We finish eating in silence, as usual, and I clean up the dishes while my mother announces she’s going to run a bath and head to bed.
Usually I’d go up to my room and watch rom-coms or flip through a novel until I finally fall asleep—but I feel like I’m sparking…like I’m a newly opened bottle of Prosecco. I’m not tired at all. I’m full of energy and I have this restlessness gnawing at me in the worst way. So I head out the kitchen door, trading my heels for a pair of flip flops. The night air nips at my skin, breaking my shoulders into a rash of goose bumps.
I’m still wearing the blue dress I put on to meet with Florence. Funny my mother didn’t think to ask why I was so dressed up. Not that I would have wanted to talk to her about it anyway, but it would have been nice if she at least noticed me.
I pull the bobby pins out of my hair and let if fall in loose coils down my back. I stretch my arms over my head and tilt my face up, looking at the huge, white moon looming over the vineyard. I’m so busy studying the sky, I don’t realize I’m not alone.
“Nice night.”
I catch myself before I stumble face-first into a patch of rough dirt, but I’m barely upright when I hear footsteps jogging closer and feel an arm curl around my waist.
“Enzo.” I steady myself against the warm muscles and try hard not to think thoughts I should not be thinking about the guy who’s done so much for my family’s business…and is so completely out of my league.
“You need one of those headlamps like the miners wear,” he says, the pure white of his teeth reflecting the light of the moon.
Man, his teeth are nice. Nice teeth are at the top of my list of ‘must haves’ when it comes to men.
I need to stop thinking about Enzo Rodriguez’s muscled arms and dazzling teeth and start thinking about how to implement the dozens of brilliant suggestions Florence Dahl and I came up with in her office today.
“I guess I do. I was just coming out here to clear my head.” I rub a hand up and down my arm. Yet another fidgety tic, which I seem to have with much more frequency whenever I’m remotely near Enzo.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” Enzo admits, and my heart does some kind of spastic dance around my chest.
“You were?” The words squeak out. Not cool, not cool, not cool, Jordan.
“Of course. After this morning…” He trails off and looks at me like he’s waiting for me to fill in the rest.
After this morning.
Right.
Okay.
I think back to this morning. When he was hot—hot both in the sense that he was sweating under the blistering sun and also in the sense that he was so manly and handsome, muscles rippling, skin glistening…hot—he looked up at me with that mouth-watering smile and complimented what I was wearing. Told me to go away, that I was distracting him. Because I was, to him, also…hot.
And now I feel really overheated, like I need a paper fan to wave in front of my face, which I know is flushed. Is he saying that he wants—
“Your meeting. With Florence Dahl,” he finally prods, giving me a puzzled look.
Because idiots puzzle sensible people. It’s puzzling how my brain can skid from place to place like a mad, unhinged thing.
I swear, it never did this before Enzo Rodriguez.
“Right!” I lower my volume immediately after screaming the word. “Right. Um, Florence Dahl was…she was amazing.” I clasp my hands over my heart and give him a normal person smile.
He returns it, his eyes shining with interest. “Yeah? I checked her out online this afternoon, seemed like there was a lot of good stuff written about her, but knowing you liked her seals it for me.”
“Really?” We were standing in the middle of the path that leads to the vineyard, but Enzo kind of nudged me into walking, and now we’re passing the grapes, heavy on the vines and shaded by their giant leaves.
He reaches one hand out and caresses them, his fingers bumping over the plump fruit.
“I think you’ve got a great head for business. You just needed the chance to exercise it. I’m glad you’re happy working with Florence. I think two women as smart and passionate as you two can do pretty much anything.”
He has this way about him when he talks. Like if he’d lived back when people were roaming around in tribes, he would have been the guy next to the fire, telling the stories while everyone else watched and listened with slack jaws.
But I can’t help remembering how easily he convinced my mom that he was the real deal— and how hard it’s going to be for me to believe that this vibe I’m getting from him is anything more than the Enzo charm he brings with him wherever he goes.
“Thank you.” The words plop out of my mouth, heavy with how good it feels to say them and mean them. I’m thankful to finally have people around me who believe in what I’m trying to do…even if they happen to be people I ultimately paid to fulfill that particular job description.
“So, any ideas you want to share with me?” he asks, letting his strong shoulder bump against mine as we cross over the sandy loam and onto the packed dirt. We’re just outside the garage where we store all the delicate instruments and always-breaking machinery that keeps this place running—just barely.
“A ton,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “We’re going ahead with picnics, not as planned out as other vineyards, because we have restrictive numbers of staff on hand. But we’ll clear an area on the—”
“North hill,” we both say at the same time.
He shrugs when I stare at him. I’m not going to lie, I’m a little shocked. He gives me a sheepish side glance, then clears his throat and explains, “Most of the lower north side will be salvageable once we reroute the irrigation, but the north hill is eroding too quickly to be usable. It also has the shading of the old growth trees. If we’re not going to cut them down—and I think that would just add to the erosion problem—we’re sitting on land that’s getting less usable by the season.”
“Right.” I say the word slowly, because, sometimes, talking to my mother, the things I think sound absolutely reasonable in my head seem crazy once I voice them somehow. She’s always so insistent I’m overreacting or trying to move things along too quickly. But Enzo is basically echoing my observations, and I’ve definitely never discussed any of this with him. “And I’ll need to ask you to—”
“Mow the overgrowth. Make sure there are paths with clear signs. Maybe see if we can get the stone wall that borders the area spruced up. It’s kind of romantic, right? Also, there’s a gazebo on the way in. It’s a little beat up, but nothing a few coats of paint and some minor repairs can’t fix. Maybe I can ask Tessa about getting it moved?” He’s using his hands when he talks, getting so excited, he’s throwing his arms out to the sides.
“I didn’t think about the wall. Or the gazebo.” I chew my bottom lip, wishing I had my notebook in my hand so I could jot this down. “Those are great ideas, Enzo.”
“Thanks.”
I look over at him, recognizing the same shocked happiness in his words that had been in mine when I thanked him. Maybe that’s why Enzo and I get along as well as we do. We both know what it’s like to be chronically underappreciated.
We’re near the creek that runs alongside the west border of the property. My instinct is to steer Enzo away, because this was the one place I could come as a kid and escape my parents’ obsessive bickering and endless discussions about wine. I used to sit by the cool water, peel off my socks and shoes, and let my feet dangle in.
I’d dream of being a mermaid or a water nymph, an intrepid traveler, a princess who escaped a prison—or, weirdest of all, I tried to imagine what it would be like to just be a normal kid who wasn’t tied to her family’s wine legacy.
Instead of walking away from the gurgling water, I lead Enzo right to it.
It’s not nearly as awe-inspiring now that I’m an adult. It actually looks a little silty, kind of shallow, and a slightly sluggish. I wonder if that’s just part of the way things
have changed environmentally around here, or if this is a stark reminder of how different things can look to you when you’re a kid full of hopes and dreams versus an adult who gets that reality isn’t all that dreamy.
“I didn’t even know there was a creek down here,” Enzo says, settling on one of the flat rocks I used to love to sit on.
It’s strange to see him sitting there. Part of me still feels like a very gawky pre-teen when I’m here, and having a smoking hot guy sitting on my rock is like a fantasy come true.
He pats the smooth stone, and I sit next to him.
“There’s so much work to do,” I say, mostly because the silence feels so beautiful, and I’m too tired to let all those silly hopes well up again.
“There’s more to life than work, Jordan,” Enzo says, lying back, his hands behind his head.
I don’t try to notice the way his shirt rides up just enough so I can see the sliver of very tan skin where his jeans ride low. I don’t try to notice the way his biceps bulge.
But I’m not a blind woman.
Or a saint.
Or dead.
“I know that.” I say it in a defensive way that proves his argument before he has to make it.
“I’m not trying to rag on you.” Enzo sits up just a little bit, looks at me, and winks. Damn that’s adorable. And once again, I am the only human who hasn’t mastered the wink? “It’s just I think every conversation you and I’ve had has been about this vineyard or work. We never managed to find time to go on that dinner date. We haven’t even really talked since the wedding. And you were pretty drunk then.”
I try to laugh the memory of that day off, but it’s hard. I was at a pretty low emotional point. And I was a coward when it came time to stick up for Enzo. Not a day full of memories I love replaying.
“I was. I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever been drunk before.”
“Ever?”
“I guess it’s weird, since my parents have been into wine for so long. You know, my mother stopped drinking years ago. Said it diluted the experience. She tastes of course, but it’s only tasting.”
Enzo sits up on his elbows and stares at me, frowning. “Dilutes the experience? I thought drinking it was the experience.”
“Right. For the people who buy it. For my mother, the experience is all about making it.” I watch as he shakes his head. “Why are you shaking your head like that?”
“It’s not my business.” His voice is low. “I just can’t imagine doing something you love, but only by half.”
“She’s not,” I argue. “No one works harder than my mother when it comes to making wine.”
“Right,” he agrees. “But you don’t make wine to put it on a pretty bottle on a shelf. Or to win awards. Or even to sell it. You make it to pull the cork out, pour, and drink. Preferably with someone you care about.”
I open my mouth to argue again, but Enzo interrupts me. “You know, when I brought up how much we talk about work, I was dropping a hint.”
“Really?” My voice catches in my throat and my pulse quickens.
“Really. I was hoping we could talk about something else.”
“Why?”
I bite my tongue the second the word is out of my mouth. Why? Who the hell cares why? Enzo wants to keep talking to me about me. Not about grapes or acids in the soil or temperature drop predictions.
“Maybe I’m just curious about you. Is that okay?” Enzo laughs. “If we’re gonna be working together, we should get to know each other, right?”
I guess it’s been so long since I talked to anyone about anything other than the vineyard and what I do here, I’m not sure where to start.
“Okay.” I nod. “Right. I’m a pretty open book.” My life may be more like an open telephone book than a juicy novel, but, still…
“Alright then. Let’s start with the classics. Who was your first kiss?” Enzo asks, and I know from the way he grins he can tell he’s making me squirm. I groan. “That bad?” he asks, giving me a sympathetic look.
“Worse,” I admit. “Scotty Han called me to the lockers by the music hall, which were always deserted. He kissed me in the three minutes between Home Ec and Social Studies. It was heavy on braces, his breath smelled like cafeteria lunch, which was hot dogs and mustard, and he had to stand on his toes to reach my lips. I was kind of an Amazon in eighth grade. Obviously. I’m still kind of an Amazon.”
“Weren’t the Amazons a race of super-hot warrior chicks?” Enzo asks.
“Yes. Who maybe cut off one boob so they could shoot their bows more easily? Maybe. I haven’t studied mythology since junior year of high school.” I lean back on my palms, loving the fact that the rock still feels warm from baking in the sun all day long.
“Wow. I feel like I should have paid more attention to Mr. Jaguar’s lectures instead of playing footsie with Annabeth Alston.” He stares at the creek and chuckles. “Poor Scotty Han. Sounds like he had a lot stacked against him going into that kiss.”
“Don’t feel too bad for him,” I drawl, tilting my head back to gaze at the fat moon. “What I didn’t know is that before Home Ec—when I was across the school taking clarinet lessons—Scotty was making out with Marissa Rondell, the girl he took to the dinner dance as soon as I finished tutoring him in polynomials. In his defense, she was shorter than he was and could actually fill out more than a training bra. I guess it really came down to logistics.”
Enzo lets out a low whistle. “Scotty was a little dickhead.”
I laugh out loud at that, and the happy sound echoes in the dark, mixing with the whine of the crickets. “He was, wasn’t he?”
“I would have definitely only been making out with you if we met in eighth grade. And, damn, we would have danced our asses off at that dinner dance. Please tell me you took some other guy and made Scotty Han eat his heart out?”
I shake my head. “Sadly, no. I cried a lot. Watched many, many sappy romances. Ate a lot of gummy bears and chicken chow Mein.”
“Together?” he asks with a grimace.
“No,” I laugh. “And eventually I got over it. Over him. It wasn’t so bad.”
I say that, but my mind flips through the next few years and the long list of guys who represent one romantic disaster after another. Did my love life ever get any better, or was it all just different versions of the Scotty Han debacle?
Before I get too bogged down in that depressing quandary, I turn the attention back to Enzo. “Your turn. What was your first kiss like?”
He runs a hand through his thick black hair and chuckles. “I’m embarrassed to say, I have no memory of it.”
“How can that be?” I ask, squeezing my thighs together because watching him smile and laugh awakens something dangerously hot low down inside me.
“My mother got a note home from the kindergarten teacher that said I was standing behind a tree with a line of little girls waiting to kiss me. She wasn’t sure how many I got to, and I wasn’t keeping count. My mom yelled at me, my father gave me a piece of licorice and a pat on the head, and the teacher made sure there were more kickballs on the field so I would be too busy playing to set up my own little kissing booth.”
“Ladies man from the beginning, eh?” I nudge his shoulder and it feels like brushing up against an open wire.
“Nah. I’m not a player. I just—”
“Crush a lot?” I guess and he stands, offering me his hand.
“I didn’t take you for a Big Pun fan.” He pulls me to my feet, and I step a little too close.
He doesn’t move back. I don’t either.
“Everyone knows that song,” I whisper.
He’s staring at me, his eyes dark and hungry on my face. He puts a hand up between our bodies and takes a curl of my hair, brushing his thumb over the soft edges.
“Your eyes have gold in them,” he says, his voice quiet. “I hadn’t noticed that before.”
I feel my possibly gold eyes widen at that suggestion, and I swallow hard. “No. Just brown.
I’m just a regular brown-eyed girl.”
“Maybe they only have gold in them in the moonlight.” He moves a half step closer, so close I can smell the clean, salty tang of his skin.
“I think this is probably exactly how you got every girl in your class to line up and kiss you when you were five. You know, I’m not buying the whole ‘not a player’ thing, Enzo.”
The smile that curves over his lips borders on dangerous.
Potentially lethal to my already palpitating heart.
“Trust me, I got the player out of my system early.” He puts the piece of hair he was holding back down gently and looks right at my mouth. “By the time I was twenty, I’d turned into a straight-up romantic. The kind of guy who sees a girl he wants, and suddenly goes blind to everyone else.”
Like a spaz, I run my tongue over my bottom lip, then suck it into my mouth and gnaw on it. I’m sure he’s going to laugh, but he doesn’t. Nope, he doesn’t laugh at all. He swallows so hard, I can see the tendons in his neck bulge out. His eyes get darker, like his pupils expanded.
“That’s…um, that’s so—” My mind blanks. I remember my parents listening to records when I was just a kid. When it got to the end of the record it would make this sound, like a combination scratch and hiccup. That’s the sound my brain is making. “Romantic is good,” I manage to stutter out.
Like an idiot.
The next moment is like when a hypnotist snaps her fingers to break a trance. Enzo stops looking at me like I’m the girl who could make him blind to everyone else. I’m willing to bet his eyes have no glints of green or gold in them. Though the light is too dim for me to be sure, they feel flat. Hard. I watch them narrow. We start walking back to the path, Enzo brooding moodily.
“Romantic is good if you want your heart trampled.” I’m sure he doesn’t mean to snap the words out, but he does.
Instead of flinching at his tone, I nod along with the sentiment.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
My brain forms these words even as my heart bucks and screams that I’m a fool, he’s a fool, we’re both crazy, stupid freaking fools!
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans and kicks at the dirt. “My stupid romantic ideas are the reason I fucked up my life and ended up here.”
Almost Lover Page 8
