by Brynne Asher
Without taking his eyes off me, he simply answers, “Yeah.”
“Okay, now I feel bad,” I exclaim. “I knew it sold. Mr. McCray used to come over often. We even had a little going away thing for him in the tasting room. I knew he moved to be closer to his daughter, but I didn’t know the new owner was in yet. Mr. McCray said the buyer would be doing some modifications before officially taking possession. I should’ve come over to introduce myself.”
“No problem,” he utters without a change in facial expression.
“Addy,” I offer, stepping forward and extending my hand. “Addy Wentworth.”
He offers me his big right hand again. When it folds around mine, engulfing me tightly, my breath catches.
“Vega,” his deep voice informs me. Then he keeps on and strangely adds, “Crew.”
I step back and frown. “Excuse me?”
“Crew. Crew Vega.”
I frown deeper. “That’s your name?”
Still no change in facial expression. “Yeah.”
“Oh, sorry. That’s just a little,” I pause, raising my eyebrows. “Unusual.”
“I know.” He finally offers me a set of new words, but alas, not a new facial expression.
“Well,” I breathe, finding him difficult to converse with. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m pretty new, as well, I’ve lived here a little over a year. I own the vineyard. Have you met the Kanes?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“They’re great.” Motioning in back of me, I blather on. “They own the horse farm across the highway. They have three kids, all teenagers. They seem okay, the teenagers, that is. Not that we would hear rowdy teenagers here with all this land around us. I’m still getting used to living in the country. What do you do?”
Finally, he raises his eyebrows. Not much of a facial shift, but at least I know he’s alive when he answers, “Government contractor.”
“Huh,” I huff. “You and every other person around here. Everyone works for the government.”
“They’re a big employer.” He strings a group of words together—more proof of brain activity.
“They are,” I agree. “Do you drink wine?”
“Only to be polite. When I’m forced to be polite.”
This makes me smile. “I was that way, too, until I bought a winery, of course. Now I love it. You should come by the tasting room—I’ll give you the neighborly discount. One hundred percent off. All the neighbors love it and use it regularly.”
“Free?” He reverts back to simple words.
“There’s no money in wine tastings. My Buy-a-Barrel program, yes. The Wine Club, sure. Wedding receptions and private parties, absolutely. But a wine tasting? I barely break even. Plus, I hardly have any neighbors, so it’s not a big deal,” I explain.
“Thanks, but no.”
Before I have a chance to talk him into it, I hear, “Moo,” coming from afar.
I look toward my neighbor’s property and here comes Harry, slow as a snail stuck in peanut butter.
“Moo!” Scarlet answers, bellowing from behind me.
“You raise cows?”
“What?” I ask distracted, as Scarlett starts to crowd me again. I try to push her back as I explain, “Well, I have cows, I don’t raise them. They were cows when I got them.”
“I meant raise to butcher.”
“What? No, of course not.” I frown. “Why would I do that?”
“You a vegetarian? Why else would you have cows?”
“I’m not a vegetarian, but I’d never butcher them. They came with the property and I guess I’ve come to like them. By the way, sorry about the fence. I’ll try and get Morris out here today to do something about it.”
He ignores my comment about the fence and frowns back. “They’re pets?”
“No, they’re not pets.” I glare at him. “They came with the vineyard. I have forty acres of vines, forty of pasture and the other ten make up the farmhouse, tasting room, and other buildings, but they’re scattered amongst the pasture. A dog is a pet, a cat is a pet. A cow is not a pet.”
“Moo,” Harry calls as she slowly steps over the broken fence to join us. The second she does, she comes straight to Scarlett and me, joining the crowd.
I give the little black mark on her white forehead a scratch and scold her, “You need to stay on this side of the fence, Harry.”
“Harry?” I hear and look back over to my neighbor.
“Yes,” I sigh, because someone else is about to give me shit for naming the cows. When I started walking with them, I had to name them. “This one’s Harry because of the birthmark since it looks like Harry Potter’s scar.”
Crew’s expression finally cracks, even if it is by only a touch. His eyes turning from sharp to amused. “You do know cows are females, right?”
I stand up straight and immediately become defensive. I’m tired of people mocking me about the cows.
“I know cows are girls. Do I look like an idiot? Look at her face,” I say and point to Harry, the sweetest of them all. They’re Black Baldies, all black with white heads, but Harry has a sweet little birthmark on her forehead. The minute I saw her the first time, she reminded me of Harry Potter. She’s been Harry ever since. “See? Harry Potter. This is Scarlett, she’s loud and obnoxious. I have Jax, Maria, and Jimmy, but they’re off doing what cows are supposed to do—grazing.”
Crew Vega moves, even if it is slightly, tipping his head and crossing his arms. A smirk spreads across his scruffy face, and as if out of nowhere, a dimple appears. Smack dab on his left cheek. A dimple. Proof there’s soft under the sharp. Hell if that dimple isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, even if it is covered in scruff, sweat, dirt, and hidden under a sharp toughness.
“Jax, Maria, and Jimmy?” the dimple asks.
I look up to his deep dark eyes, now creased because of his dimpled grin. “Well…yeah. I named them after my favorite characters. Besides Harry, I’ve got Scarlett O’Hara, Jax Teller, Maria von Trapp, and Jimmy Fallon.”
His head tips the other way. “Jimmy Fallon’s a person, not a character.”
“I know, but he’s funny,” I spout.
He nods, letting his arms fall, probably tired of talking about my cows, but agrees. “True.”
Okay, moving on.
“Sorry about the fence.” I try to change the topic of conversation. “Like I said, I’ll try and get my property manager to take a look at it today. I don’t want Harry wandering onto your property again.”
“We share the fence. I don’t have a property manager, all I have is me and I’m busy. Send me a bill for half, we’ll share the cost.”
“It’s really okay. I’m the one with the cows—you don’t have a reason to fix the fence.”
“It’s both of our responsibilities,” he keeps on.
“Yes, but you just moved in. I really don’t mind.”
“Send me a bill for half,” he insists.
I sigh. “Well, it probably won’t be much. Just consider it a ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ gift.”
“Addison,” he bites out, getting my attention because no one calls me Addison. Not even my mom when she was alive. And more specifically, I didn’t introduce myself as Addison. “Send the bill.”
I frown and cross my arms. “Fine, I’ll send you a bill. Now that I’m thinking it through, I’m sure it’ll be astronomical. At least what I’ve spent on molasses cubes for the cows in the past year. They really like their molasses.”
He shakes his head with a half-smirk. “If it means I don’t have to play fetch with your pet cows when they wander onto my property, I’ll pay it.”
Tired of talking about my cows, I decide I’ve stood here long enough. I’ve got purchases to process, bills to pay, and ordering to finish. I don’t have time to stand here and argue about the cost of the fence with my new neighbor. I was only trying to be nice.
“If you decide to be neighborly, come for a tasting. If not, maybe I’ll see you arou
nd, but I don’t like being snuck up on, so don’t do that again.” I start to move out from between Scarlett and Harry. The instant I do, Scarlett crowds me but I have to make kissy noises to get Harry to follow.
“Send the bill,” his deep voice demands.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I yell without looking back.
Marching off in my rain boots, I swipe the hair away from my face. It’s only then do I realize during the whole encounter with my new neighbor, I’m not only wearing rain boots, but cut off shorts and my old UCLA Track and Field t-shirt I acquired years ago. And holy shit, I’m make-up free and my hair’s a mess. Not my finest first impression, but we can’t all look great covered in sweat and dirt. What kind of name is Crew, anyway? I’m sure it’s a stupid nickname his buddies bequeathed upon him.
“Come on, girls,” I call for the cows. “I need to get Morris on that fence right away. I don’t need our new neighbor complaining about you.”
Chapter 2 – The Country Life
Addy -
“Why didn’t I think of this sooner? We should have a grape-stomping station!” she says to her fiancé.
“What?” He looks at her like she’s crazy and I would agree.
“Of course, can you imagine the pictures we’ll get? It’ll be priceless. We’ll make the society page of The Post with grape stomping, for sure.” Her eyes go dreamy, probably imagining herself plastered all over the District’s society pages.
“Honey, people are going to be dressed up. No one’s gonna want to stomp grapes in formal wear.”
“Yes they will. They’ll be drunk from the open bar and wine tasting. They won’t care about their clothes.”
“You’re gonna stomp grapes in your dress?” he asks, exasperated.
“Why not? It’s not like I’ll ever wear it again.” She looks over to me with a determined face. “I want the grapes in a trough, a big metal one. Like what your cows drink out of. Oh, we can put your cows in the background for pictures! None of my friends have had grape stomping at their weddings. I’ll be one of a kind.”
I look across the large coffee table at the engaged couple and mask my frustration. Our planning meeting has gone forty-five minutes over schedule, even with the extra time I allowed because I know from past meetings, she’s high maintenance.
A grape-stomping station at a wedding reception?
And how am I supposed to get the cows to pose for pictures?
“Well,” I start, putting a smile on my face as I search for patience. “We do have an annual grape stomping event every year after harvest, but I’ve never thought to add it to our reception package. We do like to keep things organic here at Whitetail Farms. I can certainly price that out for you.”
“Price doesn’t matter!” she shrieks with excitement, clapping her hands.
“Hannah,” her fiancé scolds her.
“What? It doesn’t. Daddy said to do what I wanted and I want to stomp grapes.” She frowns at him before looking back to me. “Now, when shall I set up a meeting with the caterer?”
Hoping we’re finally done, I pull up the calendar on my phone to set up our next exhausting meeting. The reception is planned for October. I’m counting down the days like a child at Christmas and cannot wait for it to be over.
After scheduling a meeting with the caterer—allotting twice the time necessary for such an appointment—I stand, needing to end the misery I’ve been forced to sit through in the basement inglenook. I make a note to meet in my office where the chairs are hard and uncomfortable, not to mention, it’s downright ugly in there. The inglenook is comfy, inviting customers to stay for hours by the big huge fireplace, sunken deep into the lush sofa and chairs. I want people to be comfortable when they’ve just purchased a bottle, enjoying it over a delicious lunch. I have no desire to make Hannah Brown-soon-to-be-Hatfield any more comfortable than need be.
“This is going to be better than I ever dreamed,” she delights. Reaching over, she threads her arm through mine, linking elbows as we walk to the stairs and make our way up to the main tasting room. “All my friends are doing it up huge, hosting their receptions at the Kennedy Center or International Trade Center. They’ll all be copycat versions of one another. I can’t tell you how happy I am we decided to go medium, you know, intimate. Large is so last year. A smaller wedding will make getting an invitation from us downright prestigious, and out here in the country? It’ll be perfect—I’ll be the talk for absolutely ages.”
“We’re just happy you chose us for your big day,” I say with a forced voice and smile.
After more shallow pleasantries, Bradley Hatfield, III, drags his soon-to-be wife out the front door and toward the parking lot. I wonder what that marriage will look like in ten years, if it’s still around at all. I’ve only lived here a year, but with a Washington elite offspring marrying another Washington elite offspring, it’s anyone’s guess. What I do know is having a Washington elite wedding reception at Whitetail is going to be great for business.
“Addy?” I hear my name yelled from across the room.
I turn and see Clara coming slowly as she has to make her way through the mingling guests. She looks frustrated since she never moves slowly doing anything. She’s tiny, even five months pregnant. I’ve learned the farther along she gets, the grumpier she is.
She and her husband already have three boys, and they might be cute to look at, but they’re little monsters. This pregnancy was an accident and she’s not happy. She’s less happy with her husband, who’s over-the-top happy, because he wants a girl. She swears he impregnated her in her sleep. Routinely, she threatens him with murder in all kinds of creative forms, explaining the only reason she doesn’t follow through is because she’d be stuck with four hellions to raise on her own. And just to piss him off, she refuses to find out the sex.
Clara Robertson has been with me since right after I bought the place. My turn-the-vineyard-around strategy centers solely on bringing events to the property. There’s space in the basement and tasting room as well as the gardens and patios. If they don’t mind the humidity—which I’ve learned locals don’t—I can host large events outside in the spring, summer, and fall. With the views and scenery, it’s a perfect locale for anything from a wedding reception to a business meeting to an organized girls-night-out. There’s nothing we won’t host and just like Hannah’s grape-stomping station, we’ll make anything happen for a client.
But to pull it off well, I needed help. Clara hadn’t worked in years as she stayed home with her three little hellions. When the youngest started kindergarten, she wanted out of the house and after spending time around her kids, who can blame her? She practically begged me for the job, explaining she’d work the part-time position whenever I needed her—any day, any time.
She went on and on about how she needed an escape from runny noses and play dates and science projects. How she wanted to be an adult again, needing a reason to get up to fix her hair in the mornings and wear something that needed to be ironed, or maybe even dry cleaned. Finally, she explained how her husband landed a new job, allowing him to telecommute and keep his own hours. Her eyes then went a little whacky when she expounded, “It’s his turn. He needs to build the next exploding volcano and endure the perfect moms at the bus stop, and possibly, clean a fucking toilet. And when you’re surrounded by penises—it’s not a fun job. I need these twenty hours a week to keep my sanity like I need my next breath. I don’t care what you pay me. To be honest, I’ll pay you. You have to let me work here for twenty hours a week, please!”
What could I do? She sounded so desperate, I put the three prior boring applicants out of my mind and cancelled the rest of the interviews. I hired her on the spot. It didn’t hurt that before having hellions she worked as an event coordinator at the W Hotel in DC. As much as I’ve come to love my little winery, I’m no W. I knew I was lucky to find her.
She jumped across the table and tackled me with a huge hug, promising me she’d start the next day. She’s pro
ven to be the perfect choice, bringing in all kinds of events, and creating repeat business. I know I can be a control freak—I have a hand in all facets of the winery and still like to manage certain events myself, like the Hatfield wedding. But she handles a majority of it and we both kick in to help the other when needed.
When she finally gets to me, she rustles the bunch of papers in her hand while smiling, her shoulder length blonde hair swaying about. “I got it—it’s done. The crazy horse-baby-making convention signed. It’s going to be bigger than expected—almost double!”
I smile back. “They’re the Eastern Horse Breeders Association. Quit calling our clients crazy, Clara. Just because you’re a breeding association all on your own doesn’t make everyone crazy like you.”
“Shut up,” she scoffs with a grin. “This is great. We were competing against two bigger venues. I’m pretty sure your neighbors helped seal the deal, but whatever. I’ll take it.”
“The Kanes are great. I’ll send over a couple bottles to thank them. Do you need help with your event tonight?”
“Nope, I’m good. It’s a client appreciation thing—easy. Evan will help me set up in a couple hours.” She starts to rub her belly and goes on. “I’ve got to eat before I do anything else. I really need a burger, but I guess I’ll have to make due with a Maggie sandwich.”
Before I could ask to join her since I’m starving myself, I hear Evan call from behind the bar, “Addy!”
I glance over and he’s pouring wine, but when I catch his eyes, his move to the front door. I cringe when I see what he’s looking at.
“Hot damn, I can’t believe he has the balls to come back. You’ve officially turned him down three times,” Clara says from beside me.
I look to her and frown, thinking the same thing. I’ve turned down all his offers—each with more ferocity than the last. This has been going on for months. I’m over being polite. It doesn’t matter how much he sweetens the deal, and each deal he brings to the table is pretty damn sweet. At this point it doesn’t matter, he’s starting to creep me out. I’m going to have to insist he stay off my property.
