Page 129 of Gone With the Wine

Jake smiles.

“I need to learn to compromise,” I say. “Vitto made me see that. And you. If we’re all going to run this place together, there are going to have to be compromises. I hate compromising, especially when it comes to the wine.”

“I don’t want you to compromise on wine.”

“I know. And I won’t. I’ll make the best damn wines we’re capable of. I can make orange wine next season. And it’ll be amazing. But I’ll listen to you, and to Allegra when she gets here, and we’ll figure things out together.”

She grins.

“Thank you for believing in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.”

She nods, her eyes suddenly shiny.

“And you’re right about something else. I am running away. Again.”

Chapter29

Jansen

Ipause on the sidewalk outside Atelier in Manhattan Beach. Here I am. This might be crazy, but I want to do it.

I got on a flight in San Francisco a few hours ago, rented a car at LAX, and now here I am. I have to do this fast because Bianca’s leaving on Saturday.

I push inside and am greeted by a luxurious, feminine scent that pairs perfectly with the décor of the shop—brick walls lit with track lights, antique wood tables piled with neatly folded clothing, more clothing hanging on brass racks. I’ve been here before, many times, but not since Stephanie and I separated.

I see her behind the counter, tucking tissue paper around a customer’s purchase. She smiles at the woman and slides her purchases into a glossy bag.

I amble closer, hands in my jeans pockets, and she sees me. Something flickers on her face, but at least it’s not horror or hatred. She knew I was coming; I texted her yesterday. If she said no, I’d have to figure out something else, but she was agreeable to meeting up with me for coffee.

The customer moves away from the counter and Stephanie looks at me. “Hi, Jansen.”

She’s as pretty as ever—pale blonde hair, high cheekbones, dark blue eyes, wearing a black dress that’s wrapped around her thin frame like a bandage, covering her from neck to mid-calf.

“Hi.” I incline my head. “How are you?”

“I’m good! How about you?”

“Yeah. Good. Great.”

“We can go into my office.” She leads the way through a door, down a short hall, and into an office. It’s decorated in a similar style to the front of the store, with an antique desk on the wood floor, a thick pink rug under a couple of armless chairs upholstered in turquoise, pink, and green.

She holds out a hand to one of the chairs and I sit.

“Coffee?” she asks, nodding at the Keurig on the credenza.

“Sure.”

“Just milk, right?”

She remembers. “Yeah. Thanks.”

When we each have a mug in our hands, she sits too and gives me a curious but wary look. “This is a surprise.”

“I’m sure.” I grimace. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on.”

“Oh yeah.” She grins and nods.

I pull in a long breath. “I’m not sure where to start. I have questions for you.”

---