Page 3 of Sweet Escape

As Mira closes out, I take a few minutes to scan through the bottles we have behind the counter and in the fridge.

I’ve only worked the bar a few times since we opened—on most nights that we’re open, I’m helping out with service or something in the dining room, the wine bar being a fairly well-contained area—but I’m the one who created the protocol and organizational system we use. So it doesn’t take long for me to assess that we’re low on reds, and thatthe bar staff needs to do a better job of cleaning out the wine cooler at the end of each shift.

But even though a handful of things need tending to, it’s still easy to see that the bartenders are doing their jobs. In fact,everyoneis doing their jobs. From the kitchen to the waitstaff to the hosts. I might have given Enid a little bit of shit when I walked in, but Murphy has praised her work ethic multiple times.

Still, though. I can’t seem to let the little things slide, my hypervigilance a reflection of my fear.

And my frustration.

For as long as I can remember, I was told that this vineyard would be mine one day. That someday, I’d be the one in charge, and I’d be leading Hawthorne Vines into the future. But when I envisioned my life living that future, I imagined it being ... different.

More of the feeling I remembered my grandpa talking about when I was a kid.

A sense of pride.

Of accomplishment.

But I don’t feel those things.

Instead I’m just . . . angry.

Angry at my father for the mess he made that I’m having to clean up.

At my grandfather for failing to teach my dad the things he needed to understand in order to keep this business in the black.

At the stupid economy, even the weather, for never seeming to do what I need it to do at the right time.

And mostly, I’m furious at myself. Because no matter what I do, it still feels like the right choices for how to solve the problems we face—problems that I had zero hand in creating—are barely out of reach.

But I can’t dwell on that anger. And I can’t dwell on what I wish was different. There’s no point in spending time thinking about what I originally thought my life would be.

Because whatever that vision was doesn’t matter.

Not anymore.

“Have a good night,” Mira says, sliding next to me and clocking out at the register.

“Hope your daughter feels better.”

She waves, then disappears from my line of sight, and I take a few more minutes after she’s gone to survey the equipment and look through the open tabs. Then I turn to check in with the customers seated at the bar.

Which is when my eyes lock on the most ... exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Copper hair and hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles, all of which sit above lips that are tilted into a little smirk that has something twisting inside my stomach in the best way.

I blink twice, then clear my throat and give her a friendly smile, my mind leaving the stresses of the vineyard behind and instead focusing on the beauty before me.

“Good evening,” I say, leaning forward and bracing my hands wide against the bar, nodding my head. “Can I get you another glass?”

Only then do I spot the chardonnay in front of her, the one that Mira poured seconds before she clocked out.

The redhead’s smirk grows, and it’s easy to spot the humor dancing behind her eyes.

“I think I’m okay,” she answers. “I’d look a little ridiculous sitting here with a glass filled to the brim.”

My chuckle comes easily as I step back, leaning against the counter behind me and crossing my arms. “Well, I can guarantee that you wouldn’t be the first if you did.”

She laughs, and I can’t help the way that thing inside me twists tighter at the sound of her voice.

---