by Tessa Layne
“He’s right, you know. It’s suicide to fire him this close to harvest,” she says, laying a placating hand on my arm. I don’t stop walking.
“This is me, not giving any fucks.”
“What if he sabotages the grapes?”
“Then I’ll throw his ass in jail. And he won’t do that because I’ll make sure he gets a very nice compensation package.”
“But who’s going to oversee the harvest?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I snap. “At the very least, I can pay an assistant grower who’s hungry for a chance at a hideous amount of money to supervise it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I stop, and she nearly runs into me. “Is it? I think it’s a great idea.”
“You always think you can throw money at your problems - that money can solve everything.” She gives me an accusing glare. “But it doesn’t.”
“It sure as hell makes it easier, Gorgeous.”
“It won’t solve the problem that the harvest won’t be great.”
“I’ll cut my losses. Next year will be better.”
“But what about making a top-notch rosé?”
I narrow my gaze. “You know grapes, do you think these grapes are salvageable?”
She frowns and shakes her head. “Not for anything more than cougar juice.”
I see how it is now. How we’ve made our fortune. And it makes my skin crawl. We’re better than this. I’m better than this. With or without a head grower, these grapes will get harvested and dumped into a vat with tons of other mediocre grapes that will get turned into overpriced cheap wine - the kind that ladies fighting old-age tooth and nail get drunk on so they can’t see the wrinkles in the mirror.
I turn and march back to the crushing pad. Workers scatter like roaches when a light’s turned on. “You,” I call out to the one person remaining. “Come here.”
He’s a young guy, early twenties at most. “What’s your name?”
“Isaiah.”
“And what’s your job?”
He gulps, and lifts his chin. “I’m an intern. From U.C. Davis. Their wine program,” he stutters, obviously terrified.
“And what do you think of what’s been going on here?”
He assesses me, and I can see in his eyes he’s deciding whether or not to speak the truth. “I… ah… I would have done things differently. But I’m just here to observe,” he hastens to add.”
“What would you have done differently?”
“I’d have thinned the fruit for starters.”
“Go on.”
Isaiah goes on to present a fairly textbook idea of what he’d do differently in the following growing season. “And,” he hesitates.
“And what?” I cross my arms, mostly just to see how he reacts. I’m impressed by the kid. He’s eager. And he has a passion for the grapes that literally pours off him. “I’d consider replanting with pinot, or maybe cab franc.”
“But that’s a five-year investment.”
He dips his head. “Yeah. But I think it’s smart. Sangiovese is fickle, and I think the soil’s too rich here- even on the south facing slopes at the top of the hill.”
I’m fucking impressed. “So how would you like to bring in the harvest? I’ll make it very worth your while.”
“I’d love to, but I’m not allowed to accept money on an internship.”
“How ‘bout I pay for your last year of school, and give you an advance for a job?” Beside me, Macey gasps, but I continue. “I’m going to need someone to oversee pruning and replanting this fall. Can you manage that with your class schedule?”
Isaiah’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Y-yes, wow… yeah… that would be great. Really?” his voice cracks on the last word.
I nod, mind made up. “You’ve got talent, and I need people who are unafraid to speak their minds.” I slide a glance over to Macey, whose eyes shine with admiration. My chest warms and puffs under her gaze. She’s proud of me. It might be the first non-assholish thing I’ve ever done. I reach into my wallet and pull out my card. “Here’s my info. I’ll need a report by tomorrow outlining your plan for harvest, your ideas for pruning and replanting, and a cost estimate for all of it, including your tuition and signing bonus. I’ll have someone at legal draw up a contract for you.”
Isaiah grins broadly and offers his hand. “Thank you sir. I-I don’t know what to say, but I’ll make this the best vineyard you have.”
“Glad to hear it. Now if you’ll excuse us.” I touch Macey’s elbow and guide us out of the crushing pad.
Once we’re out of earshot, she speaks. “That was… incredibly generous of you.”
“That’s how money solves problems, Gorgeous.”
She stops, and eyes me sternly. “I just realized something about you. It’s all an act, isn’t it? You like to put on this act that you’re in it for yourself, and that you don’t care, but you do.”
She’s alarmingly close to the truth, and I wonder how in the hell she’s figured it out when I’ve gone out of my way to be an asshole. She lays a hand on my shoulder and goes on tiptoe, brushing her mouth along my jawline. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
My chest flutters and I freeze. I have secrets. So many secrets. Secrets that if she knew about, she wouldn’t be giving me sweet kisses along my jaw. Secrets that if what we have continues, will undoubtedly come to light, and I don’t know who that will hurt more - her or me. I give her a quick peck, then force my feet into action. I can’t think about it. I can’t think about anything. If I do, I might do something stupid like tell her I love her, and ruin everything. “We need to get back to the car. I’ve got a spreadsheet with other potential vineyards to target. Movie time will have to wait.”
The situation is the same at every vineyard we visit. My agitation grows with each stop. This was supposed to be an in-and-out visit with an extra day built in for sexcapades. We were not supposed to be crisscrossing Napa and Sonoma inspecting every vineyard on my spreadsheet.
After the fifth stop of the day, the realization dawns that this was all a sham. I’ve been set up to fail. All three of us have been set up to fail. Not one of these vineyards could produce an award-winning wine. Not this year, maybe not ever. This was just another of Dad’s manipulative little games. He knew all along that none of us would be seeing a penny from our funds. And goddammit, I’m going to beat him at his own game. We’re parked at an overlook way up by Atlas Peak, but I’m too pissed off to enjoy the beauty of the valley below. I shoot off a text to Declan, letting him know what I’ve discovered. Nico’s disappeared off-grid, so I don’t bother him. I pick up a rock and hurl it at the trunk of a tree. Then another, and another.
“Stop,” Macey barks, hopping out of the car and slamming the door. “Just. Stop.”
I spin and glare. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough. I know all about how your father operates. Don’t play his games. Jason didn’t.”
“I’m not Jason,” I grit. “And I don’t want to be like him. Ever.”
“Why not?” she demands, eyes flashing. “Jason is one of the most honorable people I know.”
I cover a sarcastic laugh. She doesn’t know him the way I do. “Money is power, and I’m not leaving without my inheritance.”
“That’s always what it comes down to with you, isn’t it? Money?”
“Money is power. And freedom. And I’ll be damned if I let someone besides me call the shots in my life.”
A flash of grief contorts Macey’s face, then her eyes go soft. “I understand. Say no more.” She lets out a ragged breath. “I have an idea.”
A million questions about her response flood my head, but they’re not mine to ask. So I push them away, and instead open my hands. “I’m all ears.”
“My parents have a friend out here. An old French guy they met in the eighties. He grows about twenty acres of pinot noir, and typically sells to negociants. He’s old school, and you’d
have to negotiate with him, make him an offer he can’t refuse. And you need to know you’ll piss off a few other wineries if he goes with you.”
“Are the grapes good?”
“He sells to some of the most exclusive vineyards in the area.”
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Macey directs me up a winding old dirt road on Mount Veeder. And a wizened old farmer meets us at a steel gate.
“Bonjour Marcel,” Macey calls as she jumps out of the vehicle. Marcel’s face breaks into a wide smile and he opens his arms wide.
“Bonjour ma petite choux. Comme ça va?”
“Bien, ça va bien, mercí.” She kisses him on both cheeks, and takes him by the hand, bringing him around to my side of the car.
“Marcel, I would like to present to you my friend Austin Case.”
Lover I think darkly.
Marcel’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and he rattles off something in French to Macey that I don’t understand - a combination of surprise and agitation.
“Yes, yes, I know. Austin’s different. He appreciates the art of winemaking.”
I do? Macey gives me a sideways look that says I better. And I guess, in a meta sense, I do. I appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into an excellent IPA, or a Pappy Van Winkle. So yeah, sure. I care about winemaking, too. But only so far as it gets me what I want.
Marcel motions up the hill. “Vien, vien. You can park just inside the gate.”
He shuts the gate behind me and I step out to join them. The first thing that hits me is the hint of salt in the air. Not as salty as it is in parts of Sonoma, but the hint of ocean air is present at the top of Napa’s highest mountain. The air is different here, softer than at our family’s estate in Napa proper. Fresher. Cleaner. The kind of air that allows a man to think. I follow the pair up a hill, past a cottage that has seen better days, and a large barn that has been meticulously maintained. I catch up to Macey and Marcel, chattering happily away in French at the edge of a rolling vineyard that appears perched on the top of the world.
Macey shoots me an excited smile. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Come, come.” Marcel leads me down a row and stops. “Merlot. Ready late September, maybe October?”
“What other grapes do you have?”
He gives a very Gallic shrug. “Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc.”
“Anything ready to harvest in August?”
“Icí? Sur la montagne?” He shakes his head. “Non, non. The grapes. They are like a beautiful woman. They need time to be ready.”
I had planned to be free of all this by then. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I can tell the vines have been meticulously maintained. “Name your price.” I blink at the number, but remain silent. He who speaks first loses the negotiation.
Marcel’s mouth turns up slightly. He knows the game. He turns and surveys the view. Macey looks back and forth between us brow furrowed. I turn, too. The view is spectacular. Hills dropping into hills, some cleared for vines, others wild. Redwoods tower in places, and in the distance I hear an eagle cry. It’s the kind of view that demands an audience, that asks to be shared. And as I study the stooping muscles of Marcel’s aging shoulders, I’m struck by how lonely, how isolated he must feel, up here tending his vines.
I don’t know why, maybe it’s because I’ve been off my game since Macey rode me like a woman possessed this morning, but I speak first and offer half.
Marcel’s head drops back with a hearty laugh that rings over the fields. He looks at me, then starts again, until all three of us are laughing. When calm returns, he shakes his head. “Non,” he says firmly. “Non.”
I offer higher and he eyes me like I’m a crazy man. “I lost well over a million dollars last year due to the fires. This year you lucky to get any grapes.”
I look out at the view again, contemplating. The guy probably has as much in the bank as I do. But he’s right, his grapes will be in high demand this year. He could ask twice what he asked and probably get it. And in the end, it’s a small price to pay for my freedom. Lose the battle, win the war. I offer my hand and quote his opening offer. Macey bounces on her toes, just like her mini-me, and I’m glad she’s here, that she’s shown me a new slice of heaven so close to my own backyard.
“Pass The General,” I ask, referring to the General Tso takeout that Macey’s been scarfing as the credits to Reservoir Dogs begin to roll. It’s two p.m. and we haven’t left the bed since we collapsed into it the night before, a tangle of limbs after the chef’s tasting meal at The French Laundry. But that’s what happens when dinner becomes a three-hour exercise in foreplay.
“There’s not much left,” she says with a sheepish grin as she passes the nearly empty container.
“I’m gonna have to spank you for that,” I say, as I cue up Pulp Fiction. Watching Tarantino with her has been yet another surprise in the long line of surprises that is Macey. She laughed, my god did she laugh - rich, full belly laughs - in between devouring the enormous order of takeout we had delivered to the room.
Her eyes twinkle wickedly. “Oh, please, no,” she covers her mouth coquettishly in mock fear. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Good,” I say between bites. “I have some ideas.”
“So do I.” Her hand slips beneath the sheets and skates along my thigh.
I finish the General with a smack of my lips, and place the empty container on the bedside table. Even after hours of relentless lovemaking, I’m still not sated. I don’t think I’ll ever be sated. Yet, with each kiss this morning, each touch, each heated glance, I know we’re marching closer and closer to our end. I fucking hate it.
She rolls over on her side running the flat of her palm across my belly. Across my chest, exploring with a touch that’s both curious and sensual. And then her fingers find them - the dual scars to the side of my left pec, just under my armpit. Most of the time, I forget they’re there. But her sensitive fingers find the discrepancy in the flesh and her eyes widen. “What’s this? What happened?”
My belly tightens. I haven’t thought about the incident in ages, but the remembered pain lights my nerve endings like it was yesterday. I shut my eyes, but all I see are the dust motes floating in the air, highlighted by the cracks in our barn.
“Austin? Are you okay?”
I hear the fear in her voice, the concern, but even that isn’t enough to draw the story from me. “It’s nothing.” I shrug it away, pulling her hand to my sternum, clasping it, holding it against my pounding heart. “Happened a long time ago.”
“Who was it? Who hurt you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
But she won’t let it go. “Whoever it was, they deserve the ninth circle of hell for burning you like that. How old were you?”
Eleven. But I deflect by rolling us over and pinning her to the bed, and covering her with kisses. She’s smart, my gal. But then again, it’s easy to recognize a cigarette burn. Not much else is that small and that perfectly round.
“They don’t deserve protecting, Austin.” She says, unwilling to let it go.
I pause and look down, ready to drown in the feeling I see emanating from her beautiful green eyes. I wonder if she’d say that if she knew who gifted me with the twin scars. But I refuse to be pulled down into the murky quicksand of my childhood. Her hand comes to my cheek and the action is so compassionate, so filled with love, that I stop breathing. I can literally feel my chest tightening as the air in my lungs goes stale.
“You deserved better,” she whispers, eyes searching mine.
I feel like I’ve been drawn and quartered, like my heart is going to spill out on the bed along with my guts, a steaming pile of goo. A part of my brain is frantically calling time-out. Begging me to stop, but I can’t. I won’t. I’ve crossed some mysterious line in the sand I didn’t even know existed, and I can’t go back.
I can’t go forward either, and the pain of that is almost too much. So
I choose now. I drop my head, mouth brushing against hers, tongue teasing for entrance. I take solace in our coupling, find absolution in her touch. If now is all I get, then I will take everything from this moment and then some. I will ruin Macey for anyone else, the same way she’s ruined me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We return to Prairie subdued. Sure, some of that has to do with the fact that we fucked like rabbits for three days, full stop. But something has shifted between us. The glances exchanged when no one’s looking are longer, more meaningful, and tinged with goodbyes. I double down on my efforts to make every tryst memorable, better than the last.
We’re screaming into crush season, and thanks to Millie’s enforced bed rest, Jason has placed us in charge of calling the harvest for the cab franc. Our vineyard rendezvous have come to an end. We’d surely be caught now, with the buzz of activity. Millie’s father, Mike, has already called harvest for his Chardonel grapes, and since this is a small operation, no one is exempt from picking. There’s an energy in the air that’s contagious. Macey is in full-blown winemaker mode, and it’s a sight to behold. No wonder Jason brought her on board, she’s so much more than a somm. She’s everywhere at once, first consulting with Mike, then literally running into the vineyard to check brix levels.
I catch her on her way back from the vineyard. “Shall I go pick up Sophie?”
She gasps and checks her phone, then smacks her forehead. “OhmygodIcan’tbelieveIforgottopickupSophie.” She pauses for a breath, looking mortified. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t have a car seat.”
“Give me your keys.”
“They’re in the ignition.” She leans up on tiptoe as if she’s going to kiss me, then catches herself, and looks over her shoulder with a small laugh. She turns back around and grimaces. “Wow, that was close.”
Yeah, wow. I’m almost at the point that I don’t care if Jason finds out. Almost. I nod and clear my throat, jamming my hands in my pockets and rocking back on my heels. “Yeah. We can’t get careless.” She wants to kiss me. I can feel it. Hell, I want to kiss her. I can already feel her breath tickling the corner of my mouth, the brush of her plush lips.