Chapter Ten
“So, are you feeling less grumpy yet?” Kendall teased, stepping sideways to bump Sloane with her shoulder.
If the push had been a fraction harder, Sloane would’ve stumbled into the mime who was boxing himself in, and spilled her precious half-empty glass of wine, which she planned on refilling to the brim at the next stall.
But the touch had been gentle. It left a warm mark on Sloane’s shoulder that clung to her skin like a stubborn burr.
“Who says I’m grumpy?” she muttered under her breath. She smoothed her hand over that hotspot, hoping her cold hands could somehow freeze it away.
“Come on,” Kendall smiled, walking as if she was traipsing across a cloud.
The more wine Kendall drank, the lighter her steps became.
Or maybe it only appeared that way because Sloane was the kind of person who was weighed down by alcohol.
A few glasses of wine were fine. Any more than that, and she became sad and dull.
She would develop a strange sort of melancholy that usually had her retreating to the nearest bathroom stall, where she let out a few cold, secretive tears.
It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Sloane had convinced herself it was a form of therapy, because, after the tears, she always felt better. A new human.
“You haven’t smiled since we got here,” Kendall said. “And it’s okay, I get it. The day was long, and you didn’t exactly get the bath you wanted.”
“That’s not true,” Sloane countered after she took a hefty sip that left her glass completely drained. She needed a top-up and pronto.
“What isn’t?”
“That I haven’t smiled since we arrived at the festival.”
“Try smiling,” Kendall said, glancing at her over the chicken skewer she’d just bought four stalls ago.
There was a faint smudge of barbecue at the corner of her lip.
Sloane had thought about wiping it away with her thumb, or at least telling Kendall about it.
But actually, touching Kendall, or watching her lick it away, felt like an uncharted territory she didn’t want to step into.
It all started with that damn tire change. If only she had diverted her gaze instead of lustfully watching the woman’s muscles ripple, wishing she could rip that tank top off with her teeth. Fuck! She had to get out of her head.
“Oh, come on,” Kendall said. “Do it for me. Just try. You know you use way more muscles to frown than to smile.”
Sloane sighed and tried to stretch out her lips, but her cheeks were unwilling. She quickly gave up.
“Fine. You’re right. I need to loosen up. It’s just…”
“Hard,” Kendall finished her sentence. “I get it.” She waved her hand toward the street ahead. “Just forget about the Airbnb, okay? We can find something else, or even camp out in the Jeep if we have to. But right now, let’s just try to enjoy the moment.”
Sloane had no inkling to take advice from a woman who ran heedlessly at fires, but Kendall had a point.
There was nothing they could do right now about their situation.
Might as well try to make the best of it.
She gazed ahead and stared properly at the festival for the first time since they had arrived.
A portion of Lake Drive had been blocked off and transformed into the wine festival.
There were string lights, and colorful bunting and a few of the local shops had spilled their wares out onto the sidewalks.
There were stalls lining the street, overflowing with everything from hand-thrown pottery, crocheted blankets, and of course, bottles of every variety of wine sitting on wooden crates and tables covered in checkered cloths.
Hand-lettered chalkboards advertised the specials, some of which were pretty pricey to be special, and at the south end of the street, a stage had been set up.
A band was scheduled to play when the sun went down.
Sloane’s grumpiness was morphing into something that at least resembled a morsel of contentment. She was beginning to feel slightly lighter. Not like Kendall the helium balloon bouncing beside her, but more like a flower still firmly anchored in the ground, a breeze swaying it around.
“Feel better?” Kendall asked as her lips tilted in an amused little grin.
“It doesn’t work that fast,” Sloane said, biting back a smile. “It’s like a pill that takes time to dissolve, you know. Ask me again in fifteen minutes—”
“Look who the cat dragged in,” cut in a familiar voice that belonged to none other than Chief Natasha Stiles.
Clad in a button-up shirt with tiny ducks in floaties, she stood at the other side of a stall next to a redhead in a long, flowy, bohemian-styled dress.
The woman had many bangles on both wrists, three necklaces cascading down her chest, and a green-dyed feather in her hair that matched her bottle-green eyes.
“I didn’t think you two were going to make it,” Natasha beamed, clearly thrilled to be proved wrong. She gripped the redhead’s waist and squeezed her tight. “This is my wife, Estelle. I’ve told her all about the two of you.”
“Oh,” Sloane said. “Well, it’s good to meet you.”
“Estelle dabbles in home videos,” Natasha added. “Mostly of the chickens.”
“Chickens are surprisingly entertaining,” Estelle said, rounding the stall. She ignored Sloane’s outstretched hand and instead kissed her on each cheek. “We’ve got one named Chuck Norris; he thinks he’s a guard dog. He’ll chase anyone who gets too close to the coop.”
“Fascinating,” Kendall said, genuinely intrigued. “Do you do voice-overs in your videos?”
“Of course,” Estelle grinned. She headed back behind the stall and poured wine into two glasses. “Try this.” Estelle pushed a glass upon each of them. “It’s got tones of blueberries, cardamon, and a hint of smoke.”
“It tastes like fermented grapes to me,” Natasha said with a shrug, sipping on a glass. She smiled when her wife sent her a narrow-eyed glare.
“We make it ourselves,” Estelle said, talking over her wife’s comment. “It’s our third year at the festival and we’ve already sold four crates tonight.”
“Really?” Kendall asked, sniffing at the glass. “That’s impressive. Do you sell any bottles online? I’d love to order some.”
“Nah,” Estelle said, waving the comment away. “We’ve just got a few vines at the back of our house. We make about one-hundred bottles a year. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.”
Sloane raised it to her lips and sipped. She didn’t say it, but the wine was good. Really good.
“You two should join us for dinner tomorrow night,” Estelle said. “We’re making a harvest table outside on the lawn. Braised lamb, homemade mushroom risotto, duck fat roasted potato, and Natasha is making her famous chocolate mousse for dessert.”
Sloane was just about to excuse them, but Kendall was already busy sharing her contact info, saying, “I’m a sucker for chocolate mousse. We’re in.”
“Great,” Natasha said, clapping her hands together. “We’ll add you to the table. We’ve got a few other friends joining. They’re all easy people.”
“Except for Gloria,” Estelle said. “She’s my sister-in-law, and she’s bonkers. We love her though…”
But Sloane wasn’t listening anymore. She’d caught sight of something so dreadful, so soul-crushing, that it felt like acid had settled in her veins. Her heart began pounding against her ribcage, blotting out all the other sounds in her ears.
There, right ahead, standing beside the pretzel stall, was none other than Louise Kramer.
The ex-girlfriend. The woman Sloane had loved, really loved… until she didn’t. The woman whose car she had wrecked, whose clothes she had burned, whose apartment keys she had refused to give back, forcing her to change the lock of her front door.
And she wasn’t alone. Beside her, kissing her hand, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, was Peach Barry, the enigmatic colleague with the pink balayage hair who had stolen Louise right from under Sloane’s nose.
“I have to go,” Sloane suddenly choked, surprising both Natasha and Estelle, whose foreheads dipped into frowns. “Will see you tomorrow for dinner. Thank you for the invite.”
She walked away without giving Kendall any explanation of where she was going. But how could she when she could barely breathe? It was hard to talk when her heart felt five sizes too big for her chest. She could barely walk when her legs were heavier than concrete.
“What’s going on?” Kendall asked, stepping in beside her. “Why are you running away?”
“Nothing,” Sloane said, head down, eyes on the ground instead of glancing back over her shoulder at Louise and that Peach woman. The quicker she could get away, the better. The last thing she needed was for Louise to spot her. “Nothing’s going on.”
“You’re lying.” Kendall seized Sloane’s wrist, pulling her to a stop mid-stride. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse,” Sloane said, knowing she wasn’t making any sense. But how could she tell Kendall Wilde, a woman who looked like she was still wet behind the ears, that her heart had been so broken, so devastated, she wasn’t sure she could get all those pieces back?
“What do you mean, worse?” Kendall asked when Sloane yanked her hand back. Great. Now she had to deal with another hot spot. This one was somehow worse, considering all the blood pumping through her body. Her chest felt like it was going to explode.
“I saw something worse than a ghost.”
Kendall looked intensely worried—not for the ghost but for Sloane, as if she feared she was losing her grip on reality. “You’re going to have to spell it out.”
Sloane contemplated spinning a lie, but what good would that do other than invite more questions? No, it was simpler to tell the truth, even if it left her feeling embarrassed.
“My ex-girlfriend.” Sloane glimpsed Louise over Kendall’s shoulder. She and Peach were at Natasha’s wine stall, laughing, still holding hands, stealing kisses like nauseating teenagers. Get a room, for goodness’ sake. “She’s here. With the woman she cheated on me with, alright? Are you happy now?”
A range of emotions flickered across Kendall’s face—surprise, disbelief, sadness—and then she reached forward and grabbed Sloane’s hand again, this time softer, gliding her thumb across the crease at her wrist. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” Kendall frowned, her amber eyes catching the evening light in a way that made them flicker between shades of honey, gold, and maybe even a little green like they were some kind of mood ring.
“Give me your sympathy. I don’t need it. I just need to get the hell out of here.” Sloane risked one more glance in the direction of her cheating ex-girlfriend and her lover, who, thankfully, hadn’t spotted her… yet. “You can stay here, or you can come back with me to that retched cabin.”
“You hate it there. Why don’t we just stay here and avoid your ex?”
“Because I’m angry,” Sloane shot, itching to leave.
“I’m fucking pissed and the only way I know how to get rid of this feeling is to either drown myself in that supposed lake we can’t see from the cabin…
” Her chest was heaving. Tears were stinging the back of her eyes.
Every rational thought had flown from her mind. “… Or fuck the brains out of someone.”
Damn.
Sloane desperately wanted to reel those words right back in.
What business did she have insinuating sex with Kendall just to calm down the anger simmering in her chest?
She hoped the firefighter hadn’t heard her because the band had just turned up their volume.
Unfortunately, that hope was squashed when Kendall’s cheeks did their infamous beetroot blush.
She fanned herself, looking rather adorable. Although Sloane wasn’t sure if she actually found the woman adorable, or if she was just so pent up with anger that a stick with legs would look pleasing enough to take to bed. “What exactly are you saying?” Kendall asked, a tad unsure.
Sloane had no idea. Or maybe she did. Maybe she had perfect clarity with regard to what she wanted. “I want to go back to that horrible Airbnb, risk whatever infection is probably between those sheets, and fuck you until you forget your name. Are you in?”
“Umm,” Kendall’s gaze skimmed Sloane’s lips, deliberating. She was taking her time thinking it over when all Sloane wanted to do was take the words back. Forget she had said them. “Well… I don’t want you to drown yourself.”
There was no going back now.
“Good,” Sloane said, surprised at the relief streaming through her veins. She grabbed Kendall’s hand, let her gulp down the remainder of her wine—liquid courage, perhaps—and yanked her toward the exit.
The car was maybe a block away. Hopefully, she’d run out of steam by the time they reached it. Hopefully, the hum between her legs from thinking about Kendall, naked in bed, would trickle away like rainwater.
Or maybe not.