Page 10 of Rock the Chardonnay

He glances briefly at me, and there is something so dark and fierce in his eyes, it pierces me to the spot. Some things do not change over twelve years. I never could tease Declan Foster. And flirting with him is a dangerous pastime. It reminds me of an iceberg, the way you can only see a little bit above the surface, but what’s underneath is massive and sharp and potentially deadly.

“I like the pink,” Alex says. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand as he contemplates my hair. “It’s really cool. Dad, can I add pink streaks?”

“I’d rather you dye your hair than have more screen time, so sure.” Declan tosses the empty box into a pile under the tablecloth.

“Whatever.” This does not seem to be what Alex is hoping for. “Daughtry, you should stay with us.”

“What?” Declan whirls on his son. “Alex, don’t do that.”

“Why not?” He raises his innocent little nine-year-old arms. “Grams says the place is finished now.” He turns back to me. “Grams and Grampa turned our guest cottage into a vacation rental. You know, life on a vineyard thing. She had wanted to list it for the festival, but a water pipe burst so we couldn’t take reservations. Don’t worry, it’s all fixed now so you don’t have to wade through water or anything.”

Who is this kid and how is he the coolest person I’d ever met? “Thank you.”

Declan runs a hand over his face. “Alex, she does not want to stay at the vineyard. She’s young and free and will probably be up at all hours having—” he pauses here, like he’s debating which insult will hit harder—“ wild parties. She doesn’t want to be saddled with us.”

This was true earlier this morning, but now? I mean, I was invited. I’d hate to disappoint a child.

“Actually.” I step neatly beside him, projecting my most innocent self. It isn’t going to work. There’s nothing innocent about me or the thoughts about Declan running through my head. “I’d love to stay with you. First of all, way better than sleeping in a car. It was fine in my twenties, but I’m thirty now and, technically, gainfully employed. I’d prefer not to wake up with back pain. Second—” I rustle Alex’s hair, glowing in the beam he shoots my way—“your kid is amazing. If he wants to run away from you and all your shaking-your-newspaper-at-those-darn-neighbor-kids ways, he is totally welcome to stay with me in LA.”

“Yes!” Alex says, but the ess is cut short by his father’s glare.

This is way too much fun. There I go again, getting too close to the iceberg. I can’t help it, though. Teasing Declan leads me into dangerous waters, but I’m in the boat now and steering directly toward it.

Sadly, it’s exactly what my mother would have done.

“Third. The Vendetta would love to meet Alex.” Cheap shot, playing the kid, but I’ve done worse. “I’d love to stay in your guest cottage. Let’s say I have very fond memories of the place.” Is this technically true? Yes. But it isn’t a violation of my personal philosophy, either. I need a place to stay, and this is an excellent opportunity. “And for your very judgmental information, I don’t party like that. No one in the Vendetta does, so I don’t either. I like early nights, hot tea, and cozy blankets.”

Declan’s steel gaze softens a hair, but it could still poison like mercury. Slow and insidious.

“Fine,” he grumbles, picking up a clean glass and wiping it with a washcloth. “I’ll text my mom you’re coming. But you’re gone in two days, right?”

Two days until the festival is over and I’ll be off to Chicago, Nashville, wherever Louise and the Vendetta tell me. Two days until I never see Alex or Declan again.

Still, life is for living. “Exactly.” I pick up the bottle of Heart Stomp Chardonnay and pour myself a generous glass. “Two days and you’ll never hear from me again.”

CHAPTER 5

Declan

The absolute best way to distract a nine-year-old from asking questions about his parent’s past is to stuff him full of Wisconsin’s finest cream puffs. I’m not proud of it or looking forward to the inevitable sugar crash in about an hour, but it gives me a moment of peace, and I’ll take it.

Alex and his friend Mac take their cream puffs and dash off to eat them where no one will offer them napkins. Which will have to be quite a distance away. If we didn’t live in a small town where everyone knows both kids like they know their own, I would have placed a tracker on Alex.

“Hello, Declan.” Marie Marshall, the head nurse at the local clinic, stands before me, wearing denim overalls and a brightly colored zigzag-patterned short sleeve shirt. She must have been out at the lake a lot that summer. Her normally white skin is tanned bronze.

“Hi, Marie. What can I getcha?” I set a clean glass before her.

“Whatever you’re having.” Her dark brown eyes twinkle. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Marie still pines after her wife, who died twelve years ago.

“Sweet? Light? Blush?”

“I’ll bet you make all the young ladies blush,” Marie says kindly.

Not all. “Here, try the Swooning Dove Rosé. It’s been popular, with the weather and all.” I pour her a generous glass. This is the wine I thought Daughtry would like, not the Chardonnay. That’s too heavy, too buttery. The rosé tastes of watermelon and strawberries. If my parents ever listened to me, they’d let me take the Chard grapes and age them in steel instead of oak. Or maybe amphora. An unoaked Chardonnay, styled like a Chablis, would suit Daughtry. A little classic, a little naughty.

No, not naughty. I’m not thinking anything naughty about Daughtry.

Marie swirls the pink liquid in her glass and raises it to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Oh, heck yes. This smells perfect.” She takes a small sip, holding it on her tongue. “Delicious. Your family’s outdone themselves.”

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