by Kenzie Reed
Actually, it feels like they’ve already ended. I can’t believe he stayed out all damn night and didn’t even call.
I swallow my hurt and worry, and try for a casual shrug. “I was thinking, once the sale goes through, you’d hire a marketing company.”
“No way.” She shakes her head stubbornly. “I don’t want outsiders in our family business.”
This conversation’s going nowhere, so I do the only thing that I can think of. I redirect.
“I meant to tell you! I printed out some new pictures.” I pull the packet of pictures from my purse and hand them to her. “There’s the vineyard, and Aceto. The fruit set is looking really nice this year.” Tiny clusters are growing, hard little green beads that will slowly swell into plump, luscious grapes. She slowly begins paging through the photographs. She reaches out and strokes the photos gently, her expression so wistful that it nearly brings me to tears.
“They’re looking a little sickly.”
No, they aren’t, but contradicting her isn’t going to help.
“Did you follow all the instructions with the cow horns, to the letter? If it’s not fertilized right, it throws the whole harvest off.”
“Of course we did. The pictures probably just aren’t doing them justice.”
She shakes her head, frowning. “I should be there. The rehab is just going so slow.” She lifts her left arm, and it trembles. “I feel like I’ll never leave this place.”
“Aunt Ferdie! Of course you will! We knew it would take a few months. The physical therapist told me that you’re making great progress.” I point at a picture of Aceto. “Here, look at this. Aceto’s doing really well. He barely hisses at–“ I stop myself. “Visitors,” I finish lamely. Damn it. I was going to say he barely hisses at Donovan. Living a lie is a job of work.
“Is he brushing his dentures?”
“Pretty sure he is, although I don’t want to get too personal.”
“You’re not feeding him any garlic, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” Heaven forbid. His litter box is stinky enough as it is. I can’t imagine the results of adding garlic to the mix.
She runs through the litany of instructions for caring for her Nuccio. Soon enough, the visit is over and I stand up to go. She looks away. “Take the pictures with you,” she says, her voice unexpectedly sharp. “I’ve seen enough.”
I scoop them up and try not to be hurt by her lack of enthusiasm. Sales are pouring in. I’m saving the vineyard from going under. I guess part of me is still the little girl eager for her approval.
When I get home, I’m relieved to see Donovan’s car parked in front of the house. Relieved and angry. Okay, so he’s not dead or kidnapped. He’s just a jerk.
I fling open the door and stomp into the house. Aceto is sitting on top of his cat tower, and Ducktape is wandering around, poking his beak at things.
Donovan lounges on the couch, his forehead furrowed in the perpetual scowl he’s wearing these days. He flicks a quick glance at me, then turns back to the book he’s reading, chewing his lower lip
“I thought something happened to you!” I yell. “Where were you last night?”“
“I slept at my parents’ guest house.” He looks up. His eyes glint with hurt and anger that I think is way out of proportion to me not telling him about a damn car sale. “Next time I’ll text you.”
No apology, though. His gaze drifts back down to his book, his shoulders hunched defensively.
I’m seething with hurt and anger and yearning. I always told myself that when it came to relationships, I’d never settle. I’d hold out for perfect. And this isn’t perfect. He’s wrong and I’m right, and he’s being a petty jerk.
But the truth is, I want him. And not just for sex, all though I want that a lot. I also want to feel like we’re friends. I want him to stop shutting me out.
I make my mouth form words. “So. How was your day?”
“Fine.” He chews his lower lip. “I gave Aceto and Ducktape some snacks and changed their water.” Then he looks up and glances at Aceto, who’s watching both of us with a judgmental gaze. “He doesn’t seem to be speaking to me at the moment.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” I say heatedly.
He looks at me, his eyes burning with emotion. He’s gripping his book so hard his knuckles have gone white. “Yes, there is.”
I let out a hiss of frustrated breath, like a slow leak of steam. “Jeez, Donovan. I just didn’t think that you’d care one way or the other if I sold my car. I mean, why would you?”
“Yes, why would I expect basic communication with my wife?” He scowls at me and resumes reading.
Fine. I’m angry too, but I’m willing to be the adult here and make the first move. I know what’ll wipe the grump off his face.
I stroll into the bedroom, strip, and pull out my only set of sexy lingerie, a flame-red push-up bra and matching red lace panties. I bought them once on impulse, and I’ve never worn them. I’m more a cotton undies kind of girl by nature, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I spritz myself lightly with perfume, shake my hair out, and stride out of the bedroom, barefoot and looking mighty fine.
Aceto, horrified, runs off.
Dear God, I really hope he isn’t the reincarnated spirit of my late uncle.
Donovan refuses to look up.
Damn, he’s really making me work for this. I walk over and stand in front of him. “I was going to cook something for us. What would you like?”
And he still doesn’t look up. “I already ate, thanks.”
That was the most passive aggressive damn “thanks” I’ve ever heard in my life. If my whole body weren’t pulsing with desire for him, I’d storm out of the house. Well, I’d put on clothes first.
“Then how about dessert?” I coo.
Oh my God. I’ve turned into a bad late-night porn movie. I should come with my own sound track. Bow chicka wow wow.
“Thanks. Not hungry.”
Ribaldis are nothing if not competitive. This is becoming a contest of wills that I’m determined to win. I grab his book, toss it aside, and sit down on his lap. He’s hard. I can feel the length of his cock pressing against my thighs, and he stifles a groan of arousal – but he’s not making a single move.
“Something you want to say?” His jaw is set, his muscles strung taut. His green eyes seem to darken to the color of a stormy sea, the way they always do when he’s mad.
All this because I didn’t tell him I sold my damn car? If that’s all it takes to make him not care…then he must never have cared much at all. And why is that a surprise?
Well, the hell with him.
“Nothing I want to say, and nobody here worth speaking to.”
His eyes flicker with hurt, and he presses his lips together, staring over my shoulder at nothing. I leap to my feet, storm into the bedroom and quickly pull on a tiered white cotton skirt and a red boat-neck blouse.
I would love nothing more than to throw on a sexy dress, go to the Starlite Nightclub and flirt up a storm. After all, I’m not really married, am I? Donovan’s making that damn clear. But this is Greenvale. It would be all over town by the end of the first song. I can’t risk tanking this deal. So I settle for going over to Pamela’s house, to drink away my sorrows.
As soon as I get out the front door, I see that it’s raining, and also I remember I don’t have a car.
I have to go back inside.
Donovan looks up, and he doesn’t say a thing, just purses his lips together and resumes reading. I call Pamela, and she shows up about fifteen minutes later to pick me up.
“Bye!” I yell furiously from the doorway.
That earns me a single glance. “Call me if you need anything.”
I turn and stomp out without a reply. Least satisfying flounce ever.
Chapter Twenty-One
SIENNA
I wake up alone Monday morning, to the sound of men’s voices in the living room. Muttering furiously und
er my breath, I stagger out of bed and make a quick pit stop to the bathroom. Then I stomp out of the room in my body-hugging pink tank top and pink boxer shorts with hearts.
I wore these clothes all evening Sunday after I came back from the winery. I should have been in a fantastic mood, because we had so much business that people were lined up outside the door, but it all felt sour because Donovan didn’t even look at me in my sexy booty shorts. He spent most of the evening up in his loft-office, then he slept up there, as usual.
Fine. Good. Who needs him? I’ve got my trusty vibrator. It’s never in a mood, never stomps off in a huff, and it’s devoted entirely to my pleasure. And in return, I feed it the finest quality batteries. Men should take notes.
When I come out of the bedroom, my cranky gaze lights on Donovan. He’s standing in the living room area, wearing a white T-shirt that molds to his body so perfectly I want to push him in front of a bus.
Two burly twenty-something guys are carrying in a box that says “treadmill” on it. As I watch, they stagger past me.
I stalk over to Donovan. “What is this?” I demand.
Donovan’s posture goes stiff and tense, and he crosses his arms across his broad chest. “It’s raining again. I bought us a treadmill so we can train on days when the weather doesn’t cooperate, if we don’t have time to go the gym. Or, you know, if you’d prefer to train without me.” He looks away as he says it.
“If I’d prefer to train without you?” I echo. “Have you suffered a blow to the head recently?”
“Ouch!” One of the treadmill guys was so busy staring at my rack that he accidentally walked into the sofa.
“Can you put some clothes on?” Donovan says in a low, heated voice.
“Are you actually pretending to be jealous? The man who wouldn’t touch me, even with his ten foot pole?” I mutter.
He smirks at me.
“And don’t look smug. Having oversized equipment isn’t any good to anybody if you refuse to use it.”
“Who says I’m jealous? Maybe I just don’t want us to get sued when one of them trips and breaks a leg. Is your accident policy up to date?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’d better hope it is.”
He snorts with annoyance and turns away from me.
“Yoo-hoo!” I sing out to the delivery men. “Can I make you some coffee?” The younger guy spins around to stare at me, trips over the cardboard box they’ve just set down, and falls on his butt.
“Nice job, Disaster Girl,” Donovan mutters.
For some reason, Aunt Fernanda’s voice rings in my ears. If you stumble, make it part of the dance. “Thank you, that is now my superhero name. When you see me coming, look out.”
I stalk into the kitchen and grab the coffee from the cupboard. The kitchen is fully furnished. Appliances everywhere. Blender, toaster oven, microwave, air fryer. It’s starting to feel like a house. Not a home, though. Not with Donovan and me in furious competition to drive each other insane.
“Your cat seems hungry,” Donovan says icily. Aceto is pacing on top of the counter, tail slashing.
I toss Donovan a scornful look as I fill the coffee pot with water.
“His pie-hole is a lie-hole. I feed him at nine a.m. and he knows it.”
“Is Mommy starving you? Daddy will feed you,” Donovan croons.
“Pshaw,” I scoff. “Just so you know, when the custody battle happens, you get both Ducktape and Aceto. No backsies, either.”
“Don’t listen to the mean lady,” Donovan says as he opens a can of cat food and pours it into Aceto’s bowl. I would like to think that Aceto’s too smart to fall for this, but he actually purrs and lets Donovan pet him as he eats. What a ho.
“Now I’ll go check on Ducktape,” Donovan says smugly. “He’s wasting away to beak and feathers.”
I stalk into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. When I emerge, wearing my PJs again, the treadmill’s been unpacked, assembled and plugged in.
Donovan gives me a quick, frowning glance, then stalks to the bathroom. I wait until I hear the shower start before I go in, use the toilet, and flush. We don’t have a very big water heater.
“Ahhh!” he yells as he’s blasted with icy water.
“Sorry!” I sing out.
“No, you’re not!”
No, I’m not. I pull on jeans, a sand-colored silk blouse, and rain boots, grab an umbrella, and walk to the winery in the steady downpour.
Jamie’s already there, behind the cash register. She’s still wearing her penis deely-bobbers. Pamela, holding her daughter, is sitting on a stool, drinking a bottle of mineral water.
“Hey, you. Who’s the cutest baby in the world?” I coo to her daughter. “Is it you? I think it’s you!” Amelia flashes me a gummy smile and lets out a string of drool.
“No work today?” I ask Pamela.
“Today’s a day off. I came over because I’m bored.” She’s scaled way back on her schedule this year, handing over most of her cases to her husband and other partners. “We start weaning her this week,” she adds. “Thank God. Soon I’ll have coffee and wine and more coffee and more wine.”
“So you’ll be drunk and awake for forty-eight hours?” I ask. “Remind me to be out of town when that happens.”
“Har-de-har. Just wait until you have babies and can’t drink anything fun, you’ll see how it is.”
As Jamie rings up sales, I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot we keep going behind the counter.
“Good news! We have tastings scheduled all day.” Jamie shows me the computer screen on the register. “By the way, before it gets busy, can I check out your equipment?”
Pamela spews her water. I choke on my coffee.
“You what?” I gurgle. “You’re cute and all, but you’re not really my type. Also I’m married. Well, married-ish.”
“Your wine-making equipment! Jeez, what did you think I was talking about?”
“I don’t know, Jamie. You’re sitting there wearing two tiny penises on your head. Hard to know what’s going through your mind these days.” I dab at the spewed coffee from a napkin.
“Equipment,” she repeats. “I want to be shown the operation.”
I glance at the door. “I’ll be happy to. Let’s do it when you’re not working, so we don’t leave any customers hanging.” Half a dozen women wearing “Greenvale Wine Tour” T-shirts are walking through the door as we speak.
It turns out they want to learn about our different types of wine, so Jamie and I take them on a walk-through of the winery, and I tell them the history of the vineyard and of the different wine blocks.
Through the window, I point out a hill that’s currently nothing but scrubby brush. “We’ve been planning on planting there for a long time. My aunt’s been wanting to work with chardonnay and pinot gris, and I think we’re going to just go for it this year.”
If we do, I’ll have to do it soon, because spring is the best time for planting. I think it makes sense. We’re moving through our inventory pretty quickly these days. If we expand our offerings, we’ll be more appealing to more customers, and also more competitive.
It feels risky, given how unenthusiastic Aunt Fernanda’s been, but she’s already selected that location, and also the vineyard nursery where she purchase the vines. It’s the same vineyard nursey that she and Uncle Nuccio have used for many decades. I know the methods she uses to plant and nurture new vines. I’ll be doing exactly what she would have done – and showing her I believe in the vineyard’s future. Four years from now, we’ll be harvesting our first crops from the new vines.
Yes, we’ll do it. And maybe we can name the new blocks Aceto and Ducktape.
When Jamie and I finish giving our little store tour, we return to the counter. Pamela is standing by the register, daughter strapped to her chest, ringing up a purchase.
“You’re hired,” I tell her.
“Tempting, but I love arguing for a living, because I always win. By the way, you’ve got a r
eal sour puss on today,” she observes. “What gives?”
I wait until the customer leaves before I answer. “Donovan refuses to have sex with me, and he’s barely speaking to me.”
Jamie claps her hands over her ears. “Ahhh!” she shrieks. She sounds a lot like her brother when she screams. “That is very inappropriate!” She runs for the door.
“Says the girl with a head full of dicks!” I shout after her.
The customers flick curious looks in my direction, then return to their browsing. The cool thing about running an organic hippie vineyard is that nobody’s shocked when you act a little whacky. It’s just part of the atmosphere.
Jamie returns a minute later, and plops back down in her seat with a huff of annoyance. “I do not need to know details,” she says severely. “However, we need to fix this. I know my brother is crazy about you, and I want to see this thing finally work out.”
“Since when do you actually want us to be together?” I scoff.
“Since always.” She reaches up and readjusts her headband, sending the penises quivering in a tiny, wobbly fertility dance.
“Let us travel back to the year of your brother’s tenth birthday party.” I cross my arms and fix her with a suspicious glower. “You seemed to have some opinions on the two of us hanging out together. Negative opinions, might I add.”
“It wasn’t anything against you, or even you guys hanging out.” Jamie shakes her head. “I knew that Mom and Dad would have an absolute fit if they found out he was friends with you. That was a difficult time. Donovan suddenly started getting odd about the adoption. He’d say things about how Mom and Dad loved me and Toni more than him. They were always super overprotective about us, wouldn’t let us get involved in any rough sports, and he got to play lacrosse and do anything he wanted. He thought it was because they loved us more, but it’s just because they’ve got really outdated ideas about how to raise boys versus girls.” She heaves a sigh. “I don’t know if he ever really understood that. The truth is, they loved him more because he was a boy. I mean, they gave us boys’ names, for God’s sake. Toni’s name isn’t even Antonia, it’s just Toni. They were so disappointed by our mere existence.”