Page 8 of The Bad Girl List

My father’s pretense at pleasantness instantly morphs into a frown of disapproval. “Trevor, you can’t keep doing this.”

I decide to play dumb. “What, exactly, are you accusing me of doing? Running our vineyard operations? Producing the best yields Moretti Winery has ever had?” I gesture to the vineyards that surround my bungalow.

Dad is silent for long enough that I almost squirm. Almost.

“Trevor,” he says at last, “you rarely leave this house except to go to work.”

“Tequila gets anxious when I’m gone.”

“You never see any of your old friends. It’s been eight weeks since the last time you made it to Sunday dinner. This isn’t you.”

“Maybe it wasn’t me when I was younger, but I’ve changed, Dad.” The easy-going guy my dad is referring to is dead and buried in the ground.

“It’s been two years, Trev. Elle wouldn’t want you to live like this.”

The softness in Dad’s tone makes something inside me snap. It doesn’t help that tonight is the two-year anniversary of the accident, but I doubt Dad remembers the exact date. The reality that it’s been two full years hasn’t even sunk in with me yet, or my mood would be even worse than it already is.

I can still remember the way the storm smelled, the way lightning sizzled in the air and made all the hairs along my arm stand up on end. The way the rain drenched my skin and turned me numb.

I can still remember the feel of Elle’s blood as it soaked my pants. How it had been hot in contrast to the cold storm that lashed all around us.

Her dress had been black, the hem embroidered with blue butterflies. Elle loved butterflies.

Tequila starts to bark inside the house as I round on my father, nostrils flaring. Angry words gather on the tip of my tongue.

“I’m sorry.” Dad holds up his hands. “I shouldn't have said that about Elle.”

I swallow and stand there in silence. Tequila calms and stops barking, though I can hear her whining. Images of a black dress with blue butterflies and warm blood in a thunderstorm flash through my head. I roughly shove away the memories, trying to maintain some level of control.

“I’m not going to be around forever, son,” Dad says. “Someone has to take my place. It’s time for you to step up.”

I knew this is why he had come. Dad wants me to take over the sales division of Moretti Winery. He wants me to spend three-quarters of my year living out of hotels, flying on airplanes, and schmoozing with restaurant owners, retailers, and liquor distributors.

There had been a time in my life when following my father’s footsteps had been my greatest ambition.

All that had changed two years ago when I lost Elle.

“I’m in charge of the vineyard operations,” I grind out.

“You can’t hide in the vineyards forever.”

“I’m not hiding. Moretti Winery wouldn’t exist without the grapes.” It wouldn’t produce award-winning wine if not for the biodynamic farming techniques my uncle implemented before he died, practices I meticulously maintain and oversee. “Find someone else to groom for the sales position. Why don’t you work with one of those professional headhunting services?”

“Moretti Winery wouldn’t exist without the stable of loyal clients I’ve spent the last two decades cultivating. They don’t want to be passed off to some no-name I’ve hired from a headhunter. They want to work with the family. Our family.”

I almost tell him to go talk to Thomas, except my younger brother is more interested in having a good time than selling wine. And my sister, Selene, is off on a winemaking internship in Italy. Neither of them can get me out of this mess.

But Dad doesn’t take no for an answer. It’s why he’s so damn good at sales. To him, the word “no” just means he hasn’t found the right hook. There’s always a way to yes, as he likes to say.

“Look, I need to harvest the valerian before it gets too warm and make the infusions. I have to go.” I turn my back on him, heading around to the carport to where my 1986 Ford F-150 pickup sits. It was a sixteenth birthday gift from my grandpa. The paint is peeling, and the truck has more dents than not, but I’d take it any day over my dad’s Tesla. I fucking love it almost as much as I love my dog.

“Trevor.” Dad comes after me. “At least stop by the house tonight to look at the label redesign proposals I picked up from Presidio yesterday. I’d really like your opinion on them.”

“Send them to Selene.” My sister is better with style than all the Moretti boys combined.

“At least come to Sunday night dinner. Your mother misses you.”

“The last time I came to Sunday dinner, Mom ambushed me with a blind date.” She had invited the niece of a woman from her Bridge club without telling me.

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