Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
COWS ARE GIRLS
Addy
“Harry!”
“Moo.” Scarlett nudges my shoulder roughly.
I push my hair out of my face. My naturally frizzy locks haven’t been the same since I moved here.
If I had known the humidity was this bad, I never would have settled in Virginia.
It doesn’t matter what the temps are, the humidity in the middle of summer is the worst. Heaven forbid it rains, not only is it bad for the vines, the humidity jumps to a gazillion percent.
I’ve got to get Morris to fix this section of fence. Harry has over forty acres to roam. You’d think forty acres would be more than enough for five cows. It’s not like I have a herd. Harry’s always the loner, poor girl.
I trudge up over the hill in my Hunter rain boots.
The ticks are thick this time of year—no way am I going to risk walking with the cows in anything else.
It gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.
Over the last year, I’ve come to enjoy my morning walk with the girls.
I don’t get out here every day—it depends on the schedule.
Today is Thursday and it’s slow. The tasting room doesn’t open until eleven and even though I have meetings, my first event isn’t until late this afternoon.
“Harry!” I call again.
“Moo.” Scarlett nudges me harder than before.
“No-no.” I try and push her away. “You’re so needy and it’s too hot for you to crowd me. Go graze with your sisters.”
Of course, she ignores me and nuzzles my ear.
Jimmy, Maria, and Jax act like normal cows, grazing the way a cow should while lazing their days away in the meadows.
Scarlett lives up to her namesake—she’s melodramatic and boisterous.
And poor Harry, she only wants to be by herself, to the point of escaping to the neighbor’s property.
She knows her space—she’s lived here longer than me and cows are smarter than I ever would have guessed.
I never thought I’d own a cow, let alone five, but I inherited them when I bought the vineyard.
I also inherited my caretaker, Morris, and his wife Beverly.
Oh, and there’s the winemaker, Van, the tasting room manager, Evan—who’s barely old enough to legally taste wine himself—and the chef, Maggie.
I didn’t know all these people came along with the vineyard when I bought it, but the day I signed my closing papers and walked into my new home and business, there they were waiting for me.
They proceeded to tell me how things ran and why the previous three owners didn’t work out for them.
That first day, I got the distinct impression I was interviewing to be their boss.
It didn’t matter whose name was on the loan or officially owned the establishment.
When they explained to me all the reasons the past owners failed, I knew then and there if they didn’t like me, I’d fall flat, too.
It didn’t matter that I’d sunk every penny to my name into a struggling winery.
Morris and Bev live on the property in the caretaker’s home where they’ve been for eighteen years. I might own that teensy little house on the far side of my land, but it’s very much theirs. Morris knows the land and vines well. No way could I get rid of them, even if he is ill-tempered.
Bev doesn’t officially work for the winery, but she’s usually around.
Actually, she’s always fussing about like she owns the place since they’ve lived here so long.
She keeps all the flowers watered, the tables wiped, and when the spirit moves her—she’ll wash a few dishes.
I asked if I should make it official and put her on the payroll.
She insists she likes to hang around when she feels like it but when she doesn’t feel like it, she can go her own way.
She quickly informed me I pay her plenty in wine and she’s pretty sure that in the end we’re—in her words—Even-Steven.
I’ve learned to go with the flow and keep her in wine because she’s as lovable as Morris is irritable.
I might’ve bought a vineyard, but I’m a beer girl who happens to be creative when it comes to business. I knew nothing about wine but when I found a great deal on a small struggling vineyard. All I saw was opportunity. I immediately knew how to turn it around.
As finicky as Van is about crafting wine, I knew I needed him.
I try and ignore all the female customers whose sole reason for visiting is to lust after him.
He’s a manwhore in his forties who resembles a young Robert Redford.
There’s no other way to describe him. The women know he’s a manwhore, but they don’t seem to care one bit.
I’ve never seen anything like it, but he brings in his share of business, so I’ve learned not to care, either.
Maggie is a young widow in her early fifties who can make a mean soup and sandwich.
Her desserts are hit or miss. Well, mostly miss.
I’ve started ordering from a local bakery even though it pisses her off.
Lately she’s been experimenting with fancy salads for summer—so far, they’ve been a hit.
Is she really a chef? No, but she runs an interesting deli out of the tasting room kitchen and customers seem to like her creativity.
Even after a year, she still frightens me a tad.
Evan’s been around slightly longer than me and though he’s merely twenty-four, I’ll never be as refined as the likes of him.
Somehow, he can taste ripe apricots glazed with brown sugar butter in a white wine, and a woodsy fall day underlying a white pepper and smoky cheddar in a red.
People ecstatically agree—wondering how they didn’t taste it on their own to begin with.
Customers eat that shit up. I don’t get it— It all tastes like wine to me. But the customers love him and so do I.
There was no way I could get rid of any of these people when I took over. I had no choice but to work hard to make them like me. I think I’ve done okay. One thing’s for sure, I’ve never had so many people in my life.
I climb up the hill, toward the old fence that’s rotting away to look for her. “Harry!”
“You lookin’ for someone?”
I shriek, jumping at the sound of a deep voice coming from my side. I must have startled Scarlett because she moves quickly, pushing me off balance. Letting out another yelp, I fall to my ass with a thud, landing in the morning dew-covered grass.
“Ouch,” I mutter, twigs and rocks pressing into my palms where I tried to catch myself.
“Moo.” Scarlett nudges the side of my head.
“You okay?” I hear and look up.
When I do, I have to squint. Blinded, I can’t see his face so I bring my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun.
The man with the voice is standing across my dilapidated fence, looking down at me.
I still can’t see his face, but his body’s covered in a sheen of sweat.
He’s wearing an old wife-beater and a pair of cargo shorts with running shoes.
The tank is plastered to his tanned skin, covering muscles so distinct, every swell of his chest and abs is visible through the dirty, sweaty material.
“Need a hand?” he asks and starts to move my way, easily stepping over my broken fence.
He’s tall and muscular, so when he moves his body blocks the sun, letting my eyes travel to his face.
He’s scruffy, to the point I wonder if he’s starting to grow a beard.
I bet he hasn’t shaved in over a week, but underneath the scruff are facial features so rough and masculine, I let my eyes widen to take all of him in.
Standing over me, he extends his long sinewy arm, offering me a big callused hand. “Help up?”
“Uh, sure.” I brush gravel and grass off my hands before putting my left in his right.
His big warm hand envelops mine, he gives me a yank and I’m instantly pulled to my feet. Steadying myself and looking up, I’m face to face with the sweaty stranger standing on my land.
His dark brown hair is sticking to him, falling onto his forehead where perspiration’s dripping down his temples. I let my eyes travel to his lips. They’re full, but frowning. This makes me yank my hand out of his and retreat quickly, pulling myself out of my surprised haze.
“Who are you?” I clip, putting space between us.
He tips his head ever so slightly, narrowing his deep brown eyes, matching the dark themed package he’s got going on.
They might be dark but what they are is sharp.
In fact, now that I’ve stepped away to take him in all at once, I realize everything about him is razor sharp.
His eyes, his expression, even how he holds his body.
As much as he’s sweating, he’s not breathing hard as if he was working out.
His breathing is relaxed, like he was lounging on the sofa.
He appears to be a bevy of contradictions—aloof yet alert, tense yet relaxed, detached yet discerning.
Everything about him is simple, but still, he’s exceptionally complex.
I’m jerked out of my contemplation when his full lips form the words, “Your neighbor.”
Oh, thank goodness. I let out a breath of relief. I don’t care if he is tall, dark, and gorgeous, he’s a tad scary looking. Plus, I feel like he snuck up on me. I’m glad to know he’s my neighbor and not a creepy trespasser.
The tension leaves my body. “Sorry, you startled me. I didn’t even hear you. You bought Mr. McCray’s farm?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he simply answers, “Yeah.”
“Okay, now I feel bad,” I exclaim. “I knew it sold. Mr. McCray used to come over often. We even had a little going away thing for him in the tasting room. I knew he moved to be closer to his daughter, but I didn’t know the new owner was in yet.
Mr. McCray said the buyer would be doing some modifications before officially taking possession.
I should’ve come over to introduce myself. ”
“No problem,” he utters without a change in facial expression.
“Addy,” I offer, stepping forward and extending my hand. “Addy Wentworth.”