Page 58 of Christmas in Vines

Snapping out of my daze, I sat back in my office chair and gave her a relaxed look. “Please, come inside. Do you want a drink? I have water, coffee, and, oh right,mead.”

Her lips flattened. “Stop playing, Vega.”

This was the first time I was close to the eldest Sullivan child, the family of winemakers, and my family’s sworn enemies, in three years. She was stunningly beautiful—softly rounded cheeks, rosy and full lips, the bottom had an inviting divot at its center, and her voice was like honey. Plus, she was brilliant—a triple threat.

But her eyes got to me, with how razor-sharp they were.

“As flattered as I am that you think I am a genius of unparalleled measure, I must tell you, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I replied calmly. “And I find it very off-putting for you to storm into my office without an invitation.”

Her eyes widened a bit just as her lips parted. “Y-you don’t know?”

“What you’re talking about?” I asked, shaking my head while keeping my gaze locked on hers. “Not a goddamn clue. Will you fill me in? But before that—” my eyes traced over her full lips “—when did you get back in town?”

“Two hours ago,” she replied. “I finished my master's last week.”

“Good for you.” I nodded, standing and rounding my table to the small fridge in my office, and took out a bottle of flavored water, handing it to her while I refilled my coffee. Instead of sitting again, I leaned on the wall and crossed my legs. “So, care to fill me in on what you were accusing me of doing ornotdoing, as is the case?”

Her gaze trailed down my body, over the gray Henley and the blue jeans, before her eyes met mine. She looked regretful a little before admitting. “A company from Texas that manages beef is looking around for a new partnership, pairing good drinks with their beef products.”

“And you came here to warn me not to meddle with the holy pairing?” I asked, a touch of scorn in my tone. “Wine and steak, the perfect duo?”

Mia’s face pinked, but she held her chin high. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“No, no.” I peeled myself from the wall and rested the cup on my desk, away from the paperwork. “That’s the only way to look at it, Mia. What? You think my family’s humble Meadery cannot match your prolific winemaking pedigree family?”

Red darkened her face. “Stop making me and my family into a…a—”

“A set of arrogant, conceited, narcissistic, vain, smug, proud—” I started ticking adjectives off my fingers “—egoistic, superior, holier-than-thou, self-important, high-and-mighty—”

“All right, all right, please stop,” she cut in, embarrassed. “Listen, I might not have been in town for the last couple of years, but I still followed up with the development that went on. I know you have got three huge private accounts for your Meadery. I’m asking you to let us have this one.”

“And why should I do that?” I asked. “Last time I checked, Sullivan wines still had a chokehold on the market share this side of the West Coast. Hell, you were the proud sponsor recipient of a company in Spain for figuring out to grow that goddamn weed—”

“The Garnacha grape is a finicky plant, not aweed,” Mia said hotly.

“—away from its native climate,” I added, “And with a four-point two percent market share, or should I say stronghold, and three hundred and eight two million in revenue last year, I don’t see why I need to yield my profits to make yours better.”

Her jaw stiffened. “But—”

“But nothing,” I said calmly, knowing she heard the steel in my tone. “And I don’t think you came here to tell me to stay away from the contract, did you?”

“No,” she admitted. “I thought you already had the contract, and I wanted to ask you, on a purely business level, to refuse it.”

“Still doesn’t make a lick of sense to me,” I replied. “Are you sure that business degree you got a couple of years ago is valid?”

I was getting to her; her eyes were starting to shoot bullets. “I apologize for barging in, but I have reason to. Sean Clarkston said that you had intercepted the message and gone and convinced the bigwigs to partner with you instead of letting us all have fair participation.”

“And by fair, you mean the Clarkston cider guys, too?” I asked, knowing full well her family thought cider was pig swill.

“Yes.”

“Liar,” I replied. “You wouldn’t drink cider if you were on a deserted island, and it was all that was available.”

Despite my inexplicable attraction to Mia—going back further than I wanted to admit—I couldn’t ever deny that she represented the double standards I deeply despised. There was no doubt that the Sullivans thought their product was the crème-de-la-crème—why wouldn’t they when celebs, fashion designers, and even presidents drank their wine—and the rest of us were uncivilized peons.

Mia, for all her smarts, was headstrong, impulsive, and more than a little hot-blooded by my reckoning. Plus, she was still as biased as the rest of her family. Having pride in your family’s centuries-old endeavor is one thing; looking down on the rest of us is another.

Her blush deepened. “So you never got the memo?”

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