Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The summer days pass in a haze of heat and Laine. Courtship, as it turns out, is an extraordinarily horny endeavor, though true to Laine’s word, she refuses to let me “get it out of our systems.”
Tonight, under the stars, lying on a bed of old blankets and pillows in the back of my truck while some action movie plays in the background at the Swan Drive-In, I’m putting that to the test, my new favorite pastime.
I push Laine back and climb on top of her, shamelessly grinding against her lap.
“What are you doing to me, baby?” Laine’s hands travel down my sides, over my clothes, her lips slightly parted, distracted by the view of her thumbs rubbing circles where my hard nipples strain against my T-shirt. She’s guiding me against her, the friction between us building into a threesome of Laine, me, and the jeans between us, dragged along for the ride.
“What? We’re parked in the back, and it’s misty out. The place is deserted.” I peek over the truck’s rim in both directions before lifting my shirt over my head. But growling, Laine pulls my hands away. Under Laine’s rules of courtship, kissing is allowed as well as all manner of groping, but no nudity or getting off or anything that would stop the high-pitched hum of need that’s reverberated through my body since the wedding.
I drag her hand between us, gasping as her knuckle presses hard against where I’m aching for her. “Can you feel how wet I am for you, Laine? Don’t you want me, too?”
Laine groans as she palms the hot underside of my jeans, giving me the heel of her hand before roughly grabbing me by the waistband. “Don’t you understand that once I get my hands on you, I’m never letting go?” She yanks the rim of my jeans, rocking me against her, groaning again. “Are you prepared for how hard I’m going to own your pussy?”
“That’s not very PC of you, Laine Woods.” My breaths are shallow, light-headed from need.
“There’s nothing PC about what I’m going to do to you, boss.”
This time, I’m groaning as she pulls me down until I collapse against her chest, soft breasts and hard nipples, and I feel like I’m going to go mad with wanting.
“Come on, Laine, hasn’t there been enough courting yet?” I pant into her neck, sliding my palm down the exposed planes of her stomach, fingers dipping below her waistband. “You’re not going to be here forever.” I try, but there’s no hiding the melancholy that creeps into my voice. Laine grabs me by the wrist, then twists her body, dismounting me so that we’re facing each other on our sides.
“Now, how do you know that?” She lifts the hand she caught like a criminal mid-break-in and kisses each of my greedy fingertips, slowing down my thundering heart with each deliberate brush of her lips.
“You told me, day one. You’re not relocating to Blue Ridge.” I swallow against the knot forming in my throat. “Has that changed?”
“I don’t know,” Laine says. “But I don’t need to know right now, either. I’ve committed to you and Cosimo that I’ll be your vintner as long as you need me. Once that’s done, if a good opportunity opens up here, then of course I’d consider staying. But none of that changes how I feel about you, Zoe, and I refuse to let what’s unknowable dictate what I do now.” She runs her hand up and down my bare arm, her dark eyes lit by stars. “And I want you , boss.”
It’s not a promise she’ll stay, but hope resonates through me all the same. I tug her close, wanting her more than ever. “Then stop courting me and have me.”
“Didn’t anybody teach you your ABCs?” She smiles at me crookedly. “Always Be Courtin’? That’s the secret to happy relationships, according to my papaw.”
“You can court me forever if you’re putting out. When? ” Not quite begging here, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned since Laine showed up in my vineyard, it’s that dignity is overrated.
“When you admit that you’re crazy about me, and when you believe I’m crazy for you, too.”
Laine’s words lodge into my chest, fitting neatly into a hole that’s been there for as long as I can remember. But then they expand, filling every crevice and dusty corner until my heart aches.
“Can you admit that yet?” she asks quietly.
I haven’t told Laine I’ve never been in a real relationship before. It makes me feel defective, like I’m missing parts, and that’s why I keep getting returned to the store. How would I know what love is, and whether this growing tide of feelings Laine draws from me is the same thing? I’ve been infatuated with her for most of my life, only for her to show up now and show me the real Laine, all grown up, flawed and insecure, different from what I thought, but also, profoundly the same. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Then there’s more courting to do,” Laine says simply, wrapping me in her arms.
When my alarm starts wilding out at five a.m., I wake up with a grin. It’s my favorite day of the year—Bluebell’s Community Harvest Day. As a kid, it was like a surprise Christmas where there were no gifts, and you worked all day in the hot sun with your friends and family.
Ahh, bliss .
I’ve always loved the frenetic energy of harvest, which usually spans over four nonconsecutive days driven solely by when the grapes reach their peak. Right now, in mid-August, only the white crops are ready for picking. Our red crops will go fully nuclear in September, and we’ll spend the day laughing and shearing grapes all over again. There’s a short window at harvest—you’ve got to pick the grapes at exactly the right time. One day past optimum, and the sugar levels could go out of control. Too early, and the grapes’ tannins will punch you in the face. In the vineyard business, you learn early—when the grapes are ready, you’ve gotta be ready, too.
So when Laine knocked on my office door yesterday with the results of the day’s Brix readings, I sent the beacon out to every friend, family member, and former student I know. Of course, only twenty or so can help us pick grapes all day, but we need every pair of hands we can get. We’re entering the heaviest period of a vineyard’s work, the crush from August through November where grapes are picked, sorted, cleaned, and de-stemmed before the highly precise fermentation process begins. When Laine herself will transform from farmer into alchemist, coaxing our grapes into their higher calling. Though she’s incredibly busy, she refuses to pause our courtship, insisting that the vineyard can’t control our lives. It’s been refreshing, if disconcerting, seeing someone establish healthy boundaries with vineyard work and forcing me to do the same.
I march across the dewy grass between rows of plump Seyval Blanc, chartreuse green and lush with their coats of frosty bloom, just begging to be picked. Laine’s already setting up for the day. Her table’s stocked with sunscreen, water, block assignments, shears, a huge stack of buckets, and enough gloves for a small gardening army. She also has coolers filled with Electric Daisy because Community Harvest involves a lot of day drinking. Also accidents, because drunk people handling shears is always a fun time, but Laine’s ready for that, too, with four first aid kits lined up and waiting for ouchies.
God, is there anything hotter than preparation?
“Good morning!” I say brightly, the sight of her behind the table with a worn, red bandanna around her neck my personal utopia.
She glances at me, her smile lighting up my heart like the sunrise as she sets insect repellant on the table. “Morning, boss.”
Mmm. I sigh, wishing I could push her down between the vines, but the screech of tires rips my attention away, announcing Booch’s big black truck as it comes roaring into our gravel lot. “Zoe Bee!” Booch hops down from the cab. “Are. You. Ready. To. SNIP?!!” Booch is a Community Harvest regular and a total beast with shears. He beats his chest like Tarzan for a hot minute, then gives me a bear hug as our parking lot steadily fills with cars, trucks, and even a motorcycle or two.
Trish pulls up next with the Redneck Wine Tour van loaded with friends and family. We have about thirty people here, ready to usher a season’s worth of hard work from nature’s arms into our buckets and have a damn good time doing so.
“Welcome to the 2025 Bluebell Vineyards Community Harvest Day!” I yell through cupped hands to a wave of hoots and hollers. “In case you’re new here, these are the rules: 1) shear grape clusters at the top; 2) don’t cut off any fingers; 3) like grapes go with like, no mixin’ ’em up; and 4) whoever fills the most crates by the end of the day wins!”
“What’s the prize?” someone yells from the back.
“Maeve, please show the contestants what’s behind door number one!”
“This here goat,” Maeve announces, parading Baahlzebub out on a fancy red leash. Try as we might, we still haven’t gotten anyone to adopt him, so this is our last-ditch effort to give him away. I’ve allowed his foster situation to continue here under one strict condition—Laine’s solely responsible for his care, and he can graze in our fallow field that’s fenced in properly or be locked up in the barn like he’s gold in Fort Knox, no other freedoms permitted. His horns are too sharp and his morals too loose for anything else.
“He will eat anything,” Maeve says by way of sales pitch.
There’s wary grumbling from the onlookers as Maeve’s already tried to punt him off on most everyone here, but Booch looks pumped. “Yeah! A goat!” He claps his hands, then whoops.
Might have to rig it so he wins.
“Anything to add, Coach?”
“That I do.” Laine’s arms are crossed over her chest, a surly tilt to her chin. “Do not smush my grapes, and we won’t have a problem.” She points at our volunteers one by one, warning in her eyes, then breaks into a grin. “Happy Harvest Day, y’all! There’s also a bottle each of Bluebell’s full line to the industrious winner!”
Cheers go up once more, and with the scream of Laine’s whistle, our troops go wild. I join her behind the table, helping to distribute assignments and supplies to the volunteers.
“Okay, what can I do for you now?”
“Hmm.” Laine rubs her chin, pretending to think. “My lips are feeling a little dry. Parched. Untended, you could say.”
“Oh, are they?” I smile, sidling up to her, letting her hook her fingers in the belt loops of my shorts to reel me in the rest of the way. “I could help with that.”
She closes her eyes and puckers up, and it’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. But it doesn’t stop me from grabbing a water bottle and tilting it over her lips.
Her eyes blink open in surprise as the splash of cool water dribbles down her chin. “ You —”
But I’m already there, kissing up every trace of my little prank, until I cover her laughing mouth with my own. Her hands dive into my hair, holding me to her, and I feel so happy .
A van plastered with angel wings and the Franklin Second Baptist Church of God logo rolls up, and Ms. Betty appears from the driver’s side door, followed by her entourage of church biddies.
“Hey there, Ms. Betty,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know the prayer circle was helping out today.”
“We’re here on a mission from God,” she replies serenely. “It don’t involve wine.” She lifts a finger. “That’s for later.”
“Ms. Betty lost her partial plate during Hannah’s reception,” an old lady with thick trifocals offers from the back. “The Lord will lead us to it.”
“ Oh. ” My eyebrows raise of their own accord. “Do y’all need help?”
But the biddies are already on their way, disappearing into the fields like very old Children of the Corn.
Laine and I grab gloves and shears and join our friends in the vines. The morning passes in a blur of laughter and the sticky-sweet smell of ripe grapes. There’s something so special and intimate about sharing the vineyard’s work with her. This place that brought my parents together, this land we’ve lovingly cared for ever since, this life’s work that’s clutched me so tightly, I haven’t always been able to breathe. Laine helps me bear my family’s dreams, keeps me company in what’s always felt like such a lonely endeavor. It’s not a trap when I choose to be here.
The good vibes flow all morning, as does the wine. People are getting so sloppy I call the food truck to come an hour early, but I can’t argue with their productivity. Drunk people are happy people, and happy people work hard. We’ve already made our way through the Seyval Blanc and Chardonnay, and we’re a good way into the Traminette, too.
“I’m hungry!” Darryl moans, then dangles a cluster of grapes over his mouth and takes a bite like he’s Bacchus and the hot lady feeding him, all at once. “ Ugh. Why do these grapes taste so bad!”
“They’re not wine yet, you drunkard!” Trish says, our sober granny once again. “Go sit in the shade and drink two bottles of water, or I’m divorcing your ass.”
“The taco truck’ll be here soon, I promise!” I keep checking my watch. It’s almost noon, and Darryl’s not the only one munching on grapes, no matter how many times we announce wine grapes aren’t for eating.
Someone screams. “THERE’S BEEN A MURDER!”
“Good lord.” I run toward the newest disaster, Laine and others quick on my tail.
“I HAVE FOUND HU-MAN RE-MAINS!” It’s Booch screeching this time, perhaps the drunkest of all. When we reach him, he’s hunched to the side, his hands braced against his knees, looking like he’s seen a ghost and decided to vomit about it. He points a shaky finger at a deep burrow where something white and shiny shimmers within. I get on my knees and peer down into the darkness, starting a little when I see human teeth grinning ominously up at me.
“Someone tell Ms. Betty we found her teeth!” I call out. I slip on a glove and lean down to fish them out.
“You sure you should be doing that?” Booch asks, a tremor in his voice.
“They’re dentures, Booch. Not like they’re attached to someone.” I laugh a little as I reach inside, looking up at the sky as I grasp around, trying to find the teeth. Suddenly, pain lights up my entire arm.
“AHHH! SON OF A BITCH! ”
I yank my arm wildly from the burrow, but it doesn’t budge. “I’m STUCK!” I scream as zapping bolts of agony shoot up my arm and into my shoulder. No less than four drunk people tackle me from different angles, yanking my remaining appendages like a good old-fashioned quartering.
It doesn’t work.
“Get off her!” Laine barrels through the unhelpful drunks pawing at my body. She slams down to her knees, wraps her strong arms around my waist, and pulls. My arm pops out, and I go spilling backward. A miniature black cloud rises from the burrow.
“BEES!” Maeve screams, but those aren’t bees. They’re wasps, yellow jackets to be precise, and their stings hurt worse than anything because their venom’s made from the black blood of Satan himself. I should know since my right arm belongs to them now.
What happens next reminds me of a nature documentary featuring a stampede of large, bumbling, inelegant creatures, elephants or bison perhaps, racing away from a pack of predators. Only this time it’s eight drunk people trying to get away from mean-ass yellow jackets hell-bent on revenge. Laine drags me up to standing, my bad arm dangling by my side, and hauls me out of there, which I’m grateful for because all I can comprehend right now is pain .
When we’re safely away, Laine lays me down on a picnic blanket, panic etched across her face.
“Trish! We need you over here!”
I whimper, tears coursing down my cheeks. It still feels like they’re crawling all over me, phantom stings piercing my skin again and again. I keep checking, but all that’s there is the rapidly swelling cuff of angry red arm exposed between my glove and shirtsleeve.
“You’re not allergic, are you?” Laine’s hands fly over my body, checking for more stings brushing my hair back off my face, eyes searching for more danger. She pries the teeth out of my clenched fist and throws them over her shoulder, like it’s their fault I got mobbed by nature’s henchmen. Somebody yelps and swears as the sound of fake teeth collides with a head, and I sob out a laugh.
“N-no,” I manage, right before Trish shows up with the first aid kit and ice packs. I’m incredibly grateful to have a retired nurse on the premises.
“Okay, let me at her.” Trish kneels on my other side. She examines my bad arm gingerly as she gently swabs the stings out with peroxide, relief hitting as soon as she encases the welted flesh in ice packs. “Ten-some-odd stings in all. You’re a lucky lady, Zoe.”
“How is she lucky?” Laine demands. “Her arm’s swelling up like a water balloon!”
Trish arches an eyebrow. “She’ll be fine. Now get me a bottle of Electric Daisy.” When Laine just sits there, chest heaving, Trish says, “Go.”
Laine glares at her, then launches to her feet and skulks off, returning with an icy bottle from the cooler.
“Pop the cork,” Trish instructs, and again, Laine grudgingly obeys.
“Now take three big swallows and chill the hell out,” Trish says, her lips pressed into a flat line. I laugh a little, then moan as the movement jars my arm.
“Shouldn’t we take her to urgent care?”
“With this many stings, if she were going to have an anaphylactic reaction, it’d have already started.” Trish turns her attention back to me, gentleness replacing the no-nonsense attitude she undoubtedly perfected after decades of handling upset family. “You feeling dizzy, baby? Any difficulty breathing?”
I shake my head and wince.
“I really think—” Laine begins, but Trish cuts her off like a sword through butter.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna sit with Zoe and keep an eye on her for the next half hour. If anything changes in that time—her face starts looking puffy, any wheezing or whistling when she breathes, any changes at all —you can throw her over your shoulder and cavewoman it all the way to urgent care. Until then, she needs to take it easy and keep the ice packs on. Got it?”
Laine screws up her lips, then nods brusquely.
“Good.” Trish stands and brushes her hands down her legs. “Now, I’ve got other patients to help. I think Booch’s gone and put himself into shock. Call me if you need anything, baby.” She winks at me, then disappears into the throng of crying drunk people scattered about on folding chairs, waiting their turn.
Laine rocks on her heels, blows out a short breath, then plops onto her ass. Five seconds later, she’s back on her heels. The nervous energy she’s putting off could fuel a power plant.
A smile curves across my face.
She glances down at me and squints suspiciously. “What’re you smiling about?” Her eyes widen. “That’s not a symptom, is it? Trish —”
“No!” I laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just … you’re—”
Adorable.
Hilarious.
Mine.
My throat tightens, but it’s no allergic reaction. At least, I don’t think so. I start to sit up, but Laine pushes me back down. “Where the hell you think you’re going?”
I sigh and smile at her from where I’m beached on the blanket. “This is an awkward way to have this conversation.”
“What conversation?” Laine crosses her arms, looming over me still.
“About us,” I say softly.
“ Us? ” Laine’s jaw is locked tight, but when I try to readjust my arm and let out a small cry, she goes soft and concerned as she helps me get more comfortable. Her gaze meets mine. “What do you mean?”
“Are you happy here, Laine?” I swallow. “With me?”
“Am I happy here? Is this a joke?” Laine blinks down at me. “ Yes , Zoe. Happier than I’ve been in years. Maybe not right now—right now I’m pretty pissed because I asked you months ago to let me get the exterminator out here, but you said that bees are a natural part of the ecosystem, which, okay, they are, but yellow jackets are unnatural tools of the devil, and now look at you, lying here, jacked up to hell —”
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I try to lean up onto an elbow, but without even breaking her tirade, Laine pushes me right back down.
“—your one arm lookin’ like Popeye’s, and you can’t even move!” Laine presses the palms of her hands against her cheeks and groans. “You could’ve gotten so hurt, Zoe!”
The buzzing grows persistent, but I can’t get it out of my back pocket. “Laine?”
“ And now you ask me if I’m happy? Well, I’ll be happy once you let me fry those little assholes—”
I glance down at the screen of my smartwatch and see the name flashing on the screen.
“ LAINE! It’s Marisol!”
Her mouth falls open, and I lift a butt cheek, my bad arm now a useless ice cube. “Get my phone, it’s in my back pocket!”
She hovers over me and plucks it out of my jeans.
“Accept the call! Hold it up to my ear!” Laine fumbles with my phone, cursing before she shoves it so close to my face, it smooshes my nose. “LAINE! Jesus! ”
“Sorry!”
This time, the facial recognition unlocks the screen. “Hello? Marisol?” I breathe out in a rush.
“Zoe, darling, you’ve got the showcase!”
Laine screams. I scream. We all scream for life-changing business opportunities.
“OH MY GOD! Thank you so much!” I yell into the phone while Laine holds it clumsily to my ear. “We won’t let you down, Marisol!”
Her delighted laughter rings up from the receiver like tinkling crystal. “I know you won’t, darling. Now, go celebrate because tomorrow, there’s work to do.”
“Yes, ma’am!” The line disconnects, and I snatch my phone from Laine and chuck it to the side.
“WE GOT THE SHOWCASE! WE GOT THE FREAKING SHOWCASE!”
I grab her by the front of her shirt and pull her down to me roughly, closing the distance between us with a demanding kiss. I pour every damning truth I have into the kaleidoscope slide of my lips on hers: I want you . I need you . I’m terrified of you leaving . But perhaps the most dangerous of all:
“Laine Woods, I’m crazy about you.”
She pulls back for just a second, eyes wide. “ And? ”
I laugh. “ And I believe you’re crazy for me, too.”
I’ve always thought Laine was beautiful. Since that day in the meadow when I found her lying among the wildflowers, to her rumpled Umbro high school days, to the wine scientist in goggles blending our varietals. But right now, she’s incandescent, like a new sun in my sky, beaming out in every direction. She smiles at me, removing every doubt in my heart.
“Oh, thank God !”
Her lips are warm and fierce on mine, and she pulls me tight against her until our chests are locked together.
“Does this mean our courtship’s finally over?” I ask, laughing into her kisses.
She breaks away from me just far enough to frown at me. “Our courtship isn’t over , boss. It just means other things have begun.” She smiles at me wickedly and takes my mouth again while a bunch of happy, silly drunks hoot and holler around us, and the world falls away .