Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Sophie
" C ome on, you bitch," I snarl as I crank the wrench one more time, sweat beading on my forehead. Finally there is movement. Minimal to be sure, but movement, nonetheless. I glare at the bolt as if it had insulted my entire family and line the wrench back up, determined that it won’t resist any further.
I give it another yank, wincing as the bolt freezes again and a jarring pain shoots up my arm.
"Fuck!"
Stomping my feet, pain radiating from my shoulder, I fight the urge to toss the wrench across the room. The adult and professional in me wins out, knowing how dangerous that could be in a fermentation room full of delicate equipment. Instead, I slowly inhale and release a calming breath, count to ten, and step back to view my domain.
The room is a mess of hoses and various pieces of half-assembled equipment, but it has potential. A mix of new and old equipment is scattered through the temperature-controlled warehouse. The scent of fermenting grape juice mixes with the abrasive smell of industrial cleaners and the lubricant I’ve used in an effort to loosen up this godforsaken bolt.
Replacing the safety valves on these old fermentation tanks wasn't an immediate priority, but it’s a task I have put off long enough. And for damn good reason. It is a massive pain in the ass to maintain equipment this old. Exhibit A, fighting with this fucking frozen bolt.
However, at the rate I’m producing, and with all the operational tanks full of aging wine, I’ll need one of these old behemoths soon enough.
If the winery had the funds for a repairman, I'd have a guy here in a heartbeat. But that isn’t the case at the Celtic Knot Winery where the budget is stretched so thin, its holes have holes.
When the call had come from Brennen Murphy nine months ago asking if I'd be interested in joining his family's winery as the head winemaker, it had felt like a dream come true. Finally, I'd have a chance to get out from under my family's massive shadow, as well as my father's oppressive thumb. I could make my own name in the wine world and prove to everyone that I had winemaking chops of my own.
For weeks after agreeing to Brennen’s proposal, I’d walked around in a sparkly rainbow haze, believing my luck had finally changed… until I'd arrived.
The first clue that it wasn't exactly the dream job I'd been hoping for was the location. The east coast of Florida isn’t exactly known for growing wine grapes. Quality juice from the top producing vineyards had to be shipped in from other regions or even overseas. Although I know once customers taste my wine, they won’t give a shit where the grapes are grown.
Still, it chafed that my first opportunity as head winemaker was at a winery that wasn't even a blip in the wine world. It had once been somewhat of a player, but that was no longer the case. However, this was something that could be overlooked, and I was willing to do that.
The second challenge was the winery's reputation, which was somewhere below rock bottom after it had been embroiled in a nasty cheating scandal several years earlier. By switching wine samples during an elite competition and getting caught red-handed, Celtic Knot lost the respect and reputation it'd once held. That incident reverberated through the wine world, and the seismic waves were still being felt. The shame is a scarlet letter the winery has yet to remove.
But that was why the Murphy family chose me: to build back their reputation of twenty years ago, when they were consistently winning regional and national competitions. With my surname and expertise attached to their wine, we might have a shot at regaining our rightful place within the winemaking world.
I will succeed here. I’ll show everyone at home who doubted me or thought I was insane—basically everyone I know—that I am just as capable of producing incredible, award-winning wines as my grandfather, my father, and my brothers.
Sure, it isn’t the perfect place to work. And holy lord, is Florida hot and humid! But this winery has the necessary bones to be successful: solid equipment and the necessary ingredients to turn grape juice into the best damn wine anyone has ever tasted. I have everything I need to work my magic.
I will put Celtic Knot Winery on the map again, and I'm determined to do it starting with this season’s wines.
With a huff, I toss the wrench on the counter. Screw this damn tank. It is time for lunch, anyway.
I perch on a nearby steel table, my legs swinging as I open my lunch box. Nestled inside are my perfectly arranged and cut ham and cheddar cheese sandwich with mustard, an apple, and my absolute favorite: a huge peanut butter cookie. Starving, my mouth salivating at the smell of the ham and mustard, I take a healthy bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly as I glare at the old fermentation tanks. It'll be a miracle if I get the damn things up and running before I need to tank the next batch.
Like most small wineries, especially in areas where wine grapes don't thrive, the Celtic Knot Winery relies on grapes from vineyards across the country. Once I arrived, I made sure our supply came exclusively from West Texas, Washington, Oregon, and California.
Interestingly enough and in a brilliant move, Brennen partnered with the University of Florida several years ago on a wine varietal that could withstand the state’s excessive heat, humidity, and various molds and fungi. Strategically placed throughout the winery's acreage, the experimental grape had finally produced a decent harvest and, after dabbling for a month or two, I’m thrilled at how well it performed. Using it for blending, I’ve managed to produce an excellent white wine that I cannot wait to introduce.
The door to the office creaks open, and Isabella, the winery's assistant, pokes her head in. A mischievous grin splits her face when she spots me across the room.
"Aren't you the lucky girl!" she whisper yells.
I frown at her, and my brain whirls as I try to think of just how I might be the “lucky girl” right now. But I have nothing. "What are you talking about?" Isabella loves to tease, and there’s no telling what she is joking about right now.
Isabella’s brows arch to her hairline as she stands poker straight, a perplexed look on her face. "Wait. You don't know?"
Alarm skitters down my spine. I hate surprises and this doesn't feel like a good one.
"I've been working in here all day. What the hell am I supposed to know?" I ask, fighting to keep my tone light.
"Uhh…" Isabella wrinkles her nose. "I thought Brennen would have told you by now. But he was pretty distracted this morning."
"Isabella, what was Brennen supposed to tell me? You're freaking me out." I hop off the table, my anxiety spiking. "Has something bad happened?"
"Sophie, I just said you were lucky ." Isabella's tone was exasperated. "How would that constitute something bad?" She bites her lip and shifts her weight, hands fidgeting—a sure sign she’s uncomfortable and regrets saying anything. "But if you haven't heard yet, I don't want to be the one to spoil the surprise. Just know that I'm totally jealous of you right now. Bye!" She waves and disappears, the door slamming shut behind her.
Shit!
As usual, my mind starts circling every possible negative scenario as my heart rate skyrockets. I swear I can feel my blood pressure rising by the second.
What the ever-loving hell is going on? If Brennen is firing me, I'll never hear the end of it from my father.
Wait a minute. Isabella said I was lucky, right? She wouldn't have chosen that specific word if they were walking me out the door. Drawing in a deep breath, I count to ten again and try to stabilize my pulse, I’m getting good at this deep breathing thing. This surprise is probably nothing.
I step toward the door, determined to track Isabella down, just as it swings open again. Brennen strides in, and from his harried expression, I can tell that the man has way too much on his mind. His hair is spiked out in haphazard directions, looking like he’s been running his hands through it. Dark circles ring his eyes, suggesting he's not sleeping well, either. From the looks of it, this guy seriously needs to de-stress or take a long vacation.
"Oh good. You're in here," he remarks, his tone brusque.
"I'm always in here, Brennen. Working. What's going on?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever news he’s about to deliver by crossing my arms over my chest and planting my feet hips-width apart.
"Your new apprentice just arrived. One of the tasting room employees is giving him a tour right now. But he should be back here soon."
My head jerks back as if he'd slapped me, and my jaw sags heavily toward the floor.
An apprentice? What the fuck?
"What are you talking about? I never asked for an apprentice, Brennen. I told you when I started here that I work alone."
"Well, you've got one. Apparently we had some scholarship competition going on that I wasn't aware of. Emma brought him by an hour ago. He starts with you today."
"Brennen, I do not want an apprentice," I repeat, clearly enunciating my words so he understands. "I hate having people back here when I'm working, and that’s for competent people, let alone some newbie I’ll have to babysit every day. He'll get in the damn way and make my work that much harder."
Brennen shifts to the side as his hands brace on his hips and he exhales sharply. The man looks like he'll drop from a stroke any minute. Yep, he definitely needs a vacation. "Look, Sophia, he's free fucking labor. I don't give a damn if you have him dusting all the bottles in the tasting room, scrubbing the floors in here, or cleaning the guest toilets. Find something for him to do and keep him out of my hair. Just deal with it, okay? I don't need any more problems at this point."
With that, he swivels on the ball of his foot and disappears through the office doorway.
Well, damn it all to hell!
Babysitting a wannabe winemaker ranks right up there with getting a root canal or colonoscopy in my book. Maybe worse because the moron will be asking me damn stupid questions all the time.
Suddenly a dull ache forms behind my eyes, and my head feels like it’s caught in a vise. The pinch between my shoulder blades finally registers, and I realize how tense I am. I focus on deep breaths and relax my muscles as I remember my mantra: an uptight winemaker only makes an uptight wine, and that’s not good for anyone.
Just breathe… I can handle this. If he gets on my nerves, toilet duty sounds like a great option.
My mental pep talk brings a smile to my face, and I inhale the rest of my lunch as I return my focus to the task at hand, hurling another glare at the offending fermentation tank. I’ll get that safety valve replaced today if I have to dismantle the damn tank piece by piece.
Thirty minutes later, I've only managed to move the bolt four millimeters. I thought I finally had it on that third turn, but now it's really frozen. Even the penetrating oil I've used has failed to work.
Utilizing every colorful curse word I know, I give it one more try, pulling so hard it will be a wonder if my shoulders don’t pop out of their sockets.
Startled by a deep chuckle directly behind me, I jerk upright, smacking my head on a pipe, and curse like a sailor.
"Goddammit!" I yell, throwing the wrench to the floor. I rub the sore spot on my scalp as I pivot to lambaste the idiot who has foolishly decided to invade my workroom and scare the bejesus out of me. But the sight that greets me renders me speechless, and my brain is filled with an appreciative humming sound.
I can only stare at the gorgeous man beaming back at me. Thick brown hair lies in soft, lazy curls around his head; his ridiculously well-lashed, dark eyes twinkle with amusement. His full lips are framed by the most perfectly chiseled jawline I think I've ever seen. To top it off, he is tall—easily over six feet—with long legs and a V-shaped torso that most models would kill for. Judging by the way his T-shirt molds to his muscular chest and arms, he is intimately familiar with exercise or some form of manual labor.
Gah! Focus, Sophie!
"That bolt's giving you fits, huh?" the man drawls in a twang that sends a tingle right through me. There is definitely a southern drawl present, one deeper than is normal in Florida. It is insanely sexy and makes him that much more appealing. Despite being a California girl, I’ve always been a sucker for a southern accent.
Who the hell is this guy?
"I… uh… I'm trying to replace the safety valve on this old fermentation tank and all the bolts are rusted tight," I finally stammer out, mortified that my brain refuses to work with this Adonis standing in front of me.
For fuck’s sake, Sophie, get your shit together!
The man steps forward and stretches his hand out, his smile widening so I can see his straight, white teeth. He looks like a cover model you'd see on one of those men's fitness magazines. "Hi. I'm Alex."
"Okay." I blink at him, giving his hand a quick shake and trying desperately to ignore the tingle shooting up my arm. My brain is unable to process any further reply.
He chuckles again, and I shiver. It's a deep, soothing sound, and he obviously does it a lot based on the laugh lines that bracket his full lips. "I'm guessing you're Sophia, the head winemaker."
My enthusiasm pops like a balloon, and my gaze narrows. What is this guy up to?
"I'm the only winemaker here and call me Sophie." I allow Brennen to call me Sophia, because it seems to give him some strange sense of pleasure. But I find it irritating when people use my formal name.
"Great! I'm your new apprentice." His thumbs snag in his belt loops as he turns to survey the room.
My jaw hits the floor for the second time in an hour.
No fucking way .
This is my new apprentice? What in the ever-loving hell? I'll never get any work done with this handsome distraction under my feet.
"No," I blurt out.
His gaze shoots to mine, his brow crinkling as he frowns. "No?"
"I don't want an apprentice. I told Brennen that." I shrug awkwardly at him, trying to keep my tone light because for some odd reason, I don't want to disappoint the cute guy.
So damned annoying.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm trying to get this winery back on the map, and I don't have time for an apprentice," I explain, hoping it's enough to have him hightailing it out of here and go back to wherever he came from.
His mouth curls up in quite possibly the cutest smirk I’ve ever seen, and he folds his bulging arms across his chest—a classic defensive stance if I've ever seen one. My brothers always adopted similar poses when arguing with me, which was a constant when we were growing up.
"And I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sophie." The way my name sounds rolling off his tongue sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. He rocks forward, settling his weight on the balls of his feet, his eyes drilling into mine. "But I won that scholarship fair and square. I'm not going anywhere."
Well, shit. Now what?
My temper begins to bubble, pushing rational thought further away and I puff up, ready to lay into him. How dare this arrogant prick think he can call the shots!
He must have seen the spark in my eyes because his hands come up placatingly. "Just listen, please. I'm not here to cause problems. I only want to learn quality winemaking from the best, and that's you."
I feel my ruffled feathers smooth ever so slightly at the compliment, but I'm still pissed… and attracted.
Dammit.
"When I saw your name listed with this winery, I applied right away," he continues. "I studied under Arie Grant at The Texas Rose in Fredericksburg for a couple years, and he agreed I was ready for the next level. I work very hard, and I know I'll make things easier for you around here. I promise you won't regret it."
My resistance fades at the eagerness in his tone, the recitation of his experience—which thankfully isn’t zero, and the entreating grin playing across his lips. How can anyone say no to this guy? He could probably sell fish to a fisherman.
"Okay, okay," I grumble. "I guess I don't have much choice. But if you annoy me, you’ll be cleaning the toilets. With your toothbrush."
His laughter booms against the high ceilings, a sound deep from his belly that I feel in mine, and my lips reluctantly twitch up in response.
This Alex is infectious… and dangerous. It would probably be better, for my peace of mind at the very least, to escort his hot ass right out the door.
Whether I like it or not, life at the Celtic Knot just became exponentially more complicated.