Page 15 of Rock the Chardonnay

“I’m just dropping off groceries. I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes.”

Zoey Foster tsks. “Please. You cannot bring a lady dinner and then tell her to eat alone. Besides, I need to talk to Alex. We’ve had barely any one-on-one time all summer.”

I sigh. My mom is not a person to cross, especially when I’m already hungover. “Whatever. Keep my bowl warm, and don’t let him eat all the Fritos.”

“Sure.” She crosses her pointer and middle fingers over one another. “Scout’s honor.”

CHAPTER 8

Declan

I knock a second time and shift the bags of groceries to redistribute the weight. This is ridiculous. It’s weird my mom asked me to do this, and even more outlandish that I agreed. We are all adults. Daughtry can get her own groceries. Maybe she doesn’t even like chili any more. Maybe she doesn’t—

The door opens, and Daughtry stands behind it, sniffling, her hazel eyes rimmed with red.

“Are you okay?” I ask. My instinct is to hold her, which is foolish because I’m laden with grocery bags. “What happened?”

“This?” She gestures at her nose and wipes at the wetness underneath her eyes. “It’s nothing. No worries. I was just watching the first season of Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist. It really plays the heart strings.”

“Oh.” I glance inside the cabin at the TV wall, but the TV isn’t even on. “I’ve never seen it.”

“You’re missing out.” She sniffles again and points at the grocery bags. “What are those?”

“My mom thought you would starve.” I shrug. “It’s her thing. She made you chili.”

“Yum!” She reaches for the bags, but I hold them back.

“Sorry. She will kill me if I don’t deliver them inside. She would say it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. On the off chance your arm breaks between here and the kitchen.” This is technically true, but I can’t leave her if she’s been crying.

“You always were a gentleman. I’d hate to disappoint your mom.” She holds the door wide open and I step through.

This is a massive mistake. She may have been here less than a few hours, but the entire cottage smells like her. Music still hangs in the air like smoke, and she’s set up her guitar on one end of the couch. It looks like that spot has always been waiting for her instrument, and now it’s complete.

I force my feet to move across the living room to the kitchen and I set the bags on the counter. Daughtry trails after me, barefoot. “How was the festival today?” she asks, easing back against the ledge of the square-shaped kitchen table.

“Good. Busy.”

“I didn’t know you still worked at the winery.”

“It’s the family business,” I say simply. “Alex works there, too. Even though he’s not supposed to serve anyone.” I make a mental note to speak sharply with him about that little indiscretion.

Daughtry chews on her bottom lip. “He said you’re a teacher now. You don’t teach summer school or anything?”

“Summer school ended last week, and it’s pretty barebones. Since the summer season is the busiest tourist-wise, I spend a lot of time helping out at the vineyard.” I need to stop talking. Go away, verbal diarrhea, go away. I remove a mesh bag of apples and place them in the fridge.

“I like cold apples,” she says softly. “Some people put them out on the counter, but I like them better when they’re cold and crisp.”

My gaze flicks to her, but she isn’t looking at me or the fridge. Her attention is on her cuticles.

“Me, too.” I put away the rest of the bag while she watches. Pasta in the cupboards, eggs in the fridge.

Her lips curl as I stow the milk. “Almond milk? Your mom remembered the kind of milk I like?”

I remember, too. “She’s smart that way. I bet you drink oat milk now.”

Her laugh is a bright tinkle, like it surprises her as much as me. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone in California drink oat milk?”

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