Almost Lover

by Steph Campbell

  “I’m not really all that aware of the business side of things,” I admit. Which is especially ironic, since one of my titles is business manager at Golden Leaf. Damn, the lie that goes along with this job is getting more out of control every passing day.

  “That’s okay. All you need to know is having a guy like you on the floor would be very good for anyone’s business.” He pulls out his wallet and flips me an expensive looking business card.

  “Angelino Vineyards,” I read. “‘Uncorking passion for over one hundred years.’”

  “My great-grandparents came over from Naples and built that winery from the ground up. It’s still family owned and operated, so trust me when I tell you, we don’t hand our cards out lightly.” He leans against the gleaming wood of the tasting bar and trains his gaze on me.

  “Look, I think you’ve got the wrong idea. Seriously, I’m a total novice. What I do, it’s kind of a mashup of the people skills I had to develop bartending for years on end and a desire to keep a job I really enjoy. Lots of smoke and mirrors, not much else behind it.”

  I’m flattered, I really am, but this guy is only making me feel more like shit than I did before. Every single thing I know how to do, I know because Jordan instructed me and inspired me. I’ve become invested in Golden Leaf, and I don’t want to see it fail.

  “Golden Leaf had fallen completely off our radar a few years ago,” Bill says, tapping his finger on the bar. “Their wine is good. Very good. But lots of vineyards make strong products. What made me come here to check it out was a renewed buzz. You can’t put a price tag on the kind of word of mouth this place has been generating. We may have sent a few scouts, and they kept telling me to see the good-looking Mexican guy who could sell ice to an Eskimo and make him come back for more.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I stare at the card and think about my place here at Golden Leaf. How it’s basically a sham. And I feel this sudden, intense urge to come clean. Because I love this place, I do, but I’m tired of getting credit I don’t deserve while the people who work their asses off get ignored.

  “Say you’ll come by. Give Angelino’s a tour,” Bill suggests.

  I look up and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I really appreciate you coming all the way up here to talk to me like this, but I’m happy here. I have a lot of loyalty to Golden Leaf, and as long as I’m in the wine business, this is—” I pause. I know the word I need to use. It’s just a little shocking to realize how truly I mean it. “Golden Leaf is my home.”

  I slide the card back to him. He edges it back to me.

  “There’s no rush to any of this, Enzo. Take a few nights. Sleep on it. I appreciate a man who needs to take some time before he makes a major life decision. I hope I’ll be hearing from you.”

  “If you need me, you could always come in and buy some Golden Leaf wine,” I say dryly.

  Bill Angelino grins, pulls out an order sheet, and checks off one of each item we offer, even our cheeses and chocolates. “Keep your friends close, keep your rivals in your glass.”

  He heads to the register and pays for his order while I’m left staring at the business card lying on the bar. He leaves through one set of doors and Jordan waltzes in through the other, showered, dressed in a tiny green dress and heels, her smile driving a spike of guilt deep into my heart.

  “Making sales?” she asks with a happy laugh.

  I slide the card into my pocket. It feels like I’m now carrying a live bomb rather than a flimsy piece of cardstock. “I… uh… I actually need to, um, check something. With Jack.”

  “Oh, okay.” She checks her watch. “Tessa’s coming in ten minutes. I don’t have any meetings for a bit, so I’ll keep watch until she gets here.”

  I nod and give a rushed, “Thanks.”

  “Enzo?”

  I turn and don’t want to look at her, but I do. And pray that whatever she asks me, I won’t have to lie to her. Goddamn, I’m sick of lying.

  “Are you okay?”

  What’s the truth?

  “You’re here? I’m fantastic.”

  I love the way she blushes. And I love that I stopped lying. Because Jordan makes me want to do better. To be better. And better is going to start with me owning up to all my lies.

  I do walk to find Jack, thinking I might be able to tell him everything and maybe say goodbye. Once I out myself to Mrs. Caletti, I don’t plan on sticking around for long at all. I make a few laps around the property and for once, can’t find him working his ass off anywhere. Of course.

  Jordan’s probably going to wind up drinking that bottle of foot wine by herself. That’s the worst, imagining that. But if I come clean now, I can tell her I need to leave before our big date. I can save both our hearts the kind of blow they might not survive intact otherwise.

  By the time I get to Mrs. Caletti’s intimidating office, I hear someone else’s voice.

  A voice I’d know anywhere, the voice I hear in every dirty dream that leaves my sheets tangled and my showers way too long. Maybe it’s better this way. If I do this in front of Jordan, she can’t sweep in and reverse things after I’m done. But I don’t want to interrupt, so I wait outside the door.

  And what I hear throws everything into a tailspin.

  “…and, as you can see, the sales figures reflect an increase, so we need to redistribute.” The reserved Jordan is back, the confidence zapped from her voice when she talks to her mother.

  I hate that.

  “And Enzo’s take on this?” Mrs. Caletti’s cool voice asks.

  Jordan pauses, and I wonder if I’m even going to need to walk in and do this. Maybe she’ll finally crack and explode at her mother, let the woman know she’s tired of being talked down to, tired of being taken for granted.

  “Enzo wants to think about working something out with the locally owned liquor stores to get our brand further distribution,” she says quietly.

  And I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to walk in and demand to know what’s up. I mentioned that idea to Jordan weeks ago and we had a pretty heated argument. She didn’t agree at all. Like, thought it was the most bonehead idea ever. And things escalated fast.

  Sweet Jordan Caletti may or may not have screamed in frustration and called me a “raging dickhole.”

  “That’s a preposterous idea,” Mrs. Caletti says. “The whole point is to get people to this vineyard. We don’t need to be lost in even a small stock inventory of wine. The costs would outweigh the benefits.”

  Pretty much Jordan’s verbatim argument to me.

  “Not as a general stock item. A featured display. Now that the extra construction is done, one of the counter people we’ve been using for labor can transition to a part-time outside sales position. We’ve been doing fine manning the tasting room and tours, so there’s no extra labor cost. We’ll start small and branch out. We can include upcoming events on the promotional signage.”

  “Why in the world would any liquor store give us free advertising?” Mrs. Caletti asks with that tired voice that makes me bet she’s rubbing her temples.

  “Because we’ll make them a profit offer they won’t want to refuse. Sure, we’ll be eating it up front, but if we choose the right upscale locations, anyone who buys a bottle has a fairly good chance of checking us out if they decide they’d like to see what else we have to offer.”

  It’s blowing my damn mind to hear my exact plan being recited from Jordan’s mouth.

  “Enzo thinks this will work?” Mrs. Caletti asks.

  “Yes.” I can hear Jordan’s deep breath. “And I agree. I really do, Mom. It’s a huge risk, and it’s a possible loss, but we’re in a position to swallow that. Now is the time to get our name out there. To expand, and be bold. Enzo is the one who keeps pushing me to do that, and I think it’s the one piece of advice that’s going to save this vineyard.”

  “I can’t argue with the numbers, Jordan. If you and Enzo think this will work, you have my blessing. But make sure to run what we’re sending where b
y me first. I want to keep an eye on this.”

  “Done. Onto the numbers for next fall’s Reserve…”

  I back away from the office. Head down the hall and out the door, because I have no idea what to think.

  Jordan had no clue I was listening in. I thought she’d blown me off when I mentioned it to her, and it made sense, because what the hell do I know about running any of this?

  But she was listening. Thinking. Planning. And she’s doing better, bolder things with the vineyard she loves. It’s becoming hers in a very real way, and I can see how at least some of that traces directly back to me.

  This makes the lie we’re telling twisted. If more and more truth gets mixed in, we’re going to have to stop calling it a lie soon. We’re going to have to face the fact that I care about Golden Leaf nearly as much as Jordan does. This has gone way past a summer crash job.

  It happened when I wasn’t paying any damn attention, but it happened, and I can’t just run.

  I’m home here.

  I’m in my room wishing I had someone to double check my outfit for me.

  Eddie was always my closest confidante growing up, and I’m obviously not going to ask him whether my dress is just sexy or crosses the line to skanky. Plus I’m not about to listen to him lecture me on what a bad idea it is to go on this date with Enzo. He’s made his position crystal clear when it comes to the option of Enzo and I being anything more than coworkers.

  My mother would frown on me mixing business with pleasure, and she’s always had a very refined sense of style. Which is fine if you want to look elegant with a side of icy. I want to look so damn hot, Enzo won’t be able to take his eyes off me.

  I could text Florence, I guess, since she’s been so absolutely sweet and dresses pretty much exactly like my fifteen-year-old self dreamed I’d dress once I lost my braces and gained boobs. But I don’t want to be the weirdo making our friendship more than it is. And Meredith has that incredible style where she could look like she just stepped off a catwalk if she decided to wear a feed sack, and it makes you think, ‘Hey, I’d look pretty damn good wearing a bag that once held chicken feed too!’, but you’d just wind up with a ton of spare change from sympathetic people who would assume you were dressed that way because you were a panhandler.

  I think about my tacky stepmother Jennifer and her Bob Mackie wardrobe. Thinking about her makes me think about my sweet, serious dad, and thinking of him makes me think about my parents as two people who were once very madly in love in spite of the fact that they constantly butted heads.

  Or maybe because of that.

  Anyway, at some point my mother worried about what to wear when she went on dates with my father. And then, at some later point, she stopped worrying. And, eventually he started to worry about what to wear on dates with Jennifer, who is now his wife instead of my mother, the woman he swore was the love of his life. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  This is not the best way to prep for a date with Enzo.

  Since I have no one to ask, I rely on my own fashion sense. Which means I play it safe. I’m wearing a plain black dress that’s cut really well to show off my shape and has a deep v neckline to show off some serious boobage. I curl my hair and put on makeup as best I can without jabbing myself in the eye. A quick glance in the mirror helps me decide I look like a geisha—who are gorgeous, but that’s not quite the look I’m after—so I wipe all my makeup off and start over.

  By the time I’m done, I’m so nervous my hands won’t stop shaking.

  And it’s incredibly stupid to feel this way because Enzo has seen me so many times with dirt smeared on my face and leaves stuck in my hair, wearing my dad’s old work shirts and tattered jeans. The worst I can look tonight is by default a million times better than my best vineyard wear.

  I put on my nude heels, the ones that are very high. I’m not entirely comfortable walking in them, but Enzo is gorgeously tall, and I’ve never had a boyfriend I could wear them around without feeling like the lead in Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

  I told Enzo I’d meet him at his place, because I didn’t want to answer any questions from my mother. Not that she has any when it comes to my life. She’s sealed off in her office, oblivious to me and the rest of the world.

  When I get to his apartment, I lift my hand to knock, but he’s already got the door open.

  “Wow.” He runs a hand through his hair, and, for the first time I’m happy to blush.

  “It’s not like I’ve never worn a dress before,” I say in this awkward attempt to keep things light.

  “Yeah.” He nods, looking me up and down. “But you picked this dress to wear on your date with me.” He blows out a long breath. “I’m really glad you did.”

  I press my hands down my hips and bite my lip because he’s throwing me completely off kilter. “You look really nice too.”

  He glances down at his dark gray button-up, cuffed to the elbows, tie, and dark dress pants. “I don’t look good enough to be seen with you in that dress, but I’m glad you appreciate the effort.”

  I should say ‘thank you,’ I think. But I can’t make the words come out of my dry throat. I stand, instead, and just stare at him silently.

  Because that’s not something that makes you look like a poorly programmed robot person at all.

  “I’m happy to drive if you want,” he finally says, smiling the way people tend to smile at preschoolers, confused elderly people, mental patients…

  “Yeah! Of course!” I open my purse and dig out the keys, glad to have a task to take my mind off how awkward it is to be with this guy I’ve spent weeks working side-by-side with without a single hitch.

  Why is this so weird? Why?

  “If it’s okay with you, I know the area pretty well, and it’s not super easy to find parking if you’ve never been.”

  I just keep nodding, all the way to the car. He opens the door for me. I sit and catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, and I’m relieved to see I don’t look like a clown. I look good. I look like a confident, sexy woman who’s going on a date with a guy she really likes, and—once I repeat that to myself a few times like a mantra—I start to relax.

  We get on I-80 and Enzo steps on it, leaving Napa behind in a cloud of dust.

  “You okay?” he asks in the quiet of the car.

  I wonder if I should turn on the radio or something, but I realize my reluctance to talk is just a side effect of this weird panic I’m feeling. I force myself to look at his profile and calm the hell down.

  Which means I have to stop focusing on how sexy he is.

  Even his fully-clothed, driving profile is turning me on.

  God help me.

  “I’m fine. It’s just been a long time since I left home.”

  “Like left Napa Valley?” Enzo asks, glancing over at me.

  I like the way he kind of slicked his hair back. It makes me think of old time movie gangsters. “Um, I kind of mean Golden Leaf.”

  “Golden Leaf?” He asks carefully, like he’s not trying to judge me, but honestly he should judge away. Even I’m shocked when I think about how long it’s been.

  “Seriously, I haven’t had a day off—unless you count my father’s wedding—”

  “I don’t,” he says with a snort. “Jordan, you spent most of the time hiding from Bridezilla and her scary OC Barbie clones, crying, and getting trashed. That’s not a day off. That’s a worst case scenario, catastrophic family obligation.”

  I also spent a really nice amount of time talking to Enzo, laughing with him, dancing with him…actually the wedding was the most romantic date I’ve ever had in my life. And it wasn’t even a date. I am definitely not telling Enzo that pathetic little tidbit.

  “Okay. So scratch the wedding. Well… “ I think. I think some more. “Eight months ago I went to the beach,” I say weakly.

  “No work?” Enzo asks.

  I shrug one shoulder.

  “Jordan, it’s a really simple question. Did you
work? Yes or no.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting.

  “Yes,” I admit. When he shakes his head, I rush to add, “It was very, very little work. Like thirty percent work, seventy percent reading my paperback on the beach.” He looks over at me, those black eyebrows raised high. “Forty/sixty, then.” He rolls his eyes. “Okay! It was more like ninety percent work, ten percent trying not to get sunburned and swatting at sand gnats.”

  A few seconds tick by in complete silence.

  “You can tell me if that’s the honest-to-God most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard,” I say, trying to make it come off like a joke.

  “The fact that you’re so passionate about Golden Leaf that you don’t bother to take time for yourself isn’t pathetic, Jordan.” His voice is quiet and he keeps his eyes on the road. “But I’m going to make it my mission to get you out more often. You’ll burn out otherwise.”

  I nod because the hope makes my throat too tight for any words.

  I also don’t open my mouth because I’m afraid I’ll just spill every stupid thought in my brain. Which means I’d risk letting him know that I had felt more than burned out—I’d felt snuffed out. Frozen. No hope of thawing.

  Then I met him at the wedding, and something in me woke up. I can’t wait to keep stretching my expectations and seeing new things with new eyes. And that’s all because of Enzo.

  We don’t talk much for the rest of the ride, but it’s okay, because we sit in the kind of comfortable silence that’s a rare gift you only get to enjoy with another person who really gets you.

  When he finally parallel parks we’re on Nob Hill, outside the Fairmont Hotel.

  My dirty mind races a thousand miles ahead of itself. I picture a gorgeous room, a call for dinner to be brought up later, Enzo and I stripping each other out of our fancy clothes, and falling, naked, on pristine white sheets, the glow of San Francisco illuminating the room that’s all ours all night long.