Page 46 of Twin Babies For The Grump

Every time I think about my new promotion, a new surge of excitement rushes down my spine. I can barely contain the euphoria throughout the day. Whenever someone gives me a compliment, my mouth twists itself into a brand-new sun-bright grin.

I want to say that it’s my new promotion that has me staying late, but honestly, I usually do. There’s always a little bit more that needs to be done at the end of the day, and it’s always beensomeone’sjob to handle it.

As the apprentice to the boss, and as the acting manager afterward, I had always taken that responsibility. Now, as the official manager, it’s really on my job roster.

So I grab my clipboard and head into the winery storage unit to take stock of what got brought in today, and what needs to go out tomorrow, and to check on the aging process of the wine in the oaken barrels for the contest itself.

Tipsy follows along with me, sitting outside of the shelf room and then begging at the next door that I enter. I look at the dog and then shake my head, giving a wave of the arm. “Fine, get in here! But you can’t tell anyone, you hear me?”

The dog happily trots along with me as I go through the motions and get my job done. I’ve made it into the barrel room and am checking dates and time stamps when the door clicks behind me, swinging open. It doesn’t shut again, letting late evening sunlight into the room.

Tipsy, who is laying under a folding table on the far side of the room, lifts her head and gives a low whine. Her tail thumps, just once in welcome, and then stills.

“Macy?” I frown, turning to look at the other woman. “What are you still doing here?”

“We need to talk,” says Macy, stepping into the room. There’s something almost intimidating about the way that the sun hits her back as she crosses toward me.

“Alright, what’s on your mind?” I tuck the clipboard against my chest and give her what I hope is a good, managerial smile. There’s a sense of unease building in my chest, but I force myself to ignore it for now.

“The fact that you’ve fucked your way into a promotion, for one,” says Macy, stopping in front of me. She plants a hand on her hip, cocking it out to the side. “And you really thought that no one would notice.”

My mouth hangs open. My first instinct, of course, is to protest. That’s not even remotely close to what’s going on here, clearly! But the fact is, this has always been my greatest fear. As a woman in a largely male-dominated industry, I’ve always been leery about how other people will see me.

I dress professionally. I work hard. I show up early and leave late. I’m always proper when Owen’s around during work hours; I keep my hands to myself, I keep my thoughts polite, and I don’t let even the fact that I totallydowant him to pin me against a wall and kiss me affect the way that I speak to him.

Work hours hit, and he becomes my employer, nothing more. A thick line in the sand.

So to have Macy accuse me of this now—

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage to get out, though the words are so stilted and jerked about, I know that they don’t sound real. They are not real. But not for the reason she thinks.

Macy snorts. “Please. You’re always up at that house. You really think no one has noticed you coming out of there before work starts. You can only go on so many work meetings, honey. Just admit it. You let the handsome man from the city fuck you, because you knew that was the only way he’d let you keep your position.”

“Macy, you’re out of line,” I say, opting to fall back onto work solutions. That seems better than engaging in a heated argument, or just slapping her face for the insult. “You need to go home.”

“I just want to know,” says Macy, taking a step toward me. There’s less than a foot of space between us, and my back is pressed to the large oaken barrel containing the wine for the contest. The room smells of aging wine, of fruit that is just starting to ferment, and the heavy tang of the barrels themselves. “Is that how you got taken on as an apprentice, too?”

“Excuse me?” The words come out as an indignant yelp. “Are you trying to imply—”

“Did you sleep with Thomas, too?” Macy asks. “Are you just the sort of woman who spreads her legs for everyone if it helps your career? I bet there are a few people who would think twice about you if they found that out.”

She takes another step toward me.

Macy asks, “Does the boss know that his father slept with you?”

I stare at her glassy eyes before I’m able to speak again. “What the hell are you saying?” This time there’s no hesitation, no shakiness to my voice, just pure anger. “Thomas was mymentor. He took me on as his apprentice because he could tell that I was passionate about the industry, not for—”

I can’t even say the word. Does Macy really believe what she’s saying? Do others here think the same? It can’t be. I’ve proven my worth time and time again; my coworkers wouldn’t trust me and rely on me if they didn’t believe I was capable of handling the work. Every single congratulation I received today felt sincere.

“Macy, you’re acting deranged,” I tell her, hot tears burning in the corners of my vision.

“I’m so sure that’s it,” says Macy, with a snort. There’s a flush on her cheeks that I’m only just realizing, and the tang of wine that’s coming from somewhereotherthan the wine barrels.

The realization slams into me out of nowhere. My breath comes out in a heavy, almost relieved exhale. “You’re drunk.”

Her lips pull back into a grimace. “I’m not.”

“Oh my God,” I say, with an almost laugh. “Did you steal a bottle of wine, and then come in here to accusemeof something?”

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