Page 21 of Lighting Up Christmas

Chapter Five

Zhang knew whathe was doing. He just wasn’t sure why.

It was Monday morning, ten thirty.

And he was making muffins for Riley. Riley and her crew of two.

The Friday party, by all accounts, had been a success. Most everyone had returned to the Bay Area. A few had stayed at area hotels, B&Bs, or VRBOs to do more wine tasting. He’d surprised people with the winery. In a good, dark horse way. People had stayed late. Eaten, listened to the music, drunk wine, and sat around the roaring fire and discussed their different projects.

Jackson had VCs lined up to meet for their future project that was still for the most part under wraps—the team all signed NDAs. Jackson had been floored over the winery. He considered it a business perk, a place to set and to close deals. He’d even suggested investing in the winery as a silent partner and adding a vacation house or small vintage Airstream trailer park where they could team build or pitch to clients.

Not a bad idea financially.

Zhang’s hobby could become a partial business expense and tax write-off. And he’d have an infusion of cash and a reason to continue to plant more varietals or different clones. But personally, he’d lose his sanctuary. He’d be opening his gate, literally, to having more people around. Several other friends and colleagues had asked about investing in the winery once they learned how many acres he still could plant. And when he’d let them know that only a small percentage of the vineyard-friendlyland in the entire Rogue Valley had been planted, that had generated a lot of interest.

If he pursued Jackson’s enthusiasm, Fire Ridge would no longer be solely his. It wouldn’t be his retreat away from work. It would be an extension of work. But the solitude was wearing even on him.

And he was frugal enough to want to spread the financial risk but private enough to not want others tromping through his vineyard, tearing up the ground with ATVs, using the beautiful trees for target practice or whatever kooky idea rich, entitled millennials would get up to out here. He didn’t want colleagues visiting and posting who knew what and setting off a stampede of Cupertinites snatching up retreats all over the valley and Napa-izing it.

How silent was silent, he’d wondered when Jackson and his fiancée, Charlize, who was their company’s event planner, had talked about investing with him or buying land of their own as a legacy, something for their as yet unconceived children.

Would it be worth it?

He often baked when he wanted to think.

Zhang scowled at the muffins as they cooled on the rack.

Were muffins too obvious? Would Riley read something into it? Women often did. But muffins held no hidden message or agenda. They were simple. Flexible. Healthy or indulgent.

Like these. Shredded zucchini; torn, fresh spinach; red pepper; and aged white cheddar with savory seasonings. A good late-autumn muffin. Hearty.

Riley and her crew had arrived at seven and started work. It was about time for a break, and the muffins would be welcomed. Right? A thank you for putting his project early on their schedule.

“Don’t overthink.” He put the muffins in a container with a vented lid.

He’d already driven down from the house to greet them and open up both barns this morning. He’d planned to stay and observe the work, but he found himself staring—trying to reconcile the Riley of today with the glamorous but still coolly efficient and bold Riley of Friday night. Today’s Riley had her hair in the fat braid. She wore her thick work boots, Carhartt pants, a plaid shirt, Carhartt vest, and thick gloves. She’d looked ready—tools and equipment. No makeup, her expression intent, issuing the plan for the day with her two assistants.

There’d been no sign of the woman who had arrived Friday night in a sleek dress that had hugged her slight, elegant curves. She’d shimmered. And the incongruity of the dress and the work boots, gloves, and hard hat had intrigued him and poked his love of irony.

Friday night he’d been tempted to touch her to see if her skin was as soft as it looked, and he most definitely could not give into any impulses like that. Not again. Colleagues were off-limits, especially after Brin.

And Riley was temporarily working for him on his property. He needed to be respectful of the barrier at all times.

So why was he making her muffins?

Full circle. Irritated with himself, he picked up the muffins and headed out. He made muffins because he liked to experiment with recipes. He was also being a good host. He’d even made a large carafe of coffee.

Nothing underhanded or inappropriate about that.

Even if he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all weekend. He liked that she seemed impervious to what Brin had called his moods, his awkwardness, his silences.

She treated him like a normal man. Teased him. Conversed without impatience if he didn’t answer right away or in the right way. She was full of life. Warm where he was so cool. Kind, never once mocking him with an “I told you so.”

So, yes, she was still in his head.

Even though he hadn’t spoken to her other than to nod this morning before going for a long, long run. After his shower, he’d thrown together the ingredients for the muffins and answered emails while they baked.

He headed down in his truck. He often used a gator when traveling around the property. It was easier, but it was cold, and he had the coffee and muffins and might need to go into town later. When he parked near the barn next to Riley’s truck, he sat for a moment, picturing how he would act. What he would say to make this casual.

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