by Ellie Danes
“You've pretty much sold it without me even having had a sip,” I replied with a grin. “Are you reading that off the label, or does it actually taste like that?”
She laughed—and as she did, a thrill ripped through me.
“No, those are my impressions of it. I made sure I was very familiar with the products when I first started out here.”
“And how long have you been here?” I asked.
She looked a little embarrassed. “Uh, three months. But,” she added hastily, “I worked in a winery in Wytheville for four years before this, so trust me, I do know my wines.”
“Oh, I didn't mean to imply otherwise,” I said. “Don't worry, I wasn't questioning your abilities. Wytheville huh? I own a bar and a restaurant there, although I don't go out that way very often any more. Why did you decide to move to Sala Valley?”
She suddenly looked quite uncomfortable, and I could tell right away that this was a bit of a sensitive issue for her.
“Oh well, Wytheville is my hometown,” she said, looking away from me and avoiding eye contact, “and I spent my whole life there, aside from my years at college. So I guess I just got a bit tired of it. Needed a change of scenery.”
I nodded, realizing that this was something that she didn’t want to discuss. “A change of scenery. I hear you. I grew up in a very small town, way smaller than Wytheville. I spent my whole childhood wanting to get out of that town, although maybe now that I'm older, I can appreciate it a bit more. Still, this is a nice place, huh? Sala Valley, very pretty. And the town's got a great vibe. That's why I decided to open my main restaurant here. Have you been?”
“It's that place Nine, right?”
I nodded and smiled. “That's the one. Sala Valley's premier gourmet restaurant. I designed every item on the menu myself, you know.”
She nodded, seeming impressed. “Really?”
“Yeah. All my restaurants are like that. They're my pride and joy—especially Nine—and I have to know that everything about them is perfect.”
She nodded. “I can appreciate that. I can be a bit of a perfectionist myself, sometimes. And after working in this industry for so many years, I've become a bit of a wine snob. I always said I wouldn't become one, but when you're working with the stuff, and quality is paramount, it's kinda hard not to be.”
I chuckled. “I know how it is, don't worry.”
She stepped back, suddenly seeming a little worried—as if she had abruptly realized that she was getting a little too friendly with me.
“Anyways, speaking of quality and wine and everything,” she said, “why don't you give our Pinotage a sample.”
“There's a bit of a problem with that,” I said, smiling.
She met my gaze with a look of confusion. “There's a problem? What's wrong?”
“Well I only see one glass of wine in front of me,” I replied. “Where's yours?”
She smiled, somewhat awkwardly—but there was definitely a sparkle of interest in her eyes. I could tell that she was trying to restrain herself.
“Hahaha,” she laughed. “I'm sorry, Evan, but I have to keep things professional here. No drinking on the job—even if wine is my job.”
“Oh, come on,” I said in a teasing tone. “It's Friday night! I'm more of a workaholic than anyone I know, but even I feel like cutting loose—or even just relaxing a little bit—on a Friday night. There's no need to hold back. Come on, just have a tiny bit in a glass—and then give me that 'wine speak' again, and this time I'll know you're not making it all up.”
She smiled—a beautiful smile that sent a thrill coursing through me—and relented.
“All right. Just a little then. And please don't tell Ron I did this.”
I grinned. “My lips are sealed, Lora.”
“I'm serious,” she insisted. “Ron is a great, laid-back boss, but he's very strict about stuff like this. And when I say just a sip, I mean that—just a sip, nothing more.”
“All right, just a sip. You’re the one with the bottle, pour yourself as much as you're comfortable with.”
She smiled and poured some wine for herself. “Happy now?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said, giving her a playful grin.
I picked up my glass as she picked up hers, and we clinked our glasses together.
“Cheers!” I said. “Here's to—hopefully—a lasting relationship between Powers Restaurants and Sala Valley Winery.”
“I'll drink to that,” she said with a smile.
We each had a good, long sip of our wine.
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “This is actually great.”
She raised an eyebrow with mock suspicion. “You thought I was lying when I told you it was?”
“Nope, I believed you. But I always need good, hard evidence before I accept something completely. And right now, the evidence is telling me that you guys produce some top-quality wines. Exactly what I'm looking for.”
“I'm glad you're impressed,” she said. “Are you ready to try the cabernet? Or would you like to try one of our white wines next?”
“Let's mix things up. How about a sweet white?”
“Can do,” she said, moving down the table to the white wines. “Here's our sweet white.”
We sampled a few more wines, and while I was definitely focused on getting a good perspective on the quality of the wine, I was also enjoying getting a light buzz on. She didn't have very many sips, certainly nowhere near as many as I did, but I could see that the wine was loosening her up as well.
Suddenly, we found ourselves on the same side of the table instead of across from each other. I could feel the heat of her presence near me, and it was turning me on. I looked at the bare skin of her forearms and longed to run my fingertips along that smooth, lightly-tanned skin…
She looked up, and our eyes met, and I could swear that the heat of desire was burning in them. Did she want me as badly as I wanted her at this moment?
Then, shattering the sanctity of the moment, my phone rang. I sighed and shook my head. “Sorry,” I said as I took it out of my pocket. “I'd better get this.”
I looked at who was calling—and saw it was JB. What was it this time? I muttered a silent prayer that there hadn't been yet another catastrophe.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ev. Look, I just wanted to say that I really, really appreciate what you did earlier. You know, meeting with your lawyer and working out a deal so that everything could be smoothed out with Nash and his kid. And I wanted you to know that I haven't had a single drop to drink tonight. I'm staying sober the whole night—hell, the whole weekend, if I can. I'm gonna make sure I do things right from now on.”
“I’m glad to hear that, JB. Thanks for letting me know. About the fight, and the stuff with the Nash kid… Look man, let’s just put it behind us. If you want to make it up to me, pay me back by working hard and running things like clockwork down there, okay?”
“Can do, Ev, can do.”
“Good, you do that. Look, I'm in the middle of a business meeting here. I gotta go.”
“Okay. Have a good evening, Ev.”
“You too, JB.” I sighed and put the phone away.
“JB?” Lora asked.
“My step-brother. He's a bit of a…loose cannon, I guess. Gets himself into far too much trouble. He's actually the reason I couldn't be here earlier today. But never mind that, not exactly business-worthy discussion.”
“Sure. So, what do you think of the merlot?” she asked, pointing at the glass of wine in my hand.
“I think it's a winner,” I said with a smile, already forgetting about JB and his drama. “Well, now that I've sampled everything, I think I'm ready to make a decision.”
“Really?” she asked, her excitement obvious. “So, what are you gonna do?”
“I'm gonna stock all of my restaurants in California with Sala Valley wines,” I said.
“Wow, really?” she asked.
“Really. There is one condition though.”
/>
“I'm sure Ron will meet whatever condition you need. He'll be thrilled.”
“It's not up to Ron. It's up to you.”
“Me?” she asked, looking suddenly confused.
“Dinner. You and me, tomorrow night,” I said. “What do you say?”
Click Here to download Walking Away Now
A Rockstar Romance
By
Ellie Danes
www.EllieDanes.com
Book Description
Staring down from his mansion on the hill, washed up one-hit-wonder and reclusive rock heir, Storm Morris, is ready to pack it in and leave the small town of Murtaugh behind. The town has profited from his father’s legendary rockstar status and he’s left Storm with a legacy, huge expectations to fill and town that blames him for their demise.
Cora Sinclair wants nothing to do with her small fledgling home town or her eccentric artist mother, but when Cora’s perfect life crashes, she’s left with only one option, come home and face who she really is, more like her mother then she wants to be.
When Cora has chance to show up at the rockstar heir’s mansion to attend a final party, she intends to confront him about his responsibility to the town and his past. But she gets more than she bargained for when she meets a super fan of the rockstar with a dark secret.
I parked at the far end of Main Street. Instead of getting out, I slumped down in the driver’s seat of my leased sedan and considered turning around. The last place on earth I wanted to be was the sleepy little town of Murtaugh, but I had nowhere else to go.
The draining numbers of my bank account flashed across my mind, and I pressed my forehead to the leather stitching of the steering wheel. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning but I longed to crawl back into bed. Maybe it was all just a bad dream and when I woke up, I’d be back in my upper-floor West Side apartment. I tried to will it into reality, but it was too quiet. New York City and the life I thought I’d tied up in a neat little bow was two hours away and outside of my car, I could actually hear birds singing.
I hauled myself upright again and blinked owlishly at my hometown. No swerving cars, no towering buildings fronted by uniformed doormen, and no stylish clutches of people walking by while discussing the latest news. Murtaugh’s Main Street was empty except for an old dog watching me curiously from the door of the vintage clothing shop.
Drinks at Mathilde’s tonight, a friend texted me.
Out of town. Family thing, I texted back with shaky fingers.
Another lie.
It had been two months since I had been fired, and I hadn’t told a single soul. In fact, I had gone on as if nothing had changed, as if I hadn’t lost my sole source of income. At first, I had been confident I would find another accounting position and pass off my firing as a much-needed chance to move on. Then weeks had passed with my cover letters unanswered. I cringed, remembering how I’d kept up my normal schedule of expensive dinners, high-priced drinks, and twice-weekly clothes shopping with fashionable friends.
When I’d had a regular salary, I had kept it up without batting an eye. I’d even been able to put some money in savings each month but not enough. Between rent, eating out, shopping, and pretending nothing was wrong for two months, I was nearly flat broke.
The feeling reminded me of dozens of childhood days, but I couldn’t wave it off with a laugh like my free-spirited mother. I worried.
“Why worry, Cora?” my mother had always asked. “It only makes you suffer twice.”
I yanked my keys out of the expensive car and blinked back hot tears. I deserved to suffer for being so foolish. Two months of trying to be optimistic had left me jobless and desperate enough to come home.
Home. I took a deep breath but couldn’t appreciate the fresh air. Just the thought of hearing one of my mother’s flighty pep-talks was enough to make me dizzy. I needed my mother’s unflagging belief in off-beat miracles, but not yet.
Instead, I skirted around the vintage clothing shop and curious dog and headed straight for the record store. No one would be able to see me behind the poster-plastered windows, and I could get my bearings. The Murtaugh Tune-Up, with it over-stuffed rows of records and crowded shelves of rock memorabilia, had always been a refuge for me.
Faded posters of Ian Morris greeted me, and I paused on the sidewalk to smile at the familiar face. The rock legend, with his trademark long black hair and even longer beard, grinned back. Ian Morris was a god of rock ‘n’ roll for over two decades and the patron saint of my little hometown. I peered closer at the posters and spotted his landmark mansion, the site where he’d recorded his most famous album. All through my childhood, tourists had flocked to Murtaugh just to stand at those gates and hope for a glimpse of him. The rock star had always played it up, and his grand mansion was known for concerts and parties rivaled only by Hugh Hefner’s home.
I glanced around at the quiet street and realized those rock pilgrimages were becoming a thing of the past. Ian Morris, dead nearly ten years now, lived on in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame but his little hometown was a fading memory.
Faded. I rubbed my chest as I saw how well that word described Main Street. The once-lively cafe had removed all its sidewalk seating, the corner bar wasn’t even open yet, and the quirky little grocery store Ian Morris had immortalized in a song had boarded up its windows.
I stood rooted to the sidewalk. I’d driven two hours out of New York City, trying to escape my own failure, only to find my hometown was worse off than me.
A polite cough pulled me from my reverie. Strolling down the sidewalk was a tall, strikingly handsome man. Not handsome in the suited Manhattan style but undeniable attractive despite his ragged t-shirt and multitude of tattoos. His short-cropped hair shone blue-black in the sun and dark eyebrows arched as our eyes met.
“Excuse me.” He reached for the record store door.
“What? Oh, yeah.” I stammered, ridiculously thrown by his slate-gray eyes.
“Coming in?” He held the door open and gave me a chiseled-jaw smile.
He was clean-shaven, and I caught an intoxicating whiff of aftershave. “Yeah. I mean, yes. Thank you.”
Years of polishing off my casual, hippie-style upbringing so my manners fit Manhattan were undone after two minutes in Murtaugh. Or maybe it was just the way the corner of his mouth quirked up in a charming smile.
I slipped by the attractive stranger, my nose only reaching the V-neck dip of his black t-shirt. One second with him in the narrow doorway of the record store, and I was overwhelmed. Hard biceps had me breathlessly dropping my eyes down to his scuffed black boots. He was nothing like the striped-tied finance guys I’d been dating on and off in New York. They never remembered to hold the door open for me.
I glanced back to thank him again and caught sight of myself in the front windows. My short blond hair was illuminated pink from the record shop’s neon ‘open’ sign. It waved out wildly from my head like cotton candy, and I tried to tame it down with one casual rake of my fingers.
“Speak of the devil!” a voice called from the back of the shop. “Bobby’s here already. Where have you been?”
“Excuse me,” the wickedly magnetic man said with a wink.
I retreated to my favorite row, only to find the used records had been rearranged, and I was now standing in the death metal section. He strode through the crowded store with ease and slipped behind the counter. I watched as he disappeared through the office door, obviously more than a regular customer.
Alone for the moment, I quickly brushed my fingers through my perpetually messy hair and tried to calm down my pulse. Tall, dark, and tattooed was not my type, no matter what my body wanted. That kind of guy didn’t scream stability and responsibility and there was nothing else in the world I wanted more.
“Cora? Cora Sinclair? Is that really you?” The voice from the office was back and belonged to my childhood friend, Rick.
“I was just wondering if I would see you, Ricky!” I cried and rushed t
o the counter to give my friend a hug.
Rick Martin was just the staid, practical, and plain man I had always envisioned myself marrying. All through our free-range childhood, Rick had been the one to hang back from wild adventures. He’d gotten a job at the record store at the age of twelve and dedicated himself to the daily grind of small business. By the time we’d all headed off to college, Rick had bought himself a ramshackle little cottage at the end of Second Street.
“You look amazing, Cora. Really amazing. New York City must be treating you right,” Rick said.
I shied away from his kind, brown-eyed glance and echoed his favorite phrase from high school. “Who needs New York City when there’s rock ‘n’ roll?”
Rick chuckled and leaned on the music store counter. His shoulder-length brown hair was still tied back in a low ponytail, but it looked thinner now. He scrubbed at his stubbly goatee and smiled up at me. “If you ask me, my bottom line could use a little more of it around here these days.”
“So, you finally bought the Tune-Up?” I asked.
“Yup. Now all this is mine.” Rick gave the cluttered record shop a grand gesture and a self-deprecating laugh. “Glorious, isn’t it?”
I breathed in the lingering scent of incense and sighed. “You have no idea how glad I am to find this place hasn’t changed.”
“Speaking of change, how’s that big-time corporate accounting job?” Rick asked.
I froze, afraid for a second that he somehow knew of my misfortune. Then I forced myself to shrug it off. “People still think it’s weird that this is how Caroline’s daughter turned out, don’t they?”
It wasn’t a question, but Rick nodded with a rueful grin. “I, for one, am glad that the apple fell far from the tree. Too bad you had to fall all the way to the Big Apple.”
I squeezed his arm across the record store counter. “You’re sweet, Ricky. Always were.”
“Sweet on you,” Rick said quietly.
I felt bad that Rick’s feelings had never been returned beyond friendship, but it was comforting all the same. “Come on, you’re married by now, right?”
