a solid line-up of reds in one season using existing base wines with almost no aging time won’t be easy—but the air between us seems to change; she seems to change. At least, how she looks at me has.

“Our next big weakness is lack of infrastructure around the property. With River and Hannah’s wedding in July, it’s the perfect time to build external fixtures that will turn Everyday Bon Vivant ’s heads. I’m talking a bandstand, movable staging, and patio overlooks highlighting our best views.” I flip to a section of my binder entitled Comparators , thumbing through pictures of previous festival locations. “For the last eight showcases, Everyday Bon Vivant chose vineyards with multiple bar locations on-site, along with picturesque selfie opportunities, romantic viewpoints, and the kind of hideaways that can be transformed into VIP experiences for higher-paying guests.” I tap my finger on the pictures. “We can do all that, too.”

“Which is where Ol’ Moneybags comes in,” Teddy says, all business now. “Is River running the builds?” A quick nod from me, and he hmm s appreciatively. “That’ll keep our costs low—down to labor and supplies with no overhead.”

“The increase in wedding business alone will pay back your investment with interest by the end of the fall, if not sooner.”

“But what’s the story going to be?” Laine asks, her undeniable interest taking over. “How does Bluebell Vineyards represent a true showcase of what Blue Ridge has to offer?”

“It’s our existing partnerships—our friendships —with local businesses that matter here. Every single stand in our Saturday farmers’ markets could add to our appeal. Fresh butter from Mountain Farms’ creamery spread across crusty loaves of sourdough from Dana’s bakery. Old Pete’s boiled peanuts stand set right next to Mercier’s apple pies and hot cider. We’ll have something for everyone because we’re friends with everyone .”

“When you’re here, you’re family!” Teddy announces.

Laine frowns. “Isn’t that … Olive Garden?”

“ No ,” he says indignantly, as though he doesn’t drive an hour to get his unlimited breadsticks on cheat days.

I point at him. “It absolutely is, and you know it. But I’m thinking more like: Welcome home to Bluebell Vineyards. Welcome home to Blue Ridge .”

“Hear, hear!” Teddy says, then knocks his glass of wine back. “Go on and take my money!”

“Gladly.” Teddy’s enthusiasm smooths over my grated mood, and a real smile lifts the corners of my mouth. I chance a look at Laine, willing her to put aside her snobbery and apply her singular focus to helping me win the showcase. So, she doesn’t like our wines. So I want to throw her out a window. That doesn’t mean we can’t be on the same team, right? The way she returns my gaze, steady, cautious, and grudgingly respectful, makes my heart lift an inch in my chest. This time it’s my ambition drawing her in, charging her up.

Maybe this will work out, after all.

“Step one is getting an endorsement from Mayor Esposito.” I tap my finger on the timeline in the binder and grimace slightly. “Rachel’s number one fan.”