Page 45 of Karma's Kiss

He ignores my joke and points down to the ground beside him.

“Your boots from last time.”

Oh? So we are having another vineyard picnic? I don’t mind one bit. I would gladly eat every meal from now until I die out here among the fragrant grapevines.

“Once you put them on, grab a bucket,” he adds.

I look over at the pile of huge metal buckets, freshly rinsed and stacked up against the industrial building behind Sawyer’s truck. By the time I have one in hand, Sawyer has already taken off toward the vines.

“Keep up,” he shouts back.

I add a pep to my step, feeling like I might need to all-out sprint to have any chance of catching him.

I laugh. “What’s the rush?”

He doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that if I have a bucket, it must be because we’re going to pick some grapes.Oh!Maybe Sawyer’s going to take me through the whole process from start to finish: harvesting through bottling. I’d love to know how they make their wines at Starlight Vineyards. A few of my college friends went to Napa Valley for a girls’ trip last year, but I couldn’t join because it coincided with ahuge wedding weekend for Evermore Events. I was bummed at the time, but this will more than make up for missing out. How many people can say they’ve had their own personal tour of a vineyard with the owner’s handsome grandson?

Well…I’m sort of with him. At the moment he’s a football field ahead of me.

“You’re really tall, you know!” I call out to Sawyer, who’s starting to become nothing more than a distant speck on the horizon. “I have to take two or three steps for every ONE OF YOURS!”

He doesn’t slow down. If anything, it’s like he’s leaving me in the dust on purpose.

Eventually we stop, but it has to be half a mile from the parking lot, or more. I’ve lost track of the twists and turns we’ve taken, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit I have a cramp in my side from walk-running after him.

Nestled between the grapevines, I heave a deep breath and smile, ready to get on with the good part of the tour. Sawyer turns and slaps something in my hand. I wince because it’s the same hand he absolutely pummeled during the softball game earlier, but he doesn’t notice. I look down to find it’s a set of shears.

“Fill that up,” he says, pointing to the bucket at my feet. “I’ll go get you two more.”

Then he disappears, leaving me out among the grapevines.

I wait two seconds, slowly processing what he’s just told me to do. Then I spin around and look for him, expecting to find him standing a few yards away with a smile.

“I’m kidding,” he’ll say, coming over to kiss my cheek and pry the shears out of my hands. “God, you shouldseethe look on your face right now.”

But there is no Sawyer and there is no kiss on the cheek. It’s just me and the grapes.

I turn to a fat bushel hanging on a vine near my face and frown. “Does he really want me to harvest you?”

This has to be one big joke, a “Got you” laugh coming any minute. Why would Sawyer invite me here and then dump me out on my own?

It’s definitely the weirdest date I’ve ever been on, but there has to be a good reason for it. I try to conjure up a few: Sawyer is handsome and (probably) rich. Maybe he’s sick of women throwing themselves at him for the wrong reasons. This could all be his way of showing me his life isn’t all rainbows and butterflies. He helps run his family’s vineyard; he must work tirelessly day in and day out, and he wants to ensure I can carry my own weight.

Right?

“If it’s not that, then I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing out here. Do you?” I ask the grapes.

Unfortunately, they don’t have any good advice.

I give it another few minutes before I actually start on the assignment he’s given me. I don’t have any idea how Sawyer wants me to take these grapes off the vine. One by one? Surely not or he wouldn’t have given me the shears to use. I don’t want to hack at the vine though, so I carefully trim off the clusters that seem the most ripe, lay them in the bucket, and continue.

The task wouldn’t be so bad except that Sawyer’s plopped me in a section of the vineyard that’s particularly muddy. My boots sink in and get stuck and I have to pry them out every time I want to take a squelching step toward a new section of grapes. But that’s not even the worst of my problems. It’s the heat. I had to walk so quickly to keep up with Sawyer that I’m sweating now. Good ol’ Texas summer. The sun’s not due to set for another hour or two, which means the temperature is still hovering somewhere in the 90s. I’m wishing I’d worn a hat.

I wipe my arm across my forehead, trying to keep the sweat from my eyes, and in so doing smear a glob of mud onto my face. My first reaction is a slew of curse words I repress deep down in my soul. My second reaction is more composed: So what? People go to spas and pay good money for aestheticians to rub mud onto their skin. I’m getting it for free!

Where is Sawyer?!

He said he’d be back with two more buckets, but that was ten or fifteen minutes ago, wasn’t it? My bucket is getting full.

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