Page 20 of Christmas in Vines

Was he drunk?

When he came closer, I dispelled that theory. He looked stone-cold sober to me—just tired.

“Rough night?” I asked quietly.

He shot me a flickering smile. “I get insomnia sometimes. It’s something I carried with me from college. Don’t let it bother you. I’ve done five classes and two games of the most brutal touch football after nights like this. I’ll be fine. Believe me.”

He didn’t look it—not with the bags under his eyes—but I had no other choice but to believe him.

“You don’t look so hot, though,” Tyler said while grabbing a bottle of water and his stack of crates. “Did I… did last night freak you out or something? I won’t—”

“It’s not that,” I shook my head. “I just learned that my dad intends to take up Maxwell’s dad’s offer, arranged through my uncle, to buy shares in the business and, in exchange, let us use his ships to send to other countries.”

His brows lowered, “But that means more business, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” I replied. “And it might finally let us get some ground with the Sullivans and the Vegas. Both of those families are like thorns on our side, not for the fact that they’ve got more business than us, but because they refuse to even consider us a fellow beverage maker. It’s like… we’re the gum on their shoe that they make sure to scrape off.”

I heard the bitter note in my voice at the end but swallowed around it. “My dad has been trying to partner with both of them for years to see if we could run a joint campaign to promote all of our business, but they don’t seem interested. And now, I’ve read that the Vegas and Sullivans might be teaming up, which means they are going to leave us in the dust more than ever.”

Something flashed across Tyler’s face, but it vanished in the next moment. I sagged on the wall behind him and afforded him a baleful look. “I’m sorry for dumping this on you. It's none of your business. Sorry.”

“No,” he shook his head and lifted a hand to grasp my upper arm. From the emotion stamped on his face, I knew he wanted to cup my face or even kiss me, but he thought better of it. “I told you I’d listen when you felt overwhelmed with shit. I’ve been where you’re at. I've been there, done it, and bought the t-shirt. It's best to get it off your chest with someone you can trust.”

“I can trust you,” I replied, teasing.

“Hey, it's not like you gave me the super-secret recipe to your cider that I can sell for a million bucks and go off to the Bahamas cackling with my suitcases of money or something,” he grinned. “But…if you don’t mind letting such a recipe slip…”

“You’ll never say a word about it?”

His brows shot up. “What? No, I was going to say I’d ask for nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine bucks for it. I’d never sell it for amillion.”

“You’re incorrigible.” I laughed.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, then sobered. “I’m serious, though. You can tell me anything, and I won’t judge you.”

“It’s just…I’m apprehensive about the Winslow’s coming around,” I admitted further. “Where his dad goes, Maxwell tends to follow.”

“And you’re scared he might try to get you back?” Tyler asked.

I gave him an eye. “I’m scared I’ll put a foot up his ass and ruin all dealings my dad will have.”

He grinned, hefted his crates, and headed to the door. “If you don’t mind, just give me a signal and I’ll put my foot up his ass instead.”

Shaking my head, I watched him go. “What signal?” I shouted after him.

He lifted his fist and punched it into the air while disappearing around a corner. Laughing, I took the clipboard and headed upstairs.

* * *

“What are the mechanics of making this snowman?” Tyler eyed the mounds of snow as if they had cursed his mother. “Can’t we say we made it and call it a day.”

“No.” I slipped a mitten on. “We’re making a snowman. First, we roll up a ball of snow, then make it five times bigger by packing more snow on it. That's the base of the snowman.”

Again, Tyler gazed at the snow with offense. “I’d rather buy one off Amazon.”

“They don’t sell them,” I said, “Well, not the snow-based version.”

“Or, I can bribe a few kids with a five buck each to build one for—” I pinched his ear like a recalcitrant kid while marching us up to a patch of high snow.

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