Page 16 of Bordeaux Bombshell
I asked once why we didn’t send it to one of Theo’s minions at Mailbox, Inc.—the man runs a billion-dollar tech company; surely, one of those fancy accountants could do this on their lunch break—but Mom says Sophie insists on receiving it personally.
It does nothing to ease the embarrassment that a billionaire purchased my entire life’s dream on a whim for his wife’s birthday.
That she’s extremely likable only makes it worse.
Shrugging, I shove my hands deep in my pockets and move to check the next row, when a feminine shout drifts down the hillside. I turn to look up the hill right as the sun crests the tree line, blinding me. Someone is waving at us from up top, but any distinguishable features are lost in the glare.
Assuming it’s Mom, I follow Dad back up the hill. Maybe she made breakfast for us. I wouldn’t be angry if she were up therewith a couple of breakfast burritos, like when I was in high school.
“Hi, boys,” Mom calls from the tasting room porch as we approach, a platter piled high with her foil-wrapped breakfast burritos in her hands. Unfortunately, she’s standing behind not only Sophie Sutton but her husband and daughter as well.
“Is the damage very bad?”
Sophie’s concern crawls over my skin like ants, irritating and ticklish, making me want to scratch at it. A growl escapes me, but I hide it behind a cough. Not quick enough to escape a raised eyebrow from Theodore Sutton, but he doesn’t say anything.
Dad steps aside and waves me forward, forcing me to answer. “We won’t know for a few days, once it warms back up. We can’t check the buds while it’s still this cold. It’ll be weeks before we know the full extent of the damage.”
Everyone is bundled up against the cold—Sophie and her daughter, Emma, huddle in the ubiquitous black North Face puffer coats that everyone here owns. Mom is also wearing hers, although the bright pink color stands out against the others.
Theodore is sporting an expensive-looking wool pea coat, emphasizing the difference between him and us. Like me, Dad opted for a duffle work coat over a flannel, knowing we would warm up while we worked. “Is there anything to be done today?” Theo asks, his voice changing from gruff to playful as his dog Max comes bounding over. “Sophie insisted we come and offer assistance.”
“It seemed like an all-hands-on-deck kind of situation. I thought you might need to light little warming fires in each of the rows or something.” Her shoulders curl inward as she looks around, mumbling something about not trusting the internet. “Apparently not.”
Theo slides an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, his other ruffling the dog’s head. Max sits happily at his side,tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. They’re the picture of marital happiness. When Dad leaves me to go kiss my mom on the cheek, I’m left alone, surrounded by their happiness, unable to taste it for myself.
“Gross, aren’t they?” A foil-wrapped burrito waves in my line of vision, held up by Emma, a half-eaten one clutched in her other hand.
I step back, always wary around Sophie and Theo’s daughter. She may be twenty-one now, but she’s still a kid to me. “The burritos?” I rush in to snatch it from her hand, then back up again. “These are my favorite.”
Emma laughs, bits of scrambled egg falling out of her half-eaten wrap. Max darts forward, and they’re gone almost before they hit the ground. “No, the burrito is fire. I meantthem.” She waves toward them, more egg and bits of sausage falling into Max’s waiting mouth.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
It’s not whatever. Once, I thought I might have that. But now that I know better, I do my best to avoid thinking about it. Or looking at it, whatever the case may be.
“While they’re distracted, I have a proposition for you.”
“No. Absolutely not.” I avoid eye contact with the youngest Sutton, concentrating on unwrapping the top of my burrito and filling my mouth with Mom’s eggy, cheesy, sausagey goodness.
Emma huffs and shakes her head. “You don’t even know what it is.”
Forcing myself to swallow, I shake my head. A few yards up the hill, the Suttons are talking to my parents, ignoring us. “I know that I am way too old for you, and your mom and Theo would not only be able to murder me but can afford to hire the really good hitmen who don’t get caught.”
Emma makes a gagging noise. “Gross! You’re so old, that’s disgusting.”
“No need to be offensive.”
“Never mind. Now I’m creeped out, and I don’t want to ask you.” Emma turns to stare up the hill, shoving the burrito in her mouth.
With a sigh, I angle my body to face her. She’s fairly tall, I’d guess close to five eight, and since she’s a few steps up the hill from me, we’re practically eye-level. “Emma. As long as it isn’t a completely inappropriate proposition, go ahead and ask me.”
I have an inkling I might know what she wants. Ever since I returned from France to run the winery after my dad’s fall almost two years ago, she’s been angling for a job here. Why, I don’t know. But she was adamant enough that Sophie pulled me aside and made me promise not to let her work here until after she turned twenty-one. Something about wanting her to earn her way into a first job and not starting with the nepotism early.
I have to admit, I gained a smidge of respect for Sophie that day. With a stepfather like Theodore Sutton, it would be easy—almost expected—for Emma to have success handed to her.
Emma stares at the adults at the top of the hill for a long moment, backing up a few steps to stand beside me. “For my business class, I have to do a case study of a real-world business. Like, describe the business plan, expenses and accounting, anticipated issues. Shit like that.”
“And?”
