Page 17 of A Taste of Chardonnay

Mid-Autumn sun bathed the fields in gold as I stepped between the rows of grapevines, the scent of ripening fruit and dirt thick in the air. Workers moved methodically, shears snipping through vines, baskets filling with merlot and Shiraz grapes. I picked one from a cluster, rolling it between my fingers before popping it into my mouth. Sweet, with just the right balance of acidity.

Enrico wiped his brow with the back of his hand and gave me a satisfied nod. “Good yield this year. Near perfect conditions—warm days, cool nights. Should make for a damn fine vintage.”

“Franc will be thrilled.” Not that he needed me to tell him—he probably already had the sugar levels mapped out in his head, every barrel accounted for before the first grape even hit the press. Winemaking wasn’t just his job; it was in his bones.

We all took pride in the quality of our wines, and that was exactly why I was never worried about the competing winery just outside of the town. Their wines were generic and one note, relying on turning their tasting rooms into clubs instead of focusing on the craft.

I finished up with Enrico and with a smile marked a check on my to-do list. A surge of pure satisfaction jolted through me as I made my way back toward the main building.

My phone vibrated in its holder, and I put the car in park, then swiped at the screen to check the incoming notification.

Rose: I’m setting up more fall photoshoots now. I’ll start shooting by end of week and have them posted to socials starting Monday.

Fall was our busy season, and I liked to capitalize on it as much as possible. With Rose in charge of social media, she’d already been creating posts that highlighted the autumn aesthetic, but the posts were going viral, and it only seemed beneficial to create more to keep the buzz going.

I had a meeting with her last week to go over the schedule and what she needed from me to create the posts. She just needed approval to go over her monthly budget on the company credit card, which I gladly approved. The buzz her posts were creating would not only make up the cost of the production but also provide a very nice profit. Not to mention a new slew of people coming to the winery, falling in love with our location, the wine, and, of course, the small town of Vine Valley, then telling all their friends.

I tapped into the reply box.

Chardonnay: Perfect. Looking forward to seeing them.

Rose: I’ll stop by your place once I have some content to show you.

Chardonnay: Let me know when, and I’ll make my arugula pizza.

I laughed at the GIF of Napolean Dynamite’s brother, pulling his fist down.

Chardonnay: Wyatt can come, too.

Rose and Wyatt might not have been married, but Wyatt was my brother-in-law in every sense of the meaning.

Rose: No! He’ll eat it all! But I’ll bring him a slice if there’s any left.

I made a mental note to pick up extra arugula and dough. I’d make sure there was plenty for Rose to take home to him.

Chardonnay: Sounds good.

I placed my phone in the holder and drove back to the winery. It was a short drive, and I normally would have taken the golf cart, but Rhone had taken it to check on the press load, making sure the last of the Merlot was ready to go. It was probably time we bought another one. The vineyard was vast, and it made sense. I made a mental note to look into pricing and availability.

I pulled into the parking lot, ready to turn into my spot, but it was occupied by a vehicle that was not mine. An unladylike growl rumbled through my throat at the sight of the oversized truck.Brady. I drove five spaces down to an open spot and parked.

Shoving my phone in my bag, I stormed toward the entrance, then stopped when I spotted Jack’s cute little head hanging out the window.

“Hi boy,” I said, giving him a good scratch behind the ears as he leaned into my hand. “Your daddy is in my spot. I bet he did it on purpose, didn’t he?”

Jack barked, and a laugh slipped from my lips. I kissed Jack on the snout, taking his woof as confirmation that Brady knew exactly what he had done. I went to step away, and he lifted his paw, tapping my arm. Unable to resist that adorable face, I granted him a few more scratches and a few more kisses before I continued on my way to the tasting room to give Brady a piece of my mind.

A tinge of excitement flared through me. It always did when I knew I was about to square off with Brady. Over the years, our “battles” had grown from bouts of silence and glares to all-out bickering. I preferred when I hit him with a one-liner he couldn’t recover from. I thrived on those moments. Lived for them, really.

It was hard to miss him as he leaned against the bar, talking to Nero. His stupid long hair was pulled back. He never wore it down, which made me question why he didn’t cut it. The black t-shirt he wore stretched dangerously tight across his broad chest and oversized biceps. And while his carpenter pants were different—these an olive green—they still had stains. This time, they looked like grease.

“You parked in my spot,” I said as I approached the bar.

Brady turned, his green eyes taking me in, scanning my pant suit. “I didn’t know it was yours. Does it have your name on it?”

“Actually, it does.” I crossed my arms over my chest, so I didn’t strangle him. “There’s a sign there.”

“I didn’t see it.” The total disregard and arrogance in his tone shot fire through my veins.

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