Page 34 of The Bad Girl List

“Just tie her up in the back of the truck and park it under the trees out back. You can walk her on your breaks. Hurry up, bro, we need you.” He hung up.

Of all the days to get stuck working behind the tasting room bar, it would have to be Passport weekend. If I had any idea of how to get out of it, I would have done it. But the winery opened in less than two hours. There was no way to get someone else on such short notice.

So I packed Tequila into my truck and drove up the one-lane, hard-packed road that wound through the vineyard and led to the back of the winery.

Now here I was, two hours into the event, and faced with yet another wine rookie. If I wasn’t so hungover, it wouldn’t have bothered me. I normally enjoy talking about wine, even if I prefer to do it to a small crowd, not the massive crush of people that’s in the tasting room today.

“I asked for the Zinfandel,” the woman repeats. Her group of friends all look at me expectantly, waiting for the idiot behind the bar to fix his mistake.

Beside me, Thomas laughs loudly at something one of his customers said. He looks sincerely interested in whatever it is the group of Chinese ladies is saying to him. They have matching, black leather fanny packs.

Mom and Dad are on my other side, both of them laughing and smiling at the smash of customers around the tasting bar, all of them holding out wine glasses to be filled. No one in my family looks half as annoyed as I feel. In fact, they look like they’re enjoying themselves. For some reason, this just annoys me further.

I dig deep for patience I don’t feel.

“That is the Zinfandel,” I tell the woman.

“No, Zinfandel is pink.” She says this like she’s talking to a small child.

“You’re thinking of White Zinfandel,” I reply. “Zinfandel is made from a red grape. White Zin is a light pink because it’s not fermented on the skins.” I point to her glass. “Regular Zin ferments on its skins and gives you red wine. That’s what you’re drinking. Most of the Zin you’ll find today will be red.” Dry Creek Valley is a popular destination for fans of Zinfandel.

“Oh.” The woman’s forehead wrinkles in disappointment. “Well, I don’t really like the red stuff.”

The red stuff. Right. “You’re in luck,” I say, doing my best to mimic Thomas’s charismatic personality. “We do make pink wine, but we call it Rosé. We have a few cases in the back. I’ll grab a bottle for you to try.”

The answering smile on her face would have made my father proud.

I can hear his voice in my head. There’s always a way to yes, he likes to say. You just have to keep at it until you find it.

“I’ll be right back.” I leave her and her group of friends clustered tightly in front of the bar. They busy themselves with snapping more selfies.

“Bro,” Thomas calls, “you going out back?”

“I need to grab some of the Rosé.”

“Can you swap out the dirty glasses?” He gestures with his chin to the three plastic racks of glasses stacked behind the tasting bar. “There are clean ones outside the kitchen.”

“Sure.” I grab one of the plastic racks and head through the back door into a small, temperature-controlled storage area. This is where we keep wine for the tasting room. I spot a stack of Rosé cartons, but stride past them. The girls will be fine snapping selfies until I get back with a new rack of glasses.

Next to the tasting room is a private event building. It has a kitchen and a dining room that overlooks the vineyards. We use it for wedding parties and other events, but today, we’re using the kitchen for Passport. The back door is open while caterers go in and out the back door with trays of hors d’oeuvres for our guests. I spot the tall rack of glasses Thomas directed me to find.

My truck is parked underneath a cluster of olive trees, a picturesque area that we sometimes decorate with outdoor lights to use for events. It’s closed off today, making it the ideal place to leave my dog.

I haven’t checked on Tequila since this morning. I decide to cruise by the truck and give her a pet on my way to get fresh glasses.

The glasses clinking in the rack, I stride toward the truck. I’m halfway there when I realize Tequila isn’t in the back.

“Shit,” I mutter, hustling over. Tequila has been known to escape.

Sure enough, the leash is chewed in half, the frayed end looking at me like a bad joke. My dog is nowhere to be seen.

“Tequila?” I raise my voice, panic setting in. If she makes her way over to the tasting room, I’m not sure what will happen. She’s terrified of people and has a tendency to snap and growl at anyone who’s not me. If she ends up in the crowd and bites someone, it could be really bad for the winery. “Tequila?”

An answering yip comes from the other side of the truck.

“Is that your daddy?” asks a voice. There’s something familiar about it, but I’m too worried about my dog to place it.

“Tequila?” I rush around the truck, wine glasses jangling in the rack. “Tequila, is that you, girl?”

---