Page 67 of Thoroughly Pucked

From my other side, Ledger scoffs. “Yeah, have you felt ice?”

I huff as I tread some more. Nearby there are a fewother visitors engaged in similar squishing activities and also a winemaker walking by, checking on our stomping.

“But you don’t go on the rink in your bare feet,” I hiss as I flinch, then wince. Damn. “I think I got a stem between my toes.”

“Will you survive?” Dev deadpans.

“Want me to call an ambulance?” Ledger counters.

I deserved that. “I’ll live,” I say, chin up.

But seriously. What is the proper etiquette at an early morning grape stomping? Do I pull the stem from my foot like it’s dental floss?

I don’t even know, so I try to ignore the interloper between my toes as the winemaker strides past the group, a calm, instructive tone to her voice. Her name is Isabella, and her jet-black hair is wildly curly. Her Mediterranean complexion and last name suggest she’s from Italy.

“We harvest our grapes in the early morning hours for a couple reasons,” she explains, her peach linen pants and blouse as flowy as the breeze. She stops a few barrels away from us to give a tip to a man with a mesh cap touting “Everything’s better in Texas” across it. Then, she continues her lesson for the group. “We can better control the sugar levels and avoid oxidation when the grapes are a little colder. And it’s easier for our staff to harvest them before the temperature rises.” She sweeps a tattooed arm, bangles jingling on her wrist, toward the trees and peaks hugging this vineyard. “Yes, we have some warm days in Washington.” Her tone turns conspiratorial. “But please don’t tell anyone.We want Washington to remain the best-kept secret of all the states.”

“But doesn’t it rain here all the time?” the Texas cap man drawls.

The winemaker smiles approvingly. “Exactly. All the time. Every day,” she says with a serene smile, clearly doing her best to prevent an influx of people moving to her state. I rein in a grin as she plays him.

She continues on, explaining more about the process as I steal glances at my travel companions. Dev’s like a large cat, shifting his legs in a languid rhythm, his attention lasered in on his movements, his body able to handle anything he throws its way.

Ledger’s confident, too, in his repetitive steps, but his gaze is fixed on Isabella as he tosses out curious questions about the vines, the amount of sun they need, then rain, then drainage.

I furrow my brow as he goes, trying to assess his interest. Is he a wine connoisseur? But he barely asks about the grapes. Then I remember when he spouted off facts about oleander a few days ago.

His plant daddy-ness runs deep and wide. I smile privately at this little detail about him.

When Isabella spins around the other way, I wince since I just stepped on another stem. “I swear they’re trying to get me,” I whisper to the guys.

“Pain, honey, pain,” Ledger says, like he loves getting hurt. Well, heisa hockey player.

Dev shoots me a devilish grin. “You get used to it.”

I roll my eyes. “Great. Just great. I’m grape stomping with two hockey players who love pain.”

“It’s all part of the game,” Ledger quips, but there’s no joking in his tone. He sounds legit.

Dev seconds him with, “It’s proof you’re alive.” But then, he tilts his head my way in concern. “You want to stop?”

His tone is so sweet, full of genuine concern. “I’m no quitter,” I say before I realize that’s not entirely a compliment. I should have quit my relationship with Aiden well before my wedding day. But I try to shove that bad decision away and focus onthischoice—grape stomping wasmostlya good decision. “And thiswason my adventure list.”

This honeymoon is definitely an adventure, too, and I’d better savor every second of it since it’ll be over before I know it. It’ll end, taking its place in the memory banks, and I’ll return to cutting hair and reading books and dealing with the pity looks from everyone in Duck Falls when I return to town to see my mom.

On those sobering thoughts, I glance down at the squishy substance oozing through my toes. “Too bad you can’t punch grapes. That’d be fun,” I say.

“Maybe add that to your entrepreneurial list, along with the breakup champagne,” Dev says, then mimes punching.

But Isabella Valenti is unamused. With a stern glare, she stops in front of him. “Please be careful. If you fall and crack your head, I’ll be liable. I don’t like being liable,” she says, then looks to me. “Make sure your partners behave.”

Whoa.

Partners.

That’s a first. Not the wordpartner, because everyone uses that term now. But the plural, the assumption she made is all new, and I don’t want to look like I’m overstepping my role with them. “Oh they’re not—” I begin.

She’s already walking away though. As she goes, I have to wonder—do we come across as partners? All three of us?

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