Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My eyes fly open, the primal terror at being awoken by a foreign sound in your lair sluicing through my veins. Someone’s in my cottage. Did I lock the door?
I clutch fistfuls of sheets in both hands, as if I could defend myself with bed linens. The fear drumming in my ears turns into something else—the rhythmic patter of water.
The shower’s on. Someone’s … humming?
I suck air in through my nostrils, exhale a shaky laugh.
Laine.
I’m not being murdered, I’m being morning after ed. I prop myself up on one elbow to peer through the door to my bathroom, and yes, that’s definitely Laine’s voice. Singing … Willie Nelson?
Well, this is a first. People have stayed over before, sure, but no one’s ever partook of the facilities . It’s usually a quick kiss to the cheek and a promise to text later, the words half cut off by my front door swinging shut. It’s the only practical option, really, since my cottage is so small. If you only have room for yourself, you can’t notice how there’s no one else.
The knobs squeak off, and Laine steps out, her singing unmuffled by the shower curtain. A smile quirks up the side of my mouth.
She sounds terrible .
“Good morning.” Laine steps into my bedroom wrapped in a towel that’s too small. My hair towel, I realize. It takes me a second to place it since it’s currently revealing her pussy .
“Good morning,” I rasp out, throat dry as she strides toward the bed. I pull the sheets up and over my bare breasts, suddenly self-conscious of my sticky, juice-covered skin, but Laine’s having none of it. She climbs onto the bed knee by knee, then pulls me to her, hard. I let out a little gasp as I slide easily toward her, helpless as a turtle on its back, until the firm press of her thigh greets the growing ache in my core, separated by a thin layer of cotton. There, poised high between the legs that she spread, Laine sports a look of satisfaction that curves her mouth, heats her eyes. She presses my knees down until they’re flat against the bed, and I’m stretched wide open beneath the sheet that still separates us. She falls onto her hands on either side of my head, my hair towel fired for its lackluster performance and flung into the distance.
“Very good morning,” I amend, breathless.
Her eyes are greedy as she gives the line of my jaw a long lick, then gently pulls the sheet down from my clutching fingers, exposing one breast at a time. “This sheet’s not allowed, boss.” Her tongue travels down my collarbone, then dips between my breasts. Every unshaven hair on my body is standing fully erect, like a roomful of hands shot into the air, screaming Pick me!!
“I’m filthy, Laine,” I murmur. “I’m covered in grape must. Let me shower first, I’m so stick— ohhh .” I break off suddenly when the wet tip of her tongue reaches my nipple, traces its circumference there.
“Filthy,” Laine breathes against my ferociously tight bud, then licks, hard. “ Mmm …” Her thigh grinds against me, or maybe I’m grinding against it, like I’m thirteen all over again and discovering the beauty of a nice, round bed knob. “Sorry, boss. Shower’s not allowed, either.”
Turns out, the only thing that is allowed is a pair of mind-bending orgasms, one for each of us.
The list of novel experiences continues throughout the day and into the next week, too. Not just sexual acts, either, though there have been many of those. On Saturday, I woke up to find my trash had been taken out. At first, I thought it had magically disappeared, or that I sleepwalked it all the way to the winery, but then I spotted Laine whistling her way through the vineyard, hauling my bags of trash away like a very confusing Santa. Then on Monday, I got a text from Federico’s Auto Shop, informing me of my upcoming oil change appointment for the vineyard’s truck. So when Laine shows up at my office door in the middle of my weekly paperwork marathon with two milky iced coffees and a pair of chocolate croissants, and plops down in the chair in front of my desk, I’m almost not surprised.
Almost.
Laine catches me staring at her from over my croissant. “What? Do you like almond better?”
“What’s going on, exactly?” I whisper from behind the safe, predictable layers of flaky croissant she inexplicably bought for me.
Laine wipes a crumb from her mouth. “With the fermentation? Well, the whites have already gone through primary—”
“I mean, here. With us?” I take a huge gulp of coffee to avoid having to say more.
Laine’s brow relaxes, then arches into a bemused smirk. “We’re having a midmorning snack, boss.”
“In a casual way? Or an … exclusive way?” I sound like a dork, but it’s been two weeks of consistently amazing sex, like, on the daily , which is a new record for me, but in conjunction with all these small, thoughtful gestures? I thought I understood the rules of courting Laine, but this feels like new territory.
Maybe she is going to murder me. I scoot my office chair back on its wheels on instinct.
Laine takes a long pull from her iced coffee, rolling the straw between her still smirking lips, then slowly rises. She comes around my desk to stand over me, separating me in my rolling office chair from all my responsibilities, and slides one perfect half of her ass at a time onto my desk. Her legs are naturally spread apart, but the space between them draws my gaze like a magnet to steel. It’s an effort to flick my eyes back up to hers. The look on her face is a knowing, silky confidence that heats each area of my body in a cascade of tumbling sensation. We’ve already had sex once today, and yet …
She reaches for the croissant loosely dangling from my hand, places it to the side, then pulls me by the armrests into the V made by her legs. She stops only when her thighs surround my shoulders. The familiar smell of her mixes with the tart grapes she’s been handling, and I want to bury my face in the warm denim of her jeans and breathe it all in. She stops me, though, cradling my head in her hands, her fingers pulling me by the hair gently, gently back, until my vision is filled with her, top to bottom.
“It’s in a very serious way, boss.” Her fingers tighten in my hair, and I gasp as she runs the back of one hand down my cheek, my neck, before yanking me closer to her. All it would take is a small squeeze to put me in a headlock with her thighs.
If this is murder, so be it.
But the squeeze doesn’t come, and her grip on my hair gentles. My scalp tingles with pleasure from the conflicting sensations. With her free hand, she reaches for the croissant and brings it to my lips, nudging them open. I obediently bite into the flesh, the pleasurable tang of chocolate and salt on my tongue mixing with the building ache in my pussy, and I moan as she watches me, as though the lick of my lips is a fascinating mystery.
“I’m going to take care of you, Zoe Brennan,” she says, her voice faint as she intently watches me swallow, then nudges my mouth again. “You’re mine.”
Sex in my office? Check.
Involving croissants ? Didn’t see that coming, but check .
Reaching the absolute pinnacle of my desire and longing and—
happiness ?
I sit back in my office chair, caffeinated, sugared, and thoroughly wrung out.
Check, check, check.
It’s terrifying, but each time the fear buoys in my chest, I feel Laine’s fingers pulling my hair, hear her sultry, commanding words: You’re mine.
And … I am. At some point, Laine hooked a steel cable into my core, pulling me utterly, helplessly into her wake. Laine could straight up destroy me if she wanted, but that makes whatever this is so much more satisfying . All the protections I’ve built around my heart blunted the hurts caused by others, but they blunted the good feelings, too. I’ve never felt anything like the sweet, swoony rush I get when Laine takes me in her arms and tells me how smart I am, how talented, how incredibly sexy. I’ve been desired before, but Laine’s wants are on a whole new level. The steadfast devotion she puts into her work is lavished upon me, too, now. If I’d known as a lovelorn teenager—staring at her best friend’s older sister from across the dinner table, the lunchroom, the vast expanse of life and experience that separated me from Charlaine Woods —that inside the girl I idolized was all this ?
I’d have followed her anywhere.
A knock on my office door shakes me out of my romantic reverie, Tristan’s blurred outline visible through the milky glass window. I quickly glance around, but there’s no evidence of the pastry sexual awakening that occurred here earlier, and all my clothes are buttoned, zipped, and right-side on.
“Come in.”
The knob turns, then Tristan’s shoving the door open with his hip, his arms full of teetering boxes. He takes one look at me and rolls his eyes. “You have sex hair.”
I run a hand over my head, smoothing the snarls. Crumbs fall onto my shoulder, and Tristan’s frown grows. Oops.
“Erm, what’s in the boxes, Stan?”
One auburn eyebrow arches but he lets me change the subject. “I was cleaning out the storage room, and I found these.” He pauses to swallow, looking suddenly unsure. “There’s some pictures of your parents in here, when the vineyard was starting out. Wanna see?”
“Really? Yeah!” I put a bright smile on my face, and relieved, he lifts the lid of the first box and hands me an old brittle clipping.
It takes my breath away. My mom and dad, arm in arm, standing in front of the original Bluebell Vineyards sign that Dad painted by hand. Behind them are our vineyards, or where they would be, one day. In this shot, only a fraction of the property has been cultivated so far. The headline reads: BLUE RIDGE—AMERICA’S NEXT NAPA? which makes me smile. The article goes on to detail my parents’ story—how they met, how they picked the land, and how their first growing season was going. Bluebell Vineyards was one of only two vineyards in the North Georgia mountains back then, and nobody knew if the great Georgia wine experiment would succeed. But while reading the words, my eyes are drawn up again and again to my parents’ beaming faces. This couple had no sad future waiting. It was all open fields under big blue skies, red clay and rolling hills. My finger brushes over their faces, holding the memory of this moment in time for them.
“Is there more?”
Hours pass as Tristan and I pore over every relic he’s uncovered. It softens my heart, seeing the history of Bluebell Vineyards laid out before me. A picture of my mom, laughing from behind the bar. Dad mopping the winery floor, mouth open, undoubtedly singing along to some bad European techno. An idea’s building inside me, but the details are out of reach. I feel that tickling sensation whenever a good idea’s about to hit.
“Could you scan these pictures, Tristan? Digitize them so we can blow them up big, maybe as projections?”
Tristan’s brows draw together. “Yeah. Why?”
“What if you did an art installation for the showcase? My parents’ story and the history of Bluebell Vineyards and surrounding areas, but with your modern eye? Something beautiful and cinematic, something we could project against our walls, the forest—”
“The barn, the surface of the pond.” Tristan plucks my thread from the air and keeps it spinning, the cadence of his voice picking up to match mine. “The west hill, even. It has the right slope—we could project images onto the vines themselves after dark.”
“What if you could make it like—like a walking tour through the property, with little vignettes projected for people to experience?” My heart’s picking up speed.
Tristan’s eyes meet mine, and I see the same spark igniting his own creativity. Suddenly he stands, his hands still full of pictures. “Hey, do you mind if I head out early tonight? I wanna do some research on this.”
“Go for it.” I smile, feeling prickles of excitement at this new take on the local showcase’s theming. Everyday Bon Vivant wanted me to imbue my parents’ story into our vineyard’s experience, and I could do that and more, situating my family’s narrative among the area’s stories, too. Because this festival is about more than Bluebell Vineyards—it’s about Blue Ridge. The next Napa? No, maybe not, but it’s a one-of-a-kind place with one-of-a-kind people.
I want to share our stories.
I once read an article about how partners share stress, that it ping-pongs back and forth between them with greater intensity until there’s a constant thwap-thwap-thwap between your heart and brain and theirs, and you want to throw yourself into a lake to escape it.
As a confirmed spinster, I never thought that would happen to me.
I also never thought it would involve Soccer Saturday.
“THAT’S RIGHT, DAR-DAR!” I scream from another plane of existence where I, Zoe Brennan, desperately care about the outcome of the peewee soccer league final championship. “GO, BENNY, GO!” At this point, I’m just screaming general encouragement. I don’t know what the hell is going on. While Laine’s addition to the coaching staff has made some mild improvement—the children scatter every time she yells CLUMP! —it hasn’t done anything to decrease the overall chaos of six-year-olds attempting team sports. All I know is that it’s 1-1, we have somewhere between ten seconds and five minutes left, and I haven’t sat down for the entire second half.
The vibes are intense .
But Darla has the ball, and Benny’s at her side. Every time she dribbles a little too hard, Benny’s there to bring it back under their joint control, just like Laine’s worked with them out in the yard. As the youngest Woods twins approach their team’s goal, the oldest Woods twins are clutching each other, waiting with gripped fingers on each other’s biceps. Darla swings back to kick, and bam! The ball hits the post and bounces off, but Benny catches the rebound and kicks it in before anyone can do anything about it.
I’m … not sure you can do that in soccer? But even the teen ref is cheering. The goal brings Chance and Laine back to life, and now they’re jumping arm in arm before Chance runs out on the field and scoops up his kids, one on each side, and spins them wildly.
Laine, on the other hand, is now on top of the Gatorade table. I shake my head, laughing with the sweet relief we’re sharing now.
These sweet, incomprehensible athletes .
After the game, the entire Woods clan is partying in the parking lot. Molly and Ezra are proud as punch and have gone full tent, handing out those gooey little Hawaiian roll ham sandwiches and a play-by-play of Benny and Darla’s best hits. I’m happily waiting my turn to congratulate Laine and Chance after the crowd of parents dissipates when a figure sidles up beside me. I glance out of the corner of my eye and nearly choke on my eggroll.
Rachel stands there, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
After a pause, I resume chewing. Slowly.
“Congratulations on getting the showcase,” she says, each word like the individual blow of an ice pick to my skull.
“You do not mean that.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “Just another thing you’ve stolen from me. You owe me twenty dollars now, by the way.”
I turn on her. “Me, steal from you ? Are you fucking with me, or just delusional enough to think you came up with the idea for field day—”
“—oh, please —”
“—Lantern Fest, Water Wars, Books and Barrels.” I tick off each of the events that Rachel stole from me, repackaged, and subsequently ruined over the years. This could go on for a while, but then an arm wraps protectively around my shoulders, and Laine appears. She smells like sweat and clementines and looks ready to throw down.
“Is this relative bothering you, Zoe?” Laine asks. I shake my head, and she gives me a long, lingering kiss hello, which catches the entire family’s attention. I guess this is Laine’s way of announcing that we’re “courting.”
Direct, to the point. I like it.
Rachel’s face transforms into an open-mouthed frown. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Her eyes flick to mine, hard and mean and strangely, reproachful. “Might want to rethink this business strategy, Zoe.”
Laine breathes deeply through her nose but doesn’t look at Rachel when she addresses me. “I can’t come home just yet, boss. My folks are calling a family meeting after the tailgate today. Can I meet up with you tonight?”
“Absolutely, Coach.” I give her a firm smile, trying to show everyone here that I could care less about Rachel’s open disgust at us being together. It’s a little harder to ignore how Molly and Ezra are staring at us with dismay. Even Chance looks uncomfortable. It drives a cold wedge into my heart, biting into the warm parts of me all the way home. Ever since Laine came back to Blue Ridge, I’ve been fighting hard to feel like I’m good enough for her. That Bluebell Vineyards is good enough for her—hell, that Blue Ridge is good enough.
Does her own family disagree?