Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  “Thank you,” the twins said, before racing up to bed.

  “Lights out in ten minutes.” Slade was envious of their energy. He felt drained. He turned back to Christine. “I’ll see you home.”

  “Yep.” She stood. “I’m ready.”

  He wasn’t.

  She held out her hand. “Come on. I promise not to put my theory to the test until we’re at my house.”

  He had a block-and-a-half reprieve. He charged past her, ignoring her hand, ignoring Takata smoking on his porch. You’d think he’d slow down—like a man headed toward the firing squad, determined to do anything to avoid the end. But no, he charged ahead, until he reached her house and looked down to see her panting beside him. His heart was pounding hopefully, his head hoping for rejection.

  Slade dragged her against him—without suave moves, without gentleness—and claimed her lips. He swallowed her gasp of surprise and kissed her with a fierceness and intensity that should have scared her away.

  She didn’t run for Granny’s house.

  And so his hands—the hands that should have stayed on her arms?—wrapped around her, drawing her closer, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

  This wasn’t a chaste I’ll-see-you-home kiss.

  This wasn’t a simple first-date peck on the lips.

  This was a heart-racing, blood-pumping, you’re-the-one-for-me kiss.

  As quickly as he’d latched on to her, Slade let her go. This was madness. He knew better. No woman could ever love him again. His only hope was that he’d shocked her with his zeal.

  She staggered back, a dazed look in her eyes, if the fading light of summer was any indication.

  “There,” he said, forcing the word past a too-tight throat. “It’s done, then.”

  He left her there in the gathering darkness.

  Left her knowing he’d scared her away for good.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HUGE MISTAKE.

  Christine had assumed that Slade would kiss with methodical control. It was how he approached everything. Like adding up a column of numbers in his head. Or creating a graph of growth rates. Predictably ho-hum.

  Huge, huge mistake.

  The passion in his kiss had been methodical in its heart-stopping assault, but there was nothing controlled about it.

  What she’d hoped would be a brief moment of embarrassment, closing the door on any niggle of attraction between them, had opened the door to possibilities and complications.

  Worse. Slade’s kiss left her hungry for more.

  He was her boss. She couldn’t quit. Her career would be blindsided if she left before bottling even one vintage. Slade thought Harmony Valley residents were gossips? Try winemakers.

  He was her boss. If word got out, her path to starting her own winery would have a footnote. The wine wouldn’t stand on its merits as much as the feet of a romantic liaison. She had to set her feelings aside and focus on her dreams. When she had her own winery, she’d give Slade a call. They’d laugh about this night over a glass of wine.

  She wasn’t in the mood to laugh now. How could she look at Slade again without reliving the urgency with which his hands had touched her? How could she look at his necktie and not recall the thin scar that curved around part of his neck?

  He’d tried to do something terrible to himself. When and why had he done something so desperate?

  She wanted to comfort, to question, to hide. She understood why his ex-wife had left. What he tried was horrifying. But his ex-wife was a coward for not standing by Slade. Christine liked to think she wouldn’t have dumped him had she been in the same situation, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know. Who was she to judge Slade’s ex-wife’s choice?

  And how could she ignore these feelings? Even now, instead of going to sleep, she wanted to talk to someone about them. She wanted to talk about it with Slade. He’d think it meant she wanted to date him.

  It wasn’t just Slade she’d have to deal with if they started something. Slade’s was the kind of secret you didn’t keep from family if you were in a relationship with him. Her grandmother would try to reason with her about her safety—ridiculous, since she didn’t see Slade hurting anyone. Her brother, Jake, would tell her she was crazy to stay with him—not that he had a track record of success in the romance department. Her father would insist she leave Slade and the winery—although whether he would advise her to quit before or after her first vintage was hard to predict.

  She tossed and turned all night, eventually dragging herself out of bed for coffee as dawn broke over Parish Hill. She had no answers. She couldn’t run from this. And she sure as heck couldn’t tell her grandmother. Nana sat in the control room at Gossip Central.

  The only person she could talk to about this was Slade.

  But first, she needed caffeine. Christine fixed herself a coffee in a large travel mug, doctoring it up with cream and sugar. She headed toward the river, choosing to sit on top of a picnic table at the park. The river flowing slowly past was almost calming, almost as much as realizing it was too early for Mayor Larry to be doing yoga.

  “Thought I’d either find you here or at the winery.” Slade’s deep voice resonated right through her. He sat on the bench near her feet, not looking at her. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. And despite the fact that it was only six o’clock in the morning, he had on a button-down, slacks, and a beautiful mossy-green tie. Her fingers longed to touch it.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said at once. Their glances collided and shot back toward the river.

  “I never should have made the suggestion,” Christine said. “I got carried away. I never imagined...”

  “I knew,” he stated glumly.

  “At least we know now. And we can...you know...work together, right? Ignore whatever that was.” Christine wasn’t sure what she’d do if Slade said no. “Because we know.” That their attraction ran too deep. That the timing was wrong.

  He glanced at her again, only this time his gaze held as firm as that kiss. “You’re okay with that?”

  “I am.” That sounded weak. She said it again, stronger. “I have to work long hours and stay focused. Anything between us would be a distraction, not just at the winery, but here.” She tapped her chest. “You’ve seen how I get when I’m working. I lose track of time. I push myself to the brink of exhaustion. But if I don’t take that shot now, if I screw up something here, I may never get a chance again.”

  His nod was far too curt. “What about the, uh...?” He touched the knot hiding the scar.

  “It’s your past, your story to tell. I won’t share it with anyone. But...could you tell me what happened?” She bent over, her elbows between her knees, so she could look him directly in the eye.

  His eyes, such a beautiful green, shuttered.

  Levity was called for. “You don’t have to, but...I mean, you weren’t successful at it for whatever reason, and I can’t imagine you failing at anything.”

  He blinked. “Are you teasing me? About this?”

  “I suppose I am.” She shared just a hint of a smile. “Does it help?”

  “You confound me.” He stared back at the river, but didn’t leave. “Every time I try to add things up about you...things never add up.”

  “I’m trying to be straightforward.” The urge to sit on the bench next to him and put her head on his shoulder was powerful. She straightened and blew out a breath.

  “I’ve never met anyone who says exactly what they think when they think it.” He said it as if it was a character flaw.

  “You’d rather I didn’t say anything.” It was school all over again. She didn’t conform, so she didn’t fit in.

  He didn’t deny it.

  So she didn’t say anything. For several minutes.

  He si
ghed. “Just say it. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Fine. I was thinking I really miss a good coffee shop. A vanilla scone would hit the spot about now.” She finger combed her ponytail over one shoulder. “And I was thinking that my list of things to do is getting smaller at the winery, but that I still can’t find a company to help with the harvest.” She tossed the ponytail onto her back. “Then I thought about how your house seems different since you opened up the windows, and how the twins are slowly opening up and letting you in, even if you don’t see it.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Oh, and then I couldn’t help but think about how it would be really cool to date you if you weren’t my boss. Then I could give you a hug whenever I thought you needed it. And make you smile when you took yourself too seriously.” That might have been an over-share. She tried for a quick recovery. “But mostly...I was thinking about that vanilla scone.”

  * * *

  SLADE WANTED TO kiss Christine again.

  If he turned toward her and drew her down, he could kiss her. Maybe in her kiss he’d lose himself, as he had last night. She didn’t look to be his type in her raggedy pink T-shirt and sweatpants cut off at the knees. She didn’t act like his type in the way she butted gently into everyone’s business, as if she knew how to listen, if not how to remedy.

  But she felt like his type. His antidote. The person who’d make it seem as if his past wasn’t made up of one huge mistake. He knew it from the way she’d touched his scar—so gentle. From the way she’d stared deep into his eyes, and instead of trying to dredge up all his secrets, she’d tried to test what kind of man he was today. With a litmus test. A kiss.

  He’d hoped that kiss would scare her, had half hoped she’d turn in her resignation. It would be easier than being her boss, her coworker, her friend. But a woman like Christine—who saw past scars—deserved her wishes respected. Because she’d drawn the same conclusion he had from that test. There was something beneath the surface between them, below appearances, below ties and ratty T-shirts, below roles of boss and employee. It was something that could heal and understand and forgive, something he wasn’t going to name, because no matter how much he’d believed he’d never find it, it would forever be out of reach.

  Christine wants to be friends.

  His friends had never seen his scar. He’d thought if they saw it they’d lose respect for him. What with budgets constantly being revised and the winery costing more than they’d ever planned on spending, respect seemed a precious commodity.

  Christine sipped her coffee, waiting for him to say something.

  He wasn’t going to turn toward her. He wouldn’t turn toward her.

  He turned toward her and rested his arm on her knee, surprising even himself with an invasion of her personal space. “You honestly think I’m making progress with the twins?”

  Other than the initial jolt when his body touched hers, she played along. “Oh, totally. They want to please you. They must have said a handful of words to you last night while I was there.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Twenty-five is better than five.”

  “But who’s counting?” He was. Counting was what he did. He counted money and opportunities. He’d tally this moment under the missed-opportunities column.

  “So what is my millionaire boss doing today?”

  It didn’t escape him how she subtly put a stake in the ground. He was invading her space and she felt threatened enough to remind him of the boundaries of their relationship, although with Christine, there were no boundaries. Such a cute little hypocrite.

  “Flynn has me on hammer patrol again this morning. The girls enjoy going.” And Slade wanted their time with him to be fun. “I caught them whispering in Truman’s ear yesterday. I wish they’d whisper in mine.”

  “Someday.” Christine smiled at him. “You’ll see.”

  Her optimism never wavered. He admired that about her. “I’ve got less than two weeks left with them.” He’d checked the calendar yesterday and realized it wasn’t enough time.

  “You can do anything in two weeks.” She made it sound like a vacation.

  There it was again—her belief in him. His chest seemed to swell with confidence and pride. He’d regained his confidence long ago. But pride? It was a newly rediscovered emotion, partially attributed to her.

  “I should be getting my day started.” The awkward tone was back in her voice. With gentle fingers, she edged his arm off her leg. “Lots to do.”

  They stood. She, conveniently within reach.

  Suppressing a sigh, he stepped back.

  Something in her eyes shifted, narrowed. “Seriously? You’re scared of a girl?” She gave him a one-armed hug, as her other hand held her coffee mug.

  It was a quick embrace, a jolting tease of what might have been. And then she was marching across the grass toward Main Street.

  Leaving his arms as empty as his heart.

  * * *

  “CHRISTINE!” A FEW days after the unforgettable kiss, Ryan ran down the winery’s gravel drive, whooping and shouting at Christine. “We got it! We got it!”

  Christine had been monitoring the installation of the fermentation tanks along the far wall of the barn, but was drawn outside when Ryan didn’t stop hollering.

  “The government bottling permits.” Ryan stopped in front of her, bending over and putting his gangly arms on his gangly legs. He clutched the mail in one hand. “We were approved. Eighty thousand cases.”

  “Eighty?” Christine swiped the certificate and scanned it. “That’s got to be wrong. We’ve only got fruit for five thousand.” And that was only if it ripened to a consistency Christine approved of.

  But it wasn’t a mistake. Whoever put in the request—and let’s be serious, it was Slade—had thought ahead to winery expansion. Despite knowing he’d applied for the permit months ago, Christine felt oddly betrayed. They’d agreed to be conservative and move forward slowly. He’d never mentioned submitting an application for year-five production. Her mind jammed with implications and possibilities.

  She’d been unable to talk him out of buying enough equipment to make eighty thousand cases a year. She kept telling him the idle equipment was too much overhead, but he’d insisted. Twelve bottles to a case—that was nearly a million bottles of wine. Not that he could have known if the entire eighty thousand would be approved.

  Did he have plans for the excess capacity? She couldn’t believe he did, but she couldn’t believe he hadn’t told her about this.

  Was he going to buy bulk wine? Did he expect her to make it?

  Doubt warred with the reality of black ink on paper. Eighty thousand cases. You just didn’t obtain a permit like that and let it sit idle.

  Unless... Unless he’d decided to extricate the partnership from the winery business altogether. He could sell the permit to another winery. He could sell the facility and the permit to another winery. Some big, impersonal winery that wouldn’t appreciate all the love and attention to detail Christine was putting into this one. Her wine. Her reputation.

  She whipped out her phone: Where are you?

  Slade’s reply: Phil’s barbershop.

  Christine sprinted to her car, clutching the permit in her hand. She’d left the keys on the center console. The old car started up with only a few coughs of protest. And then she was driving into town.

  She barreled into the barbershop on Main Street a few minutes later, the edges of the permit crumpling in her grip. “We need to talk.”

  “Hey, Christine,” the twins greeted her. They sat together in a barber chair, spinning it around. They had on matching white capri pants and filmy orange blouses over tank tops. Orange headbands held their dark hair away from their faces.

  “Hullo, Christine.” Phil, the old barber, sat in the other c
hair reading a newspaper.

  She managed a breathy, “Hey.”

  Slade wielded a drill, screwing in hinges on a storage cabinet. He hadn’t abandoned the button-down-and-tie look. Today’s tie was a bright red with darker red pinstripes. Snazzy. “Can I help you?”

  “What is this?” She came forward, shaking so badly she could hardly walk. “Are you selling?”

  “No.” He put another screw on the drill bit and fitted it into a hinge hole. “Why?”

  The whine of the drill filled the air, making it impossible to speak without shouting. Since their kiss several days ago, he’d treated her as if the kiss never happened. They had a good working relationship. Or so she’d thought. He’d never said a word about the permit.

  When the drill quieted, she struggled to catch her breath. “You submitted an application to bottle eighty thousand cases and you were approved. That’s year-five production, not year one.”

  “They approved eighty thousand cases?” Slade sent another screw smoothly into the wood. He still hadn’t looked at her. “I wasn’t expecting that. The government sent someone out to inspect us last month before you started, but it was more about record keeping than capacity. I only put the big number in on the request form on a whim.”

  “You aren’t whimsical.” She leaned against the wall. “You can’t just leave capacity like that idle. You either use it or you sell.”

  He frowned. “What would we sell?”

  “The permits. The permits and the winery. Either. Both.” Her ponytail had fallen over her shoulder. She tossed it back. “I should have seen this coming. We’re not making any wine this year, are we?”

  “I’m not sure I see what your problem is.” He stood, maddeningly calm. “I told you. Eighty thousand was an end goal for me. We agreed on your bottling figures for this year.”

  “You don’t understand.” Christine stared out the front window at a lonely Main Street. “You don’t know what this permit is worth. I’m going to have to give notice. Reputation is everything in this business. Who knows what the new owners will want to make here.”