Chapter 9
Walker
The call with Eli barely disconnects before I’m already dialing Knox.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Tell me you’re free,” I say, already walking out of the office and into the gravel path that cuts through the vineyard.
There’s a pause on the other end, then a grin in his voice. “I mean, was gonna take a nap for my lunch hour.”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want to get your ass out here. Now.”
That gets his attention. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say sharply. “Yet. That third kitchen I’ve got, the one near the barrel house. Oven’s still running hot on one side.”
“I thought you shut that one down until further notice.”
“I did. I need it operational.”
Another pause. “Why?”
“Because I was right about that dinky little kitchen at Lia’s new place. She’s coming here in an hour to look at the kitchens, and I want every single one of them ready for her.”
Knox doesn’t hesitate. “On my way. No charge.”
“That’s not—”
“I said no charge,” he repeats. “See you in twenty.”
The line goes dead.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and exhale slowly through my nose, forcing myself to refocus as I make my way down the row. The afternoon sun shines brightly, gilding my grape vines in gold.
It’s growing season. Busy. Demanding. Everything is running on tight schedules and even tighter margins until we can get to harvesting season and turn our profit.
Just the way I like it.
“Boss man.”
I stop and turn as Marcus, the vineyard general manager, jogs up beside me. He’s got his clipboard tucked under his arm. “The truck from Dayton’s running late. Says they’ll be here closer to six.”
“Push the unloading crew back an hour,” I say without missing a beat. “Make sure cold storage is cleared by then.”
“Already done,” he says. “Tasting room’s full, though. Remember that wedding party?”
“The one showing up in an hour?”
“That’s who’s in the tasting room right now. They insist that they booked the room from two o’clock to three o’clock, not three to four like we’ve got on our schedule.”
Of course they are. What is it with wedding parties always being so damn early to their own scheduled functions?
“Tell Elise to comp their first round of drinks and finger foods,” I say as I start walking again. “I’ll deal with the planner.”
Marcus nods and peels off, already barking orders into his radio. I keep moving, my work boots crunching over the gravel walkways that line the outer perimeter of the vines as I head toward the main building.
People straighten when they see me. Conversations pause. It’s not out of fear, but there’s an inherent understanding between me and my staff: things run smoothly here because they have to.
Because I don’t allow for anything else.
I step into the tasting room long enough to smooth feathers, offer reassurances, and redirect the cacophony of the vineyard with a calm voice and a firm spine.
The planner relaxes. The guests smile. The wine keeps flowing. Within minutes, everything is as it should be, and the idea of a two-hour tasting instead of a one-hour tasting gets the ruffled wedding party back to celebrating.
But the whole time, my eyes drift to the clock mounted above the bar.
I leave the front-of-the-house to Elise, my wine tasting guide for the afternoon, and cut through the service corridor toward the kitchens.
The main one hums with activity, as it always does.
The prep cooks move in rhythm with each other, the stainless steel appliances gleam, the ovens roar steadily and fill the kitchen with robust smells every time they’re opened by someone.
It’s a good kitchen. A solid one.
Not good enough for Lia, though.
Too chaotic.
At the thought of her, I can’t help but picture her standing in that shoebox of an apartment kitchen.
No counter space. One measly oven. Barely any cabinet space.
No built-in pantry. No room to breathe, let alone produce at the level she needs to.
I knew it the second I saw it. A baker needs space. Needs flow. Needs options.
Needs support.
The instinct slams into me again, sharp and unwelcome in its intensity.
Provide. Protect. Fix.
I scowl at myself as I push through the door to the second kitchen. It’s a bit smaller than the first one, but it comes with a great view above one of the washing sinks. It faces the westward vineyard of grapes, but its setup is more suited to catering the receptions that happen out back.
With a door straight to the outside, anyone from my staff—or anyone lost on the vineyard grounds—could simply walk in on her while she’s working. Ruin her groove. Pull her out of the trance that always happens to me when I’m cooking up a storm in my own kitchen.
That won’t do.
I double back out of that kitchen and put it out of my mind. It doesn’t take me long to get to the third kitchen the main building of the vineyard has, and the moment I walk in, I know it’s the one for Lia.
It’s quieter here. Cooler. The scent of old oak barrels lingers even through the steel and tile. I reach out and turn on the lights before crossing toward the oven, turning the dials to check the gauges myself.
Still temperamental.
“Not for long,” I murmur to myself.
The sound of footsteps announces Knox before I see him. He strolls in with his tool bag slung over one shoulder, hair a mess, grin firmly in place. He’s got a tool belt wrapped around his hips, which I’m pretty sure is the only thing keeping his disheveled overalls from piling at his feet.
“Walker,” he says as he comes over and plops his things onto the stainless-steel countertops.
I nod as I stand, closing the oven. “Eli.”
“This the beast giving you trouble?” he asks.
I take a step back to give him room. “This is the one.”
He crouches immediately, already pulling tools free. “Shouldn’t take me long to fix. How long’s it been on?”
“About ten minutes.”
He opens the oven door and sticks his hand in. “Oh, that’s nothing. I know what’s up.”
“Good. Fix it.”
Knox chuckles as he stands and turns the oven off. “Are you pacing because of the oven, or because Lia’s coming?”
I don’t even realize I’m pacing around the kitchen until he says something. I still, ignoring his question. “How long will it take to fix?”
Knox just shrugs. “Half an hour. Maybe less. Depends on how many issues are piling up to cause this one.”
“What do you think the issue is?”
“Welp,” he grunts out, “could just be a bad temperature sensor. That’s the easiest fix.
Depending on the oven’s age and wear and tear, it could be a failing heating element.
If it’s not used all that much, it could just be a matter of dust caked somewhere it shouldn’t be.
I won’t know until the oven cools down long enough to get my head inside. ”
“Good. Let’s get to it.”
I turn and lean back against the counter, folding my arms as I watch him work. Many people in Honeysuckle Grove prefer Ford working on their things, which is fine. Ford’s a good handyman. Trained Knox up from when he was just a kid wandering into town with a trash bag full of his stuff.
Ford is big on sticking to his schedules, though. It’s not often I can get Ford in here with an emergency. Knox, on the other hand? He seems to thrive on emergencies. Always been that way. So, whenever the vineyard has an emergency, Knox is who I call.
My gaze drifts back to the clock on the kitchen wall above the sink.
Lia shouldn’t matter this much. I barely know her.
And yet, the idea of her struggling because she doesn’t have the right tools at her disposal sets my teeth on edge.
She shouldn’t have to choose between her livelihood and her comfort.
She shouldn’t have to make do with less because the world decided to throw a tree through her damn roof.
A baker deserves a kitchen that works for her.
I straighten abruptly, annoyed at the thought spiral.
“This isn’t about her,” I tell myself quietly. “This is just good business.”
Knox snorts from beneath the oven. “Sure it is.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Mostly because I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.
My radio crackles to life before Marcus’ voice filters through. “Boss man.”
I pluck the radio from my hip. “Hit me with it, Marcus.”
The radio crackles again. “Got another issue with this trolley out here. Knox still on the grounds?”
Knox chuckles from the oven. “Yeah, I’ll take a look at it. But that one’s gonna cost ya.”
I nod as I depress the button to activate the radio. “Once he’s done taking a look at this kitchen oven, he’ll be out there for the trolley.”
“One of the ovens in the kitchen is down?”
“The one in the third kitchen that’s heating unevenly.”
The radio chirps in my hand. “Good. I’m glad we’re finally getting that third kitchen on board. Any chance at a timeframe?”
I press the button and speak. “Give him thirty or so minutes. Pull that trolley off to the side and bring out the other one to do the tours.”
“Already on it.”
The oven roars to life twenty minutes later and he stands with that smug look on his face that says he nailed it. He fiddles with the knobs, sticking his hand into the oven every once in a while, and with every movement he seems more and more satisfied.
He turns the gauges, waits, and then nods. He pushes buttons, waits, and then nods. It’s a whole pattern he works through before he closes the oven door. Then Knox stands and wipes his hands on a rag as he turns to me.
“There,” he says. “Lia can run two ovens at once in here now. You happy?”
I nod once as I reach over and turn off all the gauges and knobs. “Yes.”
He watches me for a beat, then smirks. “You’re in trouble.”
“Fix your mouth,” I say flatly.
He laughs and shoulders his bag. “Call me if you need anything else. I’m gonna go take a look at your trolley outside.”
“I won’t.”
“Sure, you will.”
He leaves while whistling, and I’m alone again with my thoughts in the quiet hum of the kitchen.
I wipe the counters down to remove whatever fine layer of dust may be sitting there.
I pull a mixer out of one of the cabinets and use it to check all of the outlets to make sure they’re all operational.
I even make sure the walk-in fridge is on and holding temperature the way it should.
I’m just about to check the cabinets and make sure there’s no weird surprises hiding to greet Lia when I hear a familiar sound.
Laughter.
Soft, and lilting.
I freeze.
Is that… my mother?
Sure enough, I hear the clicking of her heels and the dodder of my father’s patent leather shoes against the stone flooring before his voice filters into the kitchen.
“Looks like you’re hard at work, as always, son.”