Page 100 of The Bad Girl List

My anger heats up another few notches. There is no doubt in my mind that Tim set all this up. He used my unemployment as a lure and, for a reason I can’t fathom, brought me out here to see his son. Do I even have a job with his winery?

“I just remembered that I have to get back home,” I say. “My family will be back from their hike soon.”

Tim just smiles, like he’s oblivious to our discomfort, even though I’m positive that whatever is radiating between me and Trevor right now is getting picked up on the Richter scales in San Francisco.

“I just hired Dom to finish up our label redesign,” Tim says.

“You what?”

Trevor’s reaction makes something inside me shrivel. I should be relieved to know Tim wasn’t lying about the job opportunity, but I feel like I’m back in the woods outside Skyview Villa, still naked and exposed like I had been when Trevor leaped away from me as though I’d stung him. It hurts more than it should.

I deal with it by petting Tequila with both hands. Her slobbery dog kisses do nothing to dispel my desire to disappear into the ground.

“Since Dom is no longer with Presidio, I hired her to work directly with us on the label redesign,” Tim says. “I wanted her to get a little inspiration from our vineyards. Why don’t you show her what you’re working on?”

“I really have to get going.” I straighten, wiping Tequila’s dog slobber on my shorts. “My family–”

“Just come on over here,” Tim says. “My son doesn’t bite.”

His son does, in fact, bite. I swallow as a rush of heat pools between my legs at the memory of Trevor’s mouth on my breasts. What the hell is wrong with me? I should not be this turned on by a guy who treated me like shit. Twice.

“Come on, Dom, I think you’ll find this really interesting.” Ignoring the growling dog, Tim takes me by the arm and drags me toward the picnic bench. Tequila hops after us, barking.

The ten yards between me and Trevor shrinks under Tim’s insistence. Five yards. Three. One.

And then I’m standing beside the table, trying to figure out what I’m looking at. On the table is a giant pile of … of …

“Are those cow horns?” I say at last. I can’t figure out what else the giant stack of brownish-white, horn-shaped things on the picnic table might be.

Tequila hops up on the bench to stand beside me, still barking at Tim even as she leans up against my leg.

“You know,” Tim says, “that crazy dog doesn’t like anyone. Not me, not my wife, not anyone, and our family is what I consider an animal family. We’ve always had dogs and cats.” He gives my shoulder a friendly pat. “It’s rather remarkable how Tequila has taken to you. Don’t you think it’s remarkable, Trev?”

“Remarkable.” Trevor pulls the brim of his hat down so that his eyes are concealed.

“It takes a special person to connect with the heart of an animal who’s been abused,” Tim continues. “I’d hazard to say it speaks a lot about a person’s character.”

“What does it say about you then?” Trevor shoots back.

“I picked up some food from the taco truck.” Tim ignores Trevor’s rancor and sets the plastic bag with our burritos on the table. “Why don’t you tell Dom about the horn manure?” To me, he says, “Horn manure is a type of compost. It’s one of the cornerstones of biodynamic farming. It takes six months to make. We are one of only a few wineries that utilize this type of farming practice in the state of California.”

“Six months to make compost?” Despite the awkwardness of this situation, I’m a little intrigued. “Are those really cow horns?” I pick one up and turn it over.

“Careful.” Trevor takes it out of my hand. “I haven’t emptied it yet. There are ten times more microorganisms in this horn than you’d find in a regular pile of compost. It’s like compost on steroids.” He turns the horn so I can see the brownish substance packed inside. “We make this once a year every fall.”

He picks up a long piece of wire from the table and sticks it into the horn. Standing over a five-gallon bucket, he digs out a brown, clumpy substance from inside the horn and lets it fall into the bucket.

“We only buy horns that have been naturally shed by female cows when they’re lactating,” Trevor says. “See these rings on the bottom of the horn? There’s one ring for each time a cow gives birth.” Now that the manure has been emptied out, he hands the horn back to me.

I turn it over and study it, running my fingers over the birth rings on the bottom of the horn. A sketch is already half formed in my mind. If I wasn’t upset about being thrown in front of Trevor like a sacrificial lamb, I might have appreciated the inspiration.

Focus, I tell myself. This is for the new job. Don’t let yourself get derailed by Trevor.

“Why lactating cows?” I ask.

“Because lactating cows give life.” Trevor picks up another horn and works the compost free with a wire. “The life-giving energy in the horns is transferred from the cow into the compost. It’s part of why it’s so potent.”

I dart a quick look at his face. The hat still conceals his eyes, but there’s something about the way he handles the cow horn that seems almost reverent. It’s more arresting than it should be. Even Tequila has stopped barking, her eyebrows moving back and forth on her head as she watches Trevor dig out the horn manure. Thankfully, she’s still leaning on my leg. Right now, this dog is officially my best friend.

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