Daddy's Protege

Chapter 1

(Aria POV)

My dad’s business dream came with forklifts and beeping alarms. Standing at the edge of Bennett a pallet of empty glass wobbled. I was busy watching the way sunlight gathered in his hair when the forklift pivoted harder than it should have, the pallet rocking.

“Move,” Marcus said, already catching my arm. He hauled me out of the way with one hard pull, my shoulder bumping his chest. The pallet settled. My heartbeat did not.

I realized I was still pressed against him and stepped back like I’d been caught. “Thanks,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Steel-toed boots.” That answered everything.

We toured the tasting room next because he said I needed to see what the public saw. A chalkboard hung near the bar with the day’s flights scrawled on it in earnest handwriting and too many exclamation points.

“Who wrote that?” I asked.

“My brother’s kid,” he said. “We hire half the county this time of year.”

“It looks… like a lemonade stand.” I set my tote down and dragged a chair under the chalkboard. “We can do better.”

“Miss…”

But I was already on the chair, arm up, wiping the board with a bar rag.

His hand closed around the back of the chair, steadying it. “Off,” he said.

“I’m fixing it.”

“You’re going to break your neck.”

“I’ve been writing since kindergarten. I think I can handle a chalkboard.”

The chair rocked when I reached higher. His other hand landed on my bare thigh, just above the knee, to keep me balanced. The touch was firm, impersonal, necessary. It turned my bones to jelly.

I rewrote the board. My letters came out clean, modern. I underlined once, no hearts, no fireworks, no exclamations.

“Better,” I said, climbing down on my own before I did something silly like fall into his arms. I hopped to the floor and brushed the chalk dust off my fingers. “Consider it a free sample.”

He looked at the board, then at me. “Consider boots your payment.”

“You’re very fixated on my footwear.”

“Because I like my staff with all their toes.” He winked at me. My heart.

“How about you let me take three photos for the website that don’t look like a stock image search for wine mom.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, which I was starting to suspect was his version of a sigh. “Two photos. And you clear the captions with me.”

I held out my hand. “Deal.”

He didn’t take it. “We don’t shake on safety.”

Okay. I dropped my hand. “Two photos,” I repeated, and went to retrieve my phone from the barrel room like a scolded teenager.

When I came back, he was talking to a worker on his radio in that calm, clipped way that made people fall in line.

I snapped the first photo while he wasn’t looking: his hands at the radio, the barrel stacks going soft behind him, the gold of the room turning his forearms into something out of a magazine.

The second photo I took outside, sun flaring off a line of tanks, a worker’s boots (steel-toed, of course) stepped into the corner of the frame, a hose arcing water like ribbon.

I drafted the captions in Notes because I wasn’t stupid enough to post without asking. Harvest is a thousand quiet decisions. It’s not magic; it’s Monday. I haven’t shown Marcus yet. I wanted to catch him at an authentic moment.

“Come on,” he said, clipping the radio back on his belt. “Last stop.”

He took me to the lab, the tasting I couldn’t taste. Two interns in white coats were running pipettes like a high school chemistry dream come true. It smelled like lemon cleanser, nothing romantic about that.

“This is what you sell.” He tapped a hydrometer gently with his knuckle. “Not sunsets and corkscrews.”

“We can sell both,” I said. “Science and sunsets. Give people a reason and a story.”

He went quiet for a second. The interns pretended not to look at us. Finally, he nodded once. “Story within reason.”

I checked my watch and tried not to smile. I was the kid who’d been given the keys to a candy store. “What next?”

“Back to the office.” It was a quiet walk back.

He opened his desk. “You get a staff badge.” He handed me a lanyard with my name printed on it, which meant either my dad had warned him I was coming or Marcus planned for everything.

He handed me some cash. “You are done for the day. Get your boots. Stay off ladders unless I’m holding it. Keep your phone in your pocket when around the equipment. And show up tomorrow at 4:45.”

“In the morning?” I squeaked.

He gave me the look men give when they’ve been up before dawn since forever. “Grapes don’t like heat. Neither do pickers.”

He grabbed a second radio off the charger and handed it to me. “Channel one. If you get lost, call. If something looks wrong, call. If you think you can lift it yourself…”

“Call,” I finished. Our fingers brushed as I took the radio. Static leapt between us. Or I imagined it. Either way, it ran all the way to my throat.

He opened the office door for me again, and I stepped into the heat and noise like I’d been gone a week instead of an hour.

I made it halfway down the steps before he said, “Aria.”

I turned. He leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the jamb, sunlight cutting the sharp line of his cheekbone, making his eyes darker.

“Boots,” he said, because of course he did. Then, after a beat, softer, “Don’t make me come find you.”

I lifted the radio. “Channel one,” I said.

“Channel one,” he echoed, and watched me go like a problem he intended to solve, personally, methodically, one rule at a time.

I headed for my car, already pulling up a map to the only shoe store in town that might stock steel-toed boots that didn’t make me look like I moonlighted on a construction site. My hands were still a little shaky. From ladders, forklifts, the newness of it all.

From Marcus.

I paused at the edge of the lot to snap one last photo, a row of vines disappearing into the glare, leaf-edges lit like stained glass. I typed a caption I didn’t post: Harvest starts before sunrise. So do I.

Then I slid into my car and steered it toward the boot store like a girl who knew exactly what she was doing.

I didn’t. But I’d learn.

At 4:45, Marcus Hale would be waiting.

And I wouldn’t be late.