Chapter 4 #2
According to Layla I’m too empathetic for my own good.
But it’s not like I can help it. I feel everything, usually too much.
The friction in rooms, the tension between two people on the verge of an argument.
Sometimes even family dinners are too much for me because I’m trapped with everyone’s emotions swirling and pulling me under like a rip current.
It can be a lot, to say the least.
Which is probably why I prefer books to socializing. There’s always a paperback shoved in the front pocket of my apron—whatever I’m currently reading. It’s embarrassing how much comfort having a book within reach gives me, like an emotional support blanket I can pull out between orders.
Yet another reason I’ll remain perpetually single. It’s not as if some book boyfriend is going to jump from the pages. Although, it’d be nice.
A girl can dream.
Sundays are my one day off. I usually leave my assistant manager, Lina, in charge and use the day to catch up on errands or other random tasks I didn’t get to during the week.
Laundry, returns, cleaning, dishes. It doesn’t take much more than a few days of neglect for things to get out of control fast. And I’m just one person.
Plus Duchess, my eight-pound ball of orange fur.
Lina came recommended to me by my sister Elyse’s fiancé Dominic.
My previous assistant manager had moved on to another job and I’d mentioned at a family dinner that I was thinking about hiring someone new.
Dominic brought up his cousin almost immediately.
He said she was trying to get back on her feet following a bad divorce and that she used to manage a restaurant, so she had plenty of experience.
I’d taken the recommendation on faith, brought her in for an interview, and hired her the same day.
She’s easily been one of the better decisions I’ve made for the shop.
Having reliable help has meant my Sundays have finally started to feel like actual days off rather than something I have to worry about.
But just as I was all done with my tasks and ready to curl up with my favorite Kleypas book and a reluctant Duchess, my brother Ethan sent me a text asking if I was free to fill in at the tasting room. And because I rarely say no to anyone in my family, but especially Ethan, I agreed.
The tasting room is packed, as expected for a late summer Sunday.
I mill about, refilling glasses and answering questions.
I may not work for the winery on a full-time basis, but I know my stuff.
You don’t grow up a Ledger and not know wine.
It’s practically in our DNA. My dad jokes that Ledger blood is mostly tannins.
I chat with a couple from Spokane, telling them the tasting notes as I pour. I explain to a group of girlfriends why the Syrah has a peppery smell. I even manage to sell a few bottles to a husband and wife celebrating their first anniversary.
I like this part—interacting with guests and hearing their stories.
Especially the couples. There’s nothing I love more than a good love story, and a little wine always seems to draw one out.
Where did you meet? How did you meet? How long have you been together?
It gives me hope that maybe all the books I read are rooted in truth.
That somewhere out there, my own love story is waiting to be written.
A glass clinks softly on the bar in front of me, pulling me back to the present.
“Excuse me,” a voice says near my elbow.
I turn, already smiling, and find myself looking at Wesley Hampton.
“Professor Hampton,” I blurt, dropping the nearly empty bottle in my hands. By some miracle, it doesn’t shatter against the marble tile.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He bends to pick up the bottle before I can get to it, and our heads knock together with a thunk.
“Oh my God—I am so, so sorry,” I rush out, clapping a hand over my forehead. “I wasn’t looking, I should’ve—I’m just, I cannot believe I just head-butted you—”
He laughs, the sound low and warm, and lightly catches my wrist before I can spiral myself straight into the floor. “Hey, hey. I’m okay. Promise.”
I go completely still at the contact, my brain short-circuiting.
He’s dressed in a lightweight forest green cardigan, the sleeves pushed up his forearms, a simple white T-shirt peeking out beneath it. Black-framed glasses sit above kind brown eyes, and salt-and-pepper stubble shadows his defined jaw.
He looks perfect.
I feel very much not.
“And call me Wes,” he adds, his smile doing something wildly unnecessary to my stomach. “Professor Hampton makes me sound like a gray-haired, potbelly old man.”
Only then does he drop my wrist, like he just remembered he’s holding it.
“Right. Wes.” My voice comes out slightly breathless. “Sorry.”
“Do you work here too?” His eyes rake over me, taking in the uniform—an ill-fitting burgundy polo with the Ledger logo stitched over the left breast and wrinkled black slacks hanging on by a thread.
“Oh,” I breathe a laugh. “No. I mean yes. I mean sort of.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“This is my family’s winery,” I explain. “Sometimes I help out.”
His eyes widen, and I can’t tell if that’s a bad thing or a good thing.
“Impressive,” he says slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “One of the best wineries in the country and the best coffee I’ve ever had. You’re full of surprises, Ariana.”
My heart flutters like a butterfly discovering its wings for the first time.
Before he can say anything else, a woman steps up beside him, and I instantly realize he isn’t alone.
She’s beautiful in a polished, effortless way—sleek blonde hair, a simple white cotton dress that would look like a crumpled bag on me but on her hangs just right, skimming her waist like it was tailored.
Even the way she stands feels intentional, shoulders relaxed, chin tipped with easy confidence, like she belongs anywhere she goes.
Like she’s never once wondered where to put her hands or what to do with herself.
“Ariana,” Wes says, turning slightly toward her, “this is Savannah. She was one of my students a few years ago.”
“Nice to meet you,” Savannah says warmly, extending a hand.
Her smile is kind, not the least bit condescending, which somehow makes it worse.
She meets my eyes without hesitation, without that quick flicker people get when they’re sizing someone up.
She doesn’t need to size anyone up. She already knows where she stands.
“We’re celebrating,” Wes says as he squeezes her shoulder. “Savannah recently signed her first publishing deal.”
The fluttering in my heart slows to a stop, sending me soaring down.
“That’s amazing.” I try not to stare as his thumb brushes along her arm, a small gesture that tells me this relationship is more than teacher and student. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you!” She glances at Wes, and the way he looks back at her causes something inside me to break.
Of course he looks at her like that.
She’s the kind of woman people notice when she walks into a room. The kind who probably wakes up looking put together, who knows what to say without rehearsing it first.
This is the kind of woman a man like him would be with. Someone gorgeous and accomplished and confident. Someone not like me at all.
She’s the kind of woman most men want. Meanwhile, I’m the girl on the sidelines, watching life pass me by, because I’ll never be a Savannah. I’m never going to be the woman men trip over themselves for. I’m not sure why I even bothered thinking I had a chance.
“Well,” I say, stepping back and forcing a smile. “I’ll have a bottle sent out on the house.”
They say their thank-yous as I scurry away.
I force myself to swallow, fighting the tightness in my throat as pressure builds behind my eyes.
It’s embarrassing how much this is affecting me.
I don’t even know him. This was just some imaginary trick my brain played on me.
He was only being nice, not actually interested in me.
It’s only a silly little crush. It’s not as if I thought he was some sort of prince charming.
And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it really is just a congratulatory drink between a teacher and his former student, but that’s beside the point.
Just once—just once in my life—I wanted to be the girl. I wanted a meet-cute story. I wanted the unyielding attention of a man who only had eyes for me.
Now I see that maybe that’s the true fairy tale: to wish and hope and want for things that only ever seem to happen to other people, never to me.
Wes is only the most recent in a long line of boys and men who have never desired me. Never wanted me. Never even noticed me.
You’d think I would be used to it by now.
Being invisible.