Page 12 of A Taste of Chardonnay

I angled my gaze and glared. “Are you two sharing Playboys again?”

“Who needs a magazine when I have this?” He held up his phone and waggled those eyebrows.

“You’re a pig.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass. Now that we have that settled… can I leave? Jack’s in the truck waiting for me.”

“Go. No one wants you here, anyway.”

“I don’t mind him here,” Nero said with a stupid smirk.

Brady crossed his arms over his massive chest and leaned against the bar. “See, Nero loves me.” There was a twinkle in his green eyes that was almost charming… almost.

“Nero was also dropped on his head as a baby.”

“Hey!” Nero exclaimed, then shrugged. “I mean, it’s not a lie, but the doctors said there was no damage.”

“That they could see,” I added.

An annoying sound echoed through the tasting room—the same ringtone Brady had had for two decades.

He glanced at the screen, a flash of confusion crossing his chiseled features, before bringing the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” His jaw tightened, and any light in his eyes disappeared. “I’m on my way.” He shoved his phone in his pocket.

I didn’t want to care, but as much as I couldn’t stand Brady, he was someone in my life, whether I wanted him to be or not. “Is everything okay?”

“Just fucking wonderful.” He stormed out the door without another word.

The last thing I felt like dealing with was my old man. The son of a bitch wasn’t there for most of my life, but now, any time there was an issue with his old ass, I was his emergency contact.

The one time the school nurse had called him, he’d been too drunk to drive, and, after belching in the nurse’s ear, he hung up on her. I’d spent the day curled up in the nurse’s office, willing myself not to puke until I got home.

I was tempted to leave his ass at Espresso Yourself, but Michael said he was causing a scene. That wasn’t fair to Michael or Kenneth, the owners of the beloved coffee shop. Nor was it fair to any of the customers trying to get their caffeine fix to jumpstart their day.

There was a spot a few doors down, and I parallel parked my truck, barely fitting in the small space. “Stay here,” I said to Jack, giving him a scratch behind his ears before I hopped out.

“Oh my…” Odette, the town’s very own gossip mill, hurried through the door. She was in a matching purple outfit with flowers embroidered on both the top and the ankles of the pants. Her makeup reminded me of Mimi from the Drew Carey Show, but she thought it looked good, so who was I to tell her differently?

“Morning,” I said as she almost ran right into my chest.

“Oh Brady, thank heavens. Your father is”—her eyes darted back to the café—“upset.”

“I’ve heard,” I mumbled.

“You should get in there.” I don’t know what anyone thought I could do. The old bastard hadn’t listened to me a single day in my entire life.

“Thanks.”

I bypassed her and flung the door open, stepping inside. The scent of freshly brewed coffee smacked me in the face, but before I could enjoy it, Ron’s voice cut through the air.

“I want a scrapple special!”

“Ron, I have told you repeatedly that we don’t serve a scrapple special here. I can offer you a chive scone or a blueberry muffin.”

“I don’t want a fucking muffin! I want a scrapple special.”

“Hey!” I bellowed, letting the deep tone of my voice burst like a bark. Everyone froze, eyes turning toward me, except for Ron.

“Thank God,” Michael said, resting a hand against his chest.

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