Chapter 6
Jake
I can’t sleep.
And it’s not because the room is too warm or the mattress too lumpy. I mean, those things don’t help , but it’s really more about being under the same roof as Rosa for the first time since?—
Since our secret sleepovers in the Caparelli wine cave when we were teens.
And I can’t let my thoughts wander in that direction, or I’ll never fall asleep again.
I shift under the light covers, wondering how much it would cost to have air-conditioning installed in a house this old, then remind myself that one, Rosa doesn’t have the money and two, I won’t be around long enough to benefit from the hypothetical AC anyway.
The window is open, and the fresh scent of growing things wafts in on the cool breeze. I’ve missed this in my years away. Every wine-growing region smells a little different, and even after my many vineyard experiences, Oak Creek Canyon is my favorite scent in the world.
Sometimes I really regret letting the situation with Rosa chase me away from home.
The house settles, and I punch the pillow to get it into a better shape. Maybe I should get a glass of water.
I pad down the hall to the bathroom, barefoot, hoping Rosa is fast asleep. I don’t want to wake her.
It’s weird, being here at the Caparelli homestead, like watching shadow us circle and dart through the quiet hallways and giant backyard. I catch glimpses of us at eight and ten, playing tag and hide-and-seek. At eleven and thirteen, camping out in the backyard under the stars, confessing our deepest secrets to each other. At sixteen and eighteen, sneaking into the wine cave to make out, certain no one would ever know. At eighteen and twenty, with the whole world in front of us, bright and shiny and new.
And then…nothing. Nothing but regrets and anger and recrimination.
Until now. Seeing Rosa as an adult, after all these years, has been like adding yet another shadow us to the collection.
Something else to carry with me when I go away again.
Because of course I’ll be going away.
Now that Mom and Dad have sold the place, there’s nothing to keep me here ever again.
The ironic thing is there’s nothing to keep me away from here, either.
But it’s too late to focus on that. Even if I wanted to stay, too much time has passed, too much water under the bridge. I made the best decision I could back when I felt like I had no other choice, but I let go of so many other things in the process.
So I’ll be moving on. And I’ve got lots of options. I’ll still be working for someone else, of course, but it’s not like I have a choice about that part these days.
Italy is nice. Francesco Manca should have an opening next year. Or I could hire on at a winery in the Bordeaux region. I’ve always liked playing around with the richer reds.
Maybe I’ll head back up to Oregon. The Willamette Valley has a lot of opportunities. It’s a growth market.
Or I could head back to Washington state, especially the region right over the border from British Columbia. I still have no idea why that region of Canada is such a big wine-growing area across the border while the Americans still run cattle on their side.
Wine is a much better proposition than beef these days.
Of course, beef makes me think of steak, which makes me think of dinner and sitting in the backyard with Rosa while twilight wrapped around us.
I know I should avoid her. I should do my job, hole up in my room, and stay out of her orbit. But that’s easier said than done.
The water from the tap is cold and refreshing, so I fill my glass again and open the bathroom door, ready to take it back to my room.
And of course, because my luck is no luck at all, she’s on the other side of the door.
She jumps back, startled, her hand dropping from the door handle as I swing it out of her reach.
“I, uh—sorry.” I look up, over her shoulder, down the hall.
Anywhere but directly at Rosa.
And I’m lying, because there’s no way I’m not looking at her. She’s in shorts and a teeny tank with thin straps, both made of some pale, light material, and the moonlight streaming down the hallway turns them transparent in a way that makes little Jake stand up and take notice.
Her nipples are peaked, tight little buds under the almost-see-through fabric, and I can’t stop staring at them.
The years have been good to Rosa.
“Jake,” she whispers, and I realize she’s looking at me looking at her, and wasn’t there some promise I made to myself about staying professional and distant and out of her orbit ?
And where the hell is the anger and disappointment and frustration that’s followed every memory of Rosa since I left Oak Creek Canyon?
Jesus, one meal and a chance meeting in the hall and I’m collapsing like a cheap grape-collection basket.
I lift my glass, ripping my gaze away from her chest, and say, “Thirsty.”
I’m such a goddamn moron.
And she’s not a moron, because her next move is to cross her arms over her chest, blocking her gorgeous breasts from view.
But now her gaze is fixated on my bare chest, and I realize I’m not the only one who’s appreciating the changes of the past ten years.
The bolt of lust that arrows through me almost drops me to my knees.
I want to keep looking at her.
I want her to keep looking at me.
And both of those things are probably a bad fucking idea.
“Good night,” I murmur and slip past her where she’s standing in the bathroom doorway. At the last second, she steps back so we don’t actually touch.
At least one of us has their head on straight.
I’m just not quite sure which one of us it is.
“Good night,” she whispers back, scurrying into the bathroom and closing the door with a little more force than absolutely necessary. I head to my room, clutching the glass of water like it’s my last link to sanity.
Maybe it is.
Because all I want to do is turn around and step inside Rosa’s room, slip into her bed, pull her into my arms, and fall asleep together.
Maybe some other activities before that point, too.
But it’s not going to happen. I’m here to make Caparelli successful in a way I wasn’t able to do for Take Flight. Preserve one more family winery before it’s ripped away by outsiders trying to make a quick buck.
And if I can stick it to her uncle at the same time—well, that’s icing on the cake.
But Rosa and me? I just don’t see that happening.
I shake my head and take the last few steps to my bedroom, closing the door firmly.
I set the glass on the bedside table and crawl under the covers. Tomorrow I’ve got to be up at dawn, making sure the irrigation system is working as intended. Then I’ll head into town and see about picking up a crew.
There’s a lot of work to do, and I need to stop thinking about what could have been and what might be and focus on what is .
That’s the only way I’m going to survive this season.
* * *
“Nope.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Lo siento, senor.”
“All booked up, man.”
I shove a hand through my hair and blow out a frustrated breath. I’m running into brick walls everywhere I turn, and I can’t figure out why.
It’s later in the season, but it still shouldn’t be this hard to hire some temporary workers for the next couple of months. I’ve never had this much trouble anywhere in the world.
But the minute I mention Caparelli, any interest dries up faster than the irrigation ditches during a drought.
I have my suspicions—and no one to ask about them.
It’s getting near lunchtime, so I head to the café down the street and grab a table outside. The server brings me a big glass of ice water with lemon, and I drink half immediately. It’s hot out today.
“Welcome back,” booms a voice from over my shoulder, and I turn to see one of my best friends from high school drop into the seat next to me with a grin. “Knew you couldn’t stay away forever.”
“Wade Jenkins,” I say, grinning. “I’m only temporarily, brother.” I give him a fist bump and gesture to the server. “Join me for lunch?”
“Sure,” he says, accepting another glass of water. We both know hydration is key—for people and for wine grapes.
In high school, we competed for spots on the sports teams and scholarships. In college, before I transferred schools, we fought for class rank and the best internships. But now, with time and distance and our own meandering paths to success, we’re just two guys who know a thing or two about the wine business.
“So, how’s the family estate?” I keep my voice light, like I’m not jealous as hell that he’s still got a family estate to run. The slight raise to his eyebrows tells me I’m not as successful at hiding it as I’d hoped, but he’s kind enough to ignore it.
“Same old, same old.” He wipes his brow and slaps his hat back on his head, protection from the sun. “Dad keeps on pretending to retire. I keep pretending to believe him. I’ll eventually get to make decisions on my own.”
“Cheers to that,” I say and clink my glass to his. The server swings by again, and we order.
He leans back in his chair and tilts his head. “So what brings you back to Oak Creek Canyon? Helping your folks pack up? Sorry about that, by the way.”
I wave his sympathy away. “Nah, they’re already moved into their new condo in San Luis Obispo.”
He whistles. “Nice.”
Yeah. At least the damn hockey player who bought the place didn’t try to lowball them. Even with the medical bills they were able to afford a nice place to retire.
“I’m actually working with Rosa on Caparelli,” I tell him, and the hairs on the back of my neck lift up at the expression that crosses his face.
“Oh,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
I stare at him. “What do you mean, oh?”
He winces, then says, “Nothing.”
I can feel my brow furrowing. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I—” Wade looks around. “Never mind.”
The thing is, what happened between me and Rosa is just that—between us. As far as anyone else ever knew, we were just your typical high school sweethearts who drifted apart.
Our marriage? Nobody knew about that except for Uncle Geno.
The couple at the table next to us gets up and settles their bill, chatting loudly as they leave the patio. As soon as the space around us is cleared, Wade leans forward.
“Look, Jake, I’m telling you this as a friend: You may want to cut your losses and find something else.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, for one, working with your ex-girlfriend is just asking for trouble.”
He’s deflecting. I sit back and wait for him to continue.
After a long moment, he does. “I’m assuming you just got back?”
I nod, and he shakes his head. “Damn. So you’ve missed the drama.”
Great. “What drama?”
He leans back and takes a long sip of his ice water. “You know Rosa’s grandma died recently?”
“Of course.” I have a sinking feeling I know where he’s going with this.
“She left Caparelli to the girls. And you can guess how well that went over with Geno.”
I nod, letting him think he’s the first to tell me about this situation. Like Rosa wouldn’t tell me up front what I was dealing with.
Amateur.
“He’s been using those grapes for years and already had half the crop spoken for in Carleo presales. So when the girls chose to run the place on their own, he decided to make sure that’s exactly what they have to do—run it on their own.”
The server chooses that moment to bring our meals, and we set the conversation aside until prying ears wander away again. As soon as he’s gone, I lean forward and murmur, “What exactly does that mean?”
His voice is pitched just as low. “His workers have been keeping that vineyard running for years. But now they’re all working on Belmonte instead.”
“Well, yeah. That’s where I come in.”
Wade takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head. “Just don’t expect any payment. Word is Rosa is broke. Nobody wants to take a chance on not getting a paycheck.”
“Where did you hear that?”
He shrugs. “It’s not like it’s a secret. She tried to hire a couple of the guys that worked the fields for Geno, but he warned them she didn’t have the money to pay them. Didn’t want them to get ripped off.”
I just stare at him, my mind going a thousand miles an hour.
So Rosa’s uncle takes his workers off Caparelli, then warns people she’ll stiff them if they go to work for her. Did he scare off the last guy, too? Yeah, money is tight, but not that bad. I’ve seen the spreadsheet. She could pay a handful of workers to keep the vineyard running—but not if those workers don’t trust her to make good on her promises.
And Geno seems to be willing to ruin her reputation to get his hands on those grapes again.
That bastard .
Just waiting for the girls to come crawling back, begging him to take the grapes so they aren’t ruined and worthless. After all, with Rosa on her own, she’d have no other choice.
“So it’s just Geno’s word, huh,” I say, trying to keep my anger at bay. “Any actual evidence? Or is a rumor enough to scare everyone off?”
I level a look at Wade, who at least has the decency to glance down, a hint of red crawling up his neck. He may be a coward in this situation, but he’s not a complete asshole.
“You know how it is. Geno’s pretty respected in this town. Why would he make that up?”
“It’d be nice if Rosa was respected, too. But I guess that’s too much to ask.”
Part of me wonders bitterly why Geno couldn’t have focused all that negative energy on the hockey player who’s decided to play winemaker with my family vineyard, but in the end, it really doesn’t matter. Right now, Rosa is being played by someone who should want her to succeed.
“Just be careful, man. You don’t want to get ripped off.”
“Thanks, but I know what I’m doing,” I tell Wade.
“Good luck. Maybe you and Rosa have a shot at making it work. The winery, I mean.”
“Appreciate it.”
I dig into my pasta and turn the conversation back to Wade’s winery, but in the back of my head I’m already plotting.
Geno’s sabotaging Caparelli?
It’s time to go to war.