Page 42 of Sweet Escape

Thirty seconds later, the two of them walk out from the row where I’d found them, hand in hand.

“The barrels are so cool,” Jolie says.

I glance at Vivian, unable to hide the smile on my face. “They definitely are.”

“Enjoy dinner,” I call out, giving Max and Jolie a wave as they head off along the pathway back to the restaurant. Then I mumble to myself, “If you even make it there.”

Vivian snickers behind me.

She hit the nail on the head when she said the two of them were handsy. I can’t say I’m not happy to see them go after watching Max grab Jolie’s ass through the entire tasting portion of the tour.

“Thanks for the tour, M,” she says as I close the door to the tasting room’s patio and turn the lock. “Though I’ll be honest, I’ll never understand why your reds are where you put all your energy. Your whites are”—she kisses her fingers—“chef’s kiss. Especially the chardonnay.”

I tuck my hands in my pockets and lean back against the door. I cross one leg in front of the other, surprised by her opinion.

Mostly because . . . she’s right.

“Historically, people have consumed far more red wine than white,” I tell her, repeating what my dad always said when I brought up thistopic in the past. “Our reds have always been the dominant vine, but I agree ... our whites are better. They always have been.”

“So ... why don’t you make more?”

I laugh, kicking off the door and crossing the room to where the tasting glasses are scattered on the counter in the corner.

“It’s not that simple,” I tell her, collecting each glass and placing it on a tray. “Whenever you plant a new vine, it takes several years before the crop will produce grapes. And that doesn’t include all the work that goes into getting it established. Ripping out the old vines and setting new trellises. Then there’s the soil analysis.”

Vivian joins me at the counter, collecting the handful of glasses I can’t fit on the tray and walking with me over to the sink.

“And on top of all the added expenses and years of work, the vines that are now gone aren’t producing anything that can be sold in the meantime while you’re waiting for the new vines to produce.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s far more complicated than just ‘why don’t you make more’?”

I chuckle softly. “It is.” And then, before I can stop myself, I add, “And with how tenuous things are right now, we have to be really calculated about the risks we take.”

Vivian tilts her head and glances at me, a crinkle in her brow.

I don’t know why I said it, and I immediately backtrack.

“But anyway, that’s all a bunch of vineyard business stuff that’s boring as hell.” I glance at my watch. “You have eight minutes. Starting now.”

Her eyes fly wide. “What? Not fair! I’m not ready.”

I cross my arms and lean a hip against the counter.

Vivian groans. “Okay, fine. Jeez, way to put me on the spot.” She licks her lips and twists her fingers together in front of her chest. “How much has Murphy shared with you about me?”

“Not much,” I reply. “Just that you were friends from LA. That you write music together sometimes.”

“Well, I’m a singer. And a songwriter. But mostly a singer. And I was signed over the summer by a record label to create an album.”

My eyebrows rise. “Really?”

She nods. “Yeah. And I’m supposed to go into the studio soon to record, but I’m still working on the last few songs, which has been”—she sighs—“a nightmare for more reasons than I’d like to share. When you spend years perfecting the music that gets you the recording contract, and they turn right around and want you to pump out more music ... It can be really hard. And I haven’t been inspired by much recently.”

Then she reaches out with one foot and taps me on the shin.

“Until the other night at The Standard.”

I blink a few times, feeling like she’s saying ... What is she saying?

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