by Tara Lain
“Wine coolers. I know. But that doesn’t make it wine, dear.”
“Your sisters like wine tasting, and they drink real wine.” She sipped her coffee, laced with heavy cream and three heaping teaspoons of sugar.
“Sometimes, yes. And I’ll certainly ask them if they’d like to come.”
“Good.”
They ate in uncomfortable silence for a minute. He waited for her other bedroom slipper to drop.
Finally she said, “I notice all your busyness has prevented you from having a date with Sage. After your sisters and I went to so much trouble to introduce you.”
Oh sweet Jesus. Will she never let up? Still, he hadn’t actively pursued his arrangement with Sage since he’d started working on the festival with Jeremy.
She was on a roll. “She’s a lovely girl. Just the sort of person you should be seeing rather than spending all your time with your nose in your business.”
The tendon in his jaw jumped. “If I don’t spend my time with my nose in my business, as you say, this family doesn’t eat.”
She narrowed her eyes and shook her finger at him. “Beauregard Marchand, if you had taken advantage of your father’s contacts and dealings, you wouldn’t be scraping together pennies from this absurd business, and you’d have time for the right kind of women. So don’t tell me about putting food on the table. Your father and I slaved to make Marchand Enterprises a success, and you let it fall into ruin.”
The flowered, gold-flaked, curlicued cream pitcher his mama favored sat on the table in front of him. He stared at it as if it might rise up and bite him, and he wanted so badly to throw it against the wall that the muscles in his hand jumped. “Mama, the business was overmortgaged and overextended. We were lucky to get out with our shirts. I’ve tried to explain that.” His throat worked, and he wanted to scream and pound the table. “In fact, I’ll be taking Sage to the wine tasting event.”
“You will?” She squealed. “Why, honey, that’s wonderful.” She beamed at him, and anyone watching would not have believed she’d accused him of destroying her life only moments before.
He stood, grabbed his coffee cup, refilled it without slamming it against the table, and walked out of the room. In his office he closed the door, snapped the lock, and leaned against it. Mama only lives the way she was brought up. It’s not her fault. Not her fault. Not—damn. It was hard to constantly forgive her.
Just breathe.
He slipped a hand in his pocket, grabbed his cell, stared at it, and finally dialed.
“Well, hi, stranger.” Sage’s voice managed to not sound accusatory.
“Hi. It’s been a zoo.”
“I’m similarly behind bars.” She laughed softly.
“In fact, I’m calling for a quasibusiness reason.”
“Seriously? I’m all ears.”
“I’m going to have a wine tasting event. I’m putting on a wine festival, actually. There will even be judges and prizes with several of the local wineries entering. I wondered if Ottersen would like to participate.”
“Really? You want us?”
He smiled. “Ottersen is one of the prominent wineries of the central coast—”
“Can I quote you?”
He laughed. “Seriously, want to participate and maybe help out with the event?”
“Well, yeah—”
“And attend as my date?”
“Hell yes!”
“Okay. Decide what wines you want to enter, get a guest list together. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
He could hear the grin in her voice. “Need some help with PR?”
“Wow.” Hell no. “Maybe later. We, uh, I don’t have the details worked out yet.”
“Send me whatever plans you do have, and I’ll work up some announcement suggestions.”
“Like I say, maybe later.”
“Hmmm. Would I be correct in assuming that you’d like Ottersen’s wine but, uh, how shall I say it? Nothing else?”
“It’s not you—”
Her voice lost its teasing edge. “I understand, Bo. Honest. I’ll send you some guidelines, okay?”
“Thanks, Sage. That would be great. Talk later.” He hung up. Okay, Sage now knew there was an event, which meant Ottersen knew it too. Nothing else. Good. Let the fucker guess. As for Sage? She was very smart. Was Ottersen using her to gather information from Bo? Was she genuinely neutral or even a little pro-Marchand? Or was she just trying to forward her own agenda, whatever that was?
We’ll see.
Chapter Seven
JEREMY POURED a little wine into both their glasses and returned the bottle to the bar.
Bo sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “What are we forgetting?”
Jeremy wandered back to the table and sat. He ticked on his fingers. “The judges are ready, we’ve sent out the invites, your staff and Christian have got the decorations going, we’re ready to do the scene, the wines are entered, you’ve got the people to run the tasting, and you did that amazing press release. I was damned impressed.”
Bo’s eyes veered away from him, and pink touched his cheekbones. “Uh, thanks, I used a template.”
“It was really good.” Funny that he’s embarrassed about that.
A knock on the door made them both look up. Bo stood. “That should be Blaise and Llewellyn.”
“Oh good. I’m looking forward to meeting them.”
Bo walked to the door and let in two great-looking men. One, the shorter of the two, was a real movie star, all golden hair and lean, lithe muscles. The other was very slim and gangly almost to the point of gawky, handsome in a nerdy, understated way, with fiercely intelligent eyes. Bo hugged them both and brought them to the table.
“Jeremy, this is Blaise Arthur and Dr. Llewellyn Lewis.”
Jeremy extended his hand to shake. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Blaise grinned, and it was like someone turned on the lights. “We love your wine.”
Llewellyn smiled shyly. “And your f-food.”
Bo waved them to the two empty chairs at the table as he walked behind Jeremy’s tasting bar, grabbed two more glasses, and filled them from the bottle Jeremy had left on the bar. He brought them back to the table.
Blaise said, “Thanks.” He tasted, smacked his lips, and held the glass to his nose. “On one of our recent trips to the valley to eat at Bo’s winery, we discovered yours and became instant fans.”
Jeremy pressed a hand against his chest. “I’m honored.” He wasn’t kidding.
“In fact, we’re planning our wedding at Bo’s winery in a few months and wonder if there isn’t some way that we could have Hill Top wines there too.”
Llewellyn nodded. “Now that we see the t-two of you working on this event t-together, we thought you c-could do that for us.” He smiled. Definitely a gift.
“So what can we do for you?” Jeremy looked back and forth from Blaise to Llewellyn.
Blaise smiled. “Work together on our wedding. It would still be at Bo’s winery. We love that view. But maybe you could collaborate?”
The whole idea swamped Jeremy for a second. These two beautiful, discerning gay men wanting to include his winery in an event he could only dream about and envy from afar. He swallowed hard and blinked. “If Bo wants me and I still have a business, I’d be honored beyond measure.”
Bo put a warm hand on his arm, which almost completed doing him in. “There’s no question of that. Wanting you or you still being in business. You deserve to succeed, darlin’, and we’re gonna see that you do.”
Jeremy’s heart still hung back on no question about wanting him. Man, he’d give a lot for that to be true.
Blaise stared at both of them, frowning. “Is it that bad? Are you really in danger of going under?”
“From Ot—Ot—” Llewellyn shook his head.
Jeremy sighed. “Ottersen. Yes, sad but true. The asshole has managed to copy all my most successful blends and has offered bulk wine at
a fraction of my price. He has to be taking a loss, but I can’t match it.”
“W-why?” Llewellyn speared Jeremy with his bright gaze.
“That’s the shit of it. I don’t know why.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s so frustrating. Why would some person I don’t even know lose money to put me out of business? It’s not like I’m a threat to him.”
Bo said, “Ottersen took out one big winery first before the valley got wise to him. One of the other vintners was decimated by a very convenient fire that destroyed his processing plant and many of his fields.”
“Has anyone established a connection between the fire and Ottersen?” Blaise asked.
Bo shook his head. “No. It was hard to get the police to take the possibility seriously. Ottersen’s become a pretty big player in a short time, and no one was willing to believe he’d stoop to anything that low.”
“And th-then he w-went after you?” Llewellyn glanced at Jeremy.
“Yes. And believe me, I’m in a whole different category than those other vintners. I was expanding some and starting to make a little money, but I’m a mom-and-pop shop compared to a lot of other wineries in Paso Robles. I’ve got no idea why he’d choose me.”
Blaise barked a laugh. “A mom-and-pop shop minus the mom.”
“Yes, maybe that’s my problem.” Jeremy looked up. “Do you think it is? Does he hate gay men?”
Blaise wrinkled his nose. “That seems like a lot of trouble to go to. Jesus, he could hire two guys to gay bash you on any Saturday night and not lose money doing it.”
Jeremy shuddered. “Jeez, thanks.”
“Sorry. But sadly true.” Blaise looked at Llewellyn. “We’ll snoop at the party. See if we can come up with anything.”
“W-who else shall w-we watch for?”
Bo ticked off his fingers. “Fernando Puente is a big player.”
Jeremy nodded. “Weirdly, Ottersen seems to have left him alone. At least so far.”
Bo added, “Ezra and Marybeth Hamilton are pretty successful.”
“They’re real church-oriented and have no love for my sexuality, but I don’t think they like Ottersen either.” Jeremy looked to Bo for confirmation.
“I agree. Ezra seems to really believe he’s next on Ottersen’s hit list. I got the impression he’s genuinely worried.”
“There’s Randy Renders too. But he’s so busy chasing other people’s wives, I doubt he’s got time to plot against obscure wineries.” Jeremy sighed.
“Is th-there a ch-chance Ottersen is just eliminating low-hanging f-fruit before moving on to b-bigger targets?” Llewellyn’s mouth curved up just the tiniest bit. “You should p-pardon the p-pun.”
Bo snorted, then leaned back and crossed his arms. “Then why did he take out the big guys—or guy—at the very start? No, most sadly I must agree with Jeremy in sayin’ the attack feels focused and targeted.”
Llewellyn angled his body toward Jeremy. “Wh-who wants to hurt y-you?”
Jeremy felt his eyes widen and coughed to cover it. “Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t been here long.”
“Fr-from your p-past?”
He shook his head. Think fast. “There’s no one who’d want to destroy me that I know of.” He swallowed. “I haven’t been in touch with any relatives for many years. I had people who didn’t like me in college, I guess, but I haven’t seen anyone from my past for a long time. And I’m from the East. Few people even know where I am.”
“Wh-where are you from?”
“Uh, New York.”
Llewellyn’s stare didn’t waver. The man’s intense.
Blaise asked, “Do you think someone is giving Ottersen information about your wine, or is he guessing?”
“Possibly reverse engineering,” Bo said.
Thank God for the change of topic. “Truthfully, they’ve done an amazing job of matching my blends, and I have a lot of them.”
“How do you know?”
“One of my customers—” He couldn’t help the frown. “—former customers gave me a few to taste.”
“So you th-think it’s more than t-talented guessing.” It wasn’t a question.
Jeremy nodded, then took a breath. “Let’s talk about something more fun, like the wedding.” He smiled.
Blaise took Llewellyn’s hand, held it against his chest, and then kissed it. “I proposed at Bo’s winery, and we can’t wait to be married there.”
Llewellyn’s soft smile made Jeremy’s chest squeeze. “He hid m-my ring in a glass of w-wine.”
“Good thing he doesn’t like to chug champagne, or we’d have had to wait a few days to get engaged.”
Llewellyn snuffled a laugh, and Bo and Jeremy joined in, cutting through the tension that had been growing through the whole conversation.
“We have a guest list of about two hundred right now, so we’ll need to do a buffet. Maybe serve inside and decorate the patio so people can enjoy the view at night. After the ceremony, of course.”
Jeremy’s gaze crept to Bo, who smiled at Llewellyn and Blaise with affection and—something else. Longing? That raised the question, would a straight man get all misty-eyed over a gay wedding?
Blaise rose, still holding Llewellyn’s hand. “Let’s get Jeremy’s situation settled and we’ll make our final plans. What time shall we be at your place, Bo?”
“Come early, like four-ish. We’re going to circulate the idea that you’re setting up your wedding and are looking for the wines you want to serve.”
“Sounds true-ish.” Blaise laughed. He hugged both Bo and Jeremy. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jeremy walked them out, then went back into the tasting room where Bo was still sitting at the table, turning the almost empty wineglass and staring into it like it held the secrets of the universe. “Everything okay?”
“Um, yes. I was just thinking about our conversation with Llewellyn and Blaise.”
“They’re great, by the way.” He sat next to Bo. He would have liked to put a hand on Bo’s arm, but he mentally shrugged. Better not. “Uh, I don’t want you to think I’m horning in on your wonderful clients at all. Please just tell them that it’s best if all the wines for the wedding come from Marchand. That it’s more efficient or something.”
Bo looked up. “Why would I do that? They want wines from both our wineries.”
Jeremy shrugged. “They were just being nice.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all.”
Jeremy forced a grin. “Actually, I think they made their invitation based on, shall we say, a false assumption. They just need to understand that we’re only friends and business associates, not—more.”
Bo’s ears turned brilliant pink. “I don’t think they made false assumptions. Hells bells, they were all prepared to ask me to include your wines before they even got here, I know they were.”
“Oh God.” Too much. Jeremy buried his face in his hands.
Bo’s warm touch settled on the back of his neck. “I understand this all must be so hard. I honestly didn’t realize how targeted Ottersen’s attack on you has been. I guess I hadn’t fully realized it until you started explaining it to Llewellyn and Blaise. Dear God, you must feel marked for extinction.”
“That’s exactly how I feel.” He looked up. “As if he’s devoted to putting me out of business, no matter what it costs him.” He dropped his head back into his hands.
A warm hand curved around Jeremy’s cheek, the fingers coaxing his chin to rise. “No one’s going to put you out of business while I’m around.”
Bo’s eyes gleamed pale green like the Mediterranean, and Jeremy would happily drown. “I believe you. I don’t know why you want to help me, but I’ll happily open a vein to try to repay you.”
“No blood required.” He smiled, but Bo’s eyes didn’t waver from Jeremy’s.
Whoa, maybe I am drowning—in the idea I could lift my head and taste those lips that should be declared illegal, they’re so fucking sexy.
Talk about h
ow to lose a friend in one easy lesson. Don’t be self-destructive. But oh man, it would be so easy and almost worth it and—
Bo stood, nearly bumping Jeremy in the nose. “I better get home. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.” He looked embarrassed but also conflicted.
“Are you okay?”
“Jeremy, I should talk to you. I mean, you should know—”
Jeremy’s phone started to ring. He grabbed for it to turn it off, but—hell, it wasn’t that phone.
Bo shook his head. “Not me. Wrong ring.”
“So you were saying—”
“You need to find that phone, Jeremy.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Christian’s phone. He must have left it here.”
The ringing stopped.
Jeremy looked anxiously at Bo. “So tell me.”
Bo clutched his shoulder. “It’s not a good time. We’ll talk after the party.”
“No. I’m fine. I have time.”
The phone started to ring again.
“Well, shit.”
Bo laughed. “Obviously the stars are against us, darlin’. Find that phone, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bo walked to the door, turned back, smiled so sweetly Jeremy’s heart cracked, and left.
Jeremy pressed a hand to his heart and flopped back in his chair. The phone stopped ringing, but Jeremy didn’t care. He already knew what was ringing was his “in case of emergency” burner phone, and it could only be bad news.
Chapter Eight
“BETTINA, PUT those glasses over there, please.” Funny that contrary to his expectations, both of his sisters had volunteered to help.
Bo set some of the other wineries’ bottles, wrapped to obscure their labels and color, out on the tasting table. The judges would review the wines first, then the guests would taste. The guests would vote in a separate contest that would be labeled “Sampler’s Choice,” but the coveted trophies—or at least he hoped the competitors coveted them—would be awarded by the five judges. They’d started with three, but then a couple of the candidates he’d phoned first and not reached had called back and offered to participate.
Christian bustled over. “So how many entries did we end up with?”
