Page 1 of Sweet Escape

Chapter One

Memphis

I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, feeling a sense of exhaustion deep in my bones after another long day of trying to hold everything together.

Another day of feeling like I’ve given all that I have.

Another day of wondering if it will end up being enough.

Before I can take even a few minutes for myself, my phone beeps with a text, and I groan, sure that it’s another emergency that demands my attention.

Murphy:Cory called in sick. Can you cover the bar so I can cut Mira?

Letting out a sigh, I consider for just a moment the idea of telling my sister no. Saying I need a night to myself. A chance to go out and blow off some steam for the first time in who knows how long. Or even to hole up in my room, have a long shower, and collapse into my bed.

But I can’t say no.

I would never say no.

All of this . . . everything . . . rests on my shoulders.

And as much as I’d like to check out and run away sometimes, I can’t do that to my family. To our employees who rely on this business for their livelihoods. To the legacy I’m trying to preserve.

Me:I’ll be over in fifteen.

I drop my phone on my desk and close my eyes again, attempting to give myself those few minutes I desperately need before I push on.

I can’t ever really be sure of what the future holds, but the way things have been over the past few years has wrung me dry. In more ways than one.

And now, the future of this vineyard seems to rest on the success of the restaurant.

God, that fucking restaurant.

Part of me thinks it was equal parts the best decision I’ve madeandthe worst.

The best because it’s doing exactly what I hoped it would do: bring in more profit so the vineyard doesn’t continue digging a deeper hole of debt.

The worst because it’s doing the other thing I knew it would do: more than double my workload and open a whole other can of worms that I have to keep on top of.

But it feels wrong for me to resent the very thing that might save us.

Especially when it was my idea in the first place.

I put my computer to sleep and push out of my chair, stretching my arms above my head and rotating my head and neck, trying to work out the muscles that get so fatigued from the tense way I sit at my computer.

My aunt Sarah told me I need to set it up ergonomically, whatever that means, and she made all these recommendations for how to change the monitor and adjust my chair that would supposedly help. But I don’t have time to deal with that kind of woo-woo bullshit.

Hell, I barely have time to get in a full night of sleep.

I grab my phone off the desk as I leave my office, pulling up our marketing coordinator’s number and hitting call.

“Hey, it’s Memphis,” I say when I get her voicemail. “Sorry for the last-minute notice, but I need to reschedule our meeting. I’ve got a fire to put out at the restaurant. Just shoot me a message with a good time for you in the next few days, and I’ll make it work. Thanks.”

I hate marketing. It was my least favorite part of my business degree, and always the area I struggled with the most. Thankfully, we have employees to handle some of that, and I get to focus on other things that are more important.

At least to me.

I hit end as I head out the french doors to the back patio, taking the path through the vines toward where the restaurant sits on the northeast corner of the property. My eyes scan the netted vines as I walk, assessing the nearly ripened bunches and stopping every so often to take a closer look.

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