Page 4 of Christmas in Vines

A knock on my door had me looking up, and Dad walked in, his bifocals pushed up into his still thick, dark hair. “Hey, girlie, can I get a moment?”

“Sure, Dad,” I replied. “What’s up?”

He came in and perched on the edge of the bed, “Are you sure you want to be a part of the meeting tomorrow? It’s not going to be that important, Willow, just some boilerplate stuff with me giving the new seasonal hands the what-for.”

I set the cup aside and held his hand, “I want to be there, Dad. It’s about time I start to get involved.”

His brown eyes still looked apprehensive, but I saw the moment he gave in. “Okay. I know it’s important to you.”

“I’m going to take over one day,” I teased. “And send you to marinate in some chalet in Florida.”

“If that’s the case, just dig a hole in the backyard and drop me in it,” Dad laughed. “I’d evaporate in Florida. But I know you want to be in charge, sweetheart. I would rather you have someone by your side when you did it. You know how I was with your mother? She was the anchor that held me down in the days that I thought I would splinter to the four corners of the earth. It’s easier with someone there, Willow.”

I leaned back into the tufted headboard. “I know, Dad, and I-I really thought Maxwell would be the one I’d have with me, but he turned out to be a conceited narcissist, and honestly, I… I think I’ll be fine footing it on my own until I do find the right guy.”

He reached over and hugged me, dropping a kiss on my temple. “I know it’ll happen. Good night.”

The click of the lock behind him had me reaching for my cell again and hitting Instagram. A picture of Ethan Vega and Mia Sullivan came up. He was sitting at the base of a fence post, and Mia was on the rung above him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders while she—kissed his cheek.

The iPhone tumbled to my lap.

What the fuck?

Grabbing it, I looked over it again—what was happening? Weren’t those two enemies for life? The caption said,#mending old fences.Below that, I readwe’ve found out that our families are closer than we thought.

What did that mean?

Were the two families… combined? Were they making a super-conglomerate on us?

My jaw clenched.

It was not fair how those two families treated us. They didn’t think of us as competition; hell, I would be surprised if they thought of us as a business at all.

When the tourists come to our neck of the woods, they always gravitated to Sullivan wine or Vega meads. Cider was just as important—probably not as popular—but we had our market, too. Dad had had to fight tooth and nail, shed sweat, blood and tears to make Clarkston Cider even a blip on the map, and sadly, that was still what we were—a blip.

The two families were the bane to our existence, and it was not that they didn’t recognize us; it was as if sportsmanship didn’t even occur to them. I understood protecting your brand, but would it kill them to reach out to us and give us any endorsement or help? I knew for a fact that Dad had tried a few times only to be left on read. I didn’t hate them… I just felt insulted.

Dropping the phone, I slumped to the pillows and scrolled through my messages.

My friend Jackie had texted me saying she’d arrived home in Denver two hours ago, and I replied with aGlad you’re home safe.

That was it for me; I’d had a full night, what with Maxwell and his bullshit, ambushing me and Jackie on our night out with half a crew of guys in his posse. Then, with Tyler and the unexpected desire I felt for a guy I didn’t know—it was a lot.

Putting my phone on DND, I set it aside and drew the covers over me. Tomorrow would be a big day for me, and I wanted to go into it, all gun’s blazing.

* * *

In the main warehouse, I stood beside Dad in the middle of the room while the seasonal hands came in, chatting and holding travel cups of coffee. I didn’t pay much attention to who was who—most of these guys would be gone in three weeks anyway—but I did count them. Seventeen—a good intake to reap the rest of the late-season Cortland apples.

“Welcome,” Dad said merrily. “Thank you all for coming in to help us get ready for this winter season. Your help will be invaluable to us, and I assume your pay would be for you, too.”

The guys laughed while someone said, “Damn right.”

“Our rules are simple,” Dad added, “The day starts at six, lunch time at twelve-thirty, you can take whatever snack or coffee with you, but no liquor of any kind, not on the workday. Being drunk or intoxicated is a hazard when working on ladders, and while we have insurance, it's best to avoid any risk altogether.

“The day ends at six, or when you do finish your daily quota of twenty boxes per day. Of course, we can give you sick days or for any emergency you might have. This is not a Victorian workhouse, and we’re not taskmasters over here.

“If you decide to stick around for longer, we hold a Christmas Eve brunch, and if you’re not ready to leave the bunkhouse, you may stay, but you’ll be responsible for making sure no damages happen, and you’ll have to take care of your personal needs as well. Please, no raging parties and absolutely no illegal drugs. If you’re found with any, you will be fired immediately and reported to the police. I run a clean ship here.”

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