Page 17 of Lighting Up Christmas

“Great,” she repeated, pouring enthusiasm into her voice and sounding nearly manic. What was wrong with her? She knew how to talk to men. Well, he wasn’t a man. No. He was a man. Buthe was a client. Sort of. “Sorry, I was trying to get my shoes on and stumbled.”OMG, TMI.“How are you?”

If only she could restart the entire conversation.

“Eating crow.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Riley started to nibble on her thumbnail but remembered just in time that she had put clear polish on her short nails and that she’d ruin her lip gloss.

“You were right. I needed an electrical assessment. I overloaded the circuits. And I have about fifty people who will start arriving in another hour or so. Are you available to rig a fix?”

Chapter Four

This was adisaster.

And why he didn’t have parties. Or plan social events. Well, he did have to occasionally “feed the social beast,” as Jackson happily claimed, only they hired an event planner who dealt with the details and hassles and who interfaced with Jackson.

But he was on his own here. Trying to take on a bit more of the business schmooze, as Jackson called it. Learning to be more social was now on his list since the company kept growing. He’d thought tonight would be good practice. A small group of colleagues and contacts along with a handful of friends. Simple. Low key. A wine release party but also a chance to socialize and talk shop and future projects in private.

He was introducing three varietals, two late harvest whites and his surprise ice wine. He felt unaccountably proud and nervous—more nervous than he was about his tech product and program launches. Wine was just another product, and yet it felt more personal.

He’d been feeling exposed for the past two weeks. Riley with her lights on Wednesday had only exacerbated his feeling of vulnerability. He hadn’t felt this unwound and unsure since his first quarter at Stanford many years ago. He knew there was a lot of curiosity about what he was doing so “far away” in his mountain retreat.

Jackson was worried he was losing his edge or his mind. Since he’d barrel tasted and blended with his winemaker, he’d started wanting to share his wine. But how?

This was the first step. Maybe.

A strike through your self-improvement list.

Or a strike against him.

Jackson had repeatedly asked what was driving this shift to the land. He’d bought him a hoe as a joke. Zhang wondered if the truth would reassure him or freak him out.

Not that he cared, exactly, what anyone thought about him at this point in his life, but he hated to fail. And a blackout and having to call Riley Flanagan definitely felt like failure.

He heard Riley’s truck long before he saw her. Relief crashed through him, embarrassing in its intensity. But chefs and employees of the two food trucks, the bartender, and the band were looking to him to solve the problem.

At least the heat lamps still glowed red and warmed the immediate area. He had several generators, but for the first time, he hadn’t self-problem solved. He hadn’t wanted to do anything to exacerbate the problem—like electrocute himself or burn down the winery.

The truck pulled up with a flourish, parallel to the door. Zhang braced for her brilliant smile and “I told you” smirk.

Riley left her truck’s headlights on and opened her door. She dropped her two work boots on the ground, and then he saw a glimpse of deep blue and long, pale, and very bare legs as she hopped out and her feet disappeared into her unlaced boots.

Zhang stared, mouth dried up in shock. He tried to reconcile the image of Riley from Wednesday to this vision of blue with the silky, rusty tresses that flowed down her back like lava.

“Hi,” she said and strapped on her tool belt low on her hips over the dress and then put a helmet on her head, the headlight already on.

“Hi,” he answered, feeling rather ridiculous. When was she going to mock him? Tell him how stupid, short-sighted, and arrogant he’d been?

She reached into her truck and pulled out a barn jacket, ubiquitous in rural Oregon, Zhang had learned. “Judging by the food trucks, I think I know what happened,” Riley said cheerfully. “I know you’re Mr. Do-It-Yourself, so if you’d like to help, grab a helmet—it’s on a hook in the back seat of my truck. There’s an extra pair of gloves in the tote hanging off the back of the driver’s side headrest.”

Zhang hurried to her truck, easily finding the items and another toolbox. The truck was immaculate. What had he expected, dirt and chaos?

He had.

Riley just seemed so easygoing, which made him think slapdash—an accusation his mother had hurled like a curse when everything wasn’t precise, immaculate, and perfect the first go. Slapdash was, according to his mother, one of the highest forms of disrespect.

And why was he giving her memory any bandwidth tonight?

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