Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
With each ring of the phone in my ear, I groan a little louder. I’ve been trying all week to reach Elisa, Mayor Esposito’s aide, to get on her calendar. I’ve called, emailed, left messages with the receptionist, and filled Elisa’s voicemail box to the brim, but no luck. All I need is a measly five minutes to present my pitch for the showcase, but I’m starting to think Elisa’s screening my calls.
For the hundredth time this week, I curse myself for mentioning the showcase as the reason for my calls. I’ve never had trouble getting time with the mayor before, and Elisa’s as diligent as they come. If she’s not answering my messages, she’s either dead or doing it on purpose.
The rings stop, and Elisa’s automated message clicks on. I’m pondering switching tactics—perhaps a purported Bigfoot sighting will get me a call back—when a bubble of laughter sounds from outside my window. A blur of blonde curls about knee-high giggles by, followed by my cousin River. He’s doing some kind of gorilla-armed chase after little Bowie, while Hannah stands there, hands pressed to her stomach and laughing.
I smile wistfully at their sweet little family, then go out to meet them.
“Hey, fam!” I call out, glad that it’s true. A grunt and a delighted squeal later, Bowie’s hanging upside down laughing hysterically over his soon-to-be-stepdad River’s back, and River’s grinning, too, if winded.
“I swear, I’m gonna get one of those kid leashes and strap you to my side, boy,” Hannah says, wagging her finger playfully at her son, who now sits atop River’s shoulders looking pleased as hell. Bowie got that cloud of golden curls from his mama, but right now, they’re making him look like a mischievous clown child.
“If the suspect has been secured, I can show y’all where I’m thinking for the ceremony and reception, and we can talk infrastructure.”
“Lead on, cousin,” River says, his face the picture of easy happiness. With his hands cupping Bowie’s little legs to his chest, we set out into the lovely afternoon, wending our way through rows of vines.
“I’ve been thinking about the VIP experiences you mentioned.” Hannah pulls out a fat sketchbook from her tote bag and flips to a dog-eared page somewhere in the middle. “With your theme of ‘Welcome Home to Bluebell Vineyards,’ you’re presenting this idea of modern southern hospitality, right? And I thought: What if we built a line of firepits flanked by open-front canvas tents with cozy seating, mood lighting, and blankets? We could stock them with s’mores kits and hot chocolate, and if we set them up here”—Hannah stops to gesture at the stretch of unused land on the hill nearest to the winery—“the VIP guests would still feel a part of the festivities but with just enough privacy to feel special. What do you think?”
I throw my arm around Hannah’s shoulders and squeeze her tight. “I think you’re a genius, Hannah Tate.”
Hannah flushes a little and smiles. “I’ve got more ideas, too, for the viewpoints’ designs.”
It’s been so gratifying seeing Hannah embrace her inherent talents and taste, her confidence and business acumen growing by the day. It’s like watching a flower bloom in fast motion. “I want to hear them all.”
We walk past the western edge of our vineyards, past the newly budding Seyval Blanc and Catawba vines, to where the hill dips into a beautiful clearing, the old-growth pine and birch forest towering behind it. I step ahead and walk backward, arms raised.
“Most weddings want the mountain views, but with your Tolkienesque theme, I figured the forest backdrop would be more appropriate.”
River’s face breaks into a delighted sunny grin. “Tom Bombadil–approved.” He offers me a fist bump, which is so surprisingly 2000s I actually bump him back before I can ask who the hell Tom Bombadil is.
River sets Bowie down, and with a firm grip on his tiny hand, walks him around the area explaining his ideas for the platform he’s going to build for the ceremony. When they return, River says, “Okay, this spot is a winner. Bowie gives two thumbs-up.” To confirm the statement, Bowie lifts his hand and flips us all off.
“He’s working on it,” Hannah explains, smiling with such love, it makes me laugh.
“We could set up the bride and groom’s tents over there, flanking the entrance of the ceremony area, with a makeshift stable for our horses set up here —”
I hold up a hand. “Whoa, horses? Just how far is this Lord of the Rings theme going?”
“He keeps begging me to wear elf ears,” Hannah says, smirking at River like he’s the biggest dork she’s ever seen, yet still wants to bone him.
“I have a vision, that’s all.” River pulls her close, then brushes one of her curls behind her ear.
“An elven vision, though?”
“You’d be such a hot elf, baby.”
Hannah rolls her eyes but gives him a kiss before joining me at my side again.
“You’re not really going to wear elf ears, are you?” I ask under my breath.
“Maybe on the honeymoon. If he asks reaaaaal nice.”
I make a face, and she grins like the imp she is. We all walk back to the winery, listening to River’s less eccentric ideas for the wedding, like the beautiful arched canopy he’ll build for the ceremony, and Bowie’s ideas for slides around the property. Bowie’s got a point—a rustic, wooden playground that doesn’t scream plastic in loud primary colors would definitely draw families in, if our budget can go that far. I’m so excited to see what River does. This wedding will benefit us in a big way, with River building all the outdoor infrastructure needed for his vision that we can then use to win over the Everyday Bon Vivant team and bolster our wedding business going forward.
The sharp snip of pruning shears makes me stop short, and I whip my head around, looking for the source. There, two rows away, is Laine, busily hacking off all but two buds from each of the Seyval Blanc vines.
My eyes widen. “Laine! Stop!”
She doesn’t hear me thanks to a pair of absurdly large headphones hugging her head. I run toward her up the hill, panting, waving my arms and cursing my abysmal cardiovascular health. When her eyes meet mine, a weariness surfaces that’s unmissable. It stings, a little. We haven’t seen each other much since the tasting a few weeks ago, but when we do, it’s a run-in in the truest sense of the word. My will seems to collide with hers at every turn. No matter what request I make, or how gently I broach it, it always resolves into bickering. It’s been disappointing honestly. While the tasting got off to a rocky start, I thought I’d gotten through to her about the showcase and that she was finally on my team , but that comes with conditions, apparently.
The main one being I do not tell her what to do.
“STOP. PRUNING!” I yell, punctuating each word until Laine finally slips off her headphones. With a stubborn twist of her mouth, she cuts off another precious bud, and we both watch it fall to the ground.
“Why?” she asks, a sullen edge to her tone.
“Because,” I say, still panting a bit, “we aren’t past the last of the frosts yet. We’ve got to keep insurance buds, enough to make sure that at least two will survive until the weather stabilizes.”
“Oh, so now you’re gonna tell me how to farm, too?”
I know she’s thinking of how I busted in on her bottling the whites last week, forcing her to consult the checklist Dad made instead of whatever she was doing. But she doesn’t seem to get that a vineyard our size lives season to season. A single mistake could be our last, and this is one of the worst ones she could make.
“I’m not telling you how to farm, Laine, I’m telling you how to farm here . Our weather dictates different techniques, that’s all.” I frown, wondering where the confident, astute Charlaine of my youth is right now. She was always eager to learn, improve, excel.
This Laine just wants me to shut up.
I put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay not to know everything, you know,” I say softly.
“I know enough for this rundown vineyard.” Her eyes flash to where my hand is, and I drop it as though burned. She shakes her head and raises the shears to snip another one, but I reach out again and grab her by the wrist, nothing soft about it this time. Because this time, I’m angry.
Does she not believe me?
Or does she not respect me?
“I said, stop! ”
The challenge in her eyes beams at me like a laser, cutting through my calm, professional demeanor with searing precision. If I didn’t need Laine to keep Bluebell operational, her ass would be so out of here. She’s rude, condescending, and her belittling opinions feel like an attack on me . My vineyard. Which is basically my family.
My grip on her wrist squeezes tighter. “Now you listen to me . Ask any vineyard in Blue Ridge—nobody’s pruning all the way down to two yet. It’s too soon!”
Laine stops and pretends to think, positively swelling with that big vintner energy. “Let me get this straight: you’re director of operations, marketing, and sales; bottling manager; and now you’re the fucking chief viticulturist, too?”
“Don’t forget your boss ,” I say, my voice dropping low and dangerous, redirecting the challenge right at her. “I’m also very much your boss .”
Laine’s face hardens, hot fury sliding beneath it. She lifts her chin, leveling the full weight of that destructive gaze on me. Heat floods up my back, enveloping every nerve ending with crackling energy. I stand my ground as she steps into my face, vaguely aware I’m still clutching her wrist. My fingers can’t seem to let go.
“ Are you my boss?” she breathes down at me, her frame filling my entire field of vision. The words are laced with pure sexual dominance, and it’s so surprising, my jaw drops open even as every string in my core writhes, aching for the pressure of her thumbs against my hipbones, that chin smashed against my pussy.
I’m overcome with the urge to whimper.
Hannah ahem s into her hand, and I suddenly remember we’re not alone. My face flushes, this time in embarrassment, and I let go of her wrist. I have a whole session in my Small Business Owners 101 course on treating your staff with compassion and respect that both Hannah and River took, and now they’re seeing me do the exact opposite. I suck in a breath and step firmly out of Laine’s face.
Especially since she’s still clutching shears.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Hannah, River, and Bowie, and definitely not Laine. “Just talking … farm stuff.” I swallow around the knot of desire and fury lodged in my throat.
“Farm stuff, huh,” River says. Laine and I both shift our gazes, a bit sheepishly. Hannah, bless her, smooths the tension over with a bright smile. “Laine, right? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Hannah Tate, and this is my son Bowie. You already know River?”
Laine pauses and punches out a short breath. “That I do. Hey, River, good to see you, man.” Her eyes flicker over to Hannah, and a spike of jealousy surges inside me as Laine’s gaze softens. “Nice to meet you, Hannah. I’m sorry, too. Me and the boss here don’t always see eye to eye.” Laine shrugs, then gives Hannah a crooked, cocky smile. “Guess I’m used to doing things the Napa way.”
Oh, look . I want to murder her again!
“Yes, Laine often forgets we’re in Blue Ridge , which has an entirely different climate . We get frosts well into May here in Northern Georgia. Which funnily enough”—I raise a finger to the sky—“is not California!”
I’ll be professional next time.
“That’s for fucking sure,” Laine mutters through her clenched jaw. Then, with a smile that looks like an insult, she says louder, “Okay, boss. I’ll delay the rest of the pruning if you say so.”
“I say so, Beave .”
Everyone frowns. “Big Vintner Energy? BVE?” Ugh . Is there anything more awkward than having to explain a bad joke? Nothing to do except own it now. I gesture at Laine. “Beave.”
Laine raises both hands with a fuck this smile and walks away from me backward. “Got it. If you don’t mind, I’ve got more farm stuff to do.”
I hope she trips. But not with the shears. That’d be too graphic.
“See you around, Laine!” Hannah calls. “If you’re free, some of the local queer community’s meeting up at the new wine bar downtown later this week.”
Laine salutes and turns away, and I spin on Hannah.
“Why did you do that?!”
She grimaces. “Sorry, but she’s new here, and I know how hard that can be. Besides, maybe you two just need to bond?” She laughs nervously, grabs Bowie, and books it toward the winery.
I sigh, emptying my soul into it. I know she can’t help it. Hannah’s physically unable to be rude. It’s cute most of the time, but the Queer Mountaineers is mine . I refuse to share another sacred thing with Laine, only for her to hate it, too.
After Hannah, River, and Bowie leave, I stew in my office, puzzling over the encounter. What was with that boss comment Laine made, anyway? Did she think I’d say no, haha, never mind, I’m your sweet little bottom, sorr-eeee!
Or did she want me to say yes? Did she want me to say yes, I’m your fucking boss, now do as I say , then grind her beneath my heel? The thought makes my mouth go dry, and a trail of goose bumps alights on my arms because I—I think she did .
The sound of stomping feet passing by my office toward the winery snaps me back to present. They land with a distinctly pissy quality, telling me who it is before she passes my open door.
“Laine, come in. Need to talk to you.”
Laine heaves a sigh from the hallway. “Don’t worry, boss. I won’t go to your little queer club,” she says, enough ice in her tone to make me wince. “Now, can we be done for the day, or are there more things you’d like to criticize?”
“Come in ,” I repeat, refusing to take the argument-bait she’s dangling in front of me. “Please?”
Laine pivots on the spot with rigid compliance and moves a miserly inch into my office. “What.”
“ Goddammit , Laine, just come in and sit down.” She’s not making this easy on me, that’s for sure. These hot and cold reactions leave my head spinning. She absolutely hates being told what to do until suddenly, out of nowhere, it seems to … turn her on ? She goes from fuck this to fuck me and back so fast I’m not even sure it happened.
Judging by the muscle ticking in her jaw right now, she’s firmly in fuck this territory, and I have about thirty seconds before she leaves, whether I’m done talking or not. She drops into the chair across from me, folds her arms over her chest, and spreads her legs wide, taking up as much space in my small office as she possibly can. This is intimidation, pure and simple.
I wish I didn’t like it so much.
Like applying pressure to a bleeding wound, I try to staunch the horny thoughts flowing right now. But Laine’s words out there rattled me, igniting an electric energy between us that refuses to dissipate—half wanna fight , half wanna fuck , and 100 percent try me .
I want to try her. I want to stand over her, lift my boot to her shoulder, and press her furious face against the throbbing pulse she’s caused between my legs. The sheer intensity of that want is so alarming, my heart’s rhythm is thudding in fear and anticipation both, as though I might actually do it. The moment stretches between us, air charged, and Laine’s eyes snag on something in mine. Want? Anger?
Or fear?
She leans forward, eyes hungry and searching. Terrified, I snatch my phone off the desk and bring up my contacts. “My friend Jamal is the vintner at Fightingtown Vines and head of our local vineyard association. I’ve given him a call, and he’s agreed to bring you up to speed on how things are done in Blue Ridge.”
If I thought I’d seen Laine mad before, it was nothing compared to the hellfire burgeoning from her eyes now. “I don’t need anyone to bring me up to speed, boss .”
“I’m not concerned with what you think you need.” The words are cool and calm, impersonal, and with each one, I feel my strength returning. “Your inexperience today could’ve cost us our entire crop of Seyval Blanc. You’ve got a lot to learn about how wine is made in this region, and you’re not going to do it by jeopardizing my family’s business just because you think you’re better than this town and everyone in it.”
The words land like a blow to her stomach, visibly taking her aback, and for a second, I regret having gone there. Then I remember the casually dismissive way she looks at Bluebell Vineyards, like everything I have on this earth is beneath her. Like I’m beneath her, too.
And I don’t feel sorry at all. This is my business, and I can’t let whatever these feelings are between us make me forget that.
I walk around the desk to where she’s still sitting and put the slip of paper with Jamal’s number into her hand.
“Call him. Today .”