Chaos Among the Vines (Romancing the Vine Book 2)

by Gemma Brocato

  “So, I can expect a call?”

  “From talking to the owner, they’ll have a couple of phone consultations in the name of research. Then they’ll work at the property for a month or so to study your processes. The owner assured me she’d assign her best engineer to it.”

  “Hold up, son! Someone is moving in? Where do you propose I put them?” Will had a good-sized house on site, but since moving in three years ago, he’d been doing renovations in his spare time. So at the moment, all he had livable was a bedroom, bathroom, sun porch and half a kitchen. Most nights, he prepared dinner on his patio, using a camp stove he’d found in one of the outbuildings.

  “I’ll come over this weekend and help you clear out one of the bedrooms you’re using for storage. Penny will come help as well.”

  Will rolled his eyes when Drake mentioned his kooky sister. She was even more loosely strung than Will. An artist with a messed up internal clock, Penny slept when the rest of the world worked, doing her work thing in the wee hours of the morning. It was a wonder she ever got any—

  Will shut those thoughts down immediately. He didn’t need to be thinking about sex. Bad enough he had been working so hard he’d only had three dates in two years. His body tightened and he sucked in a deep breath, hoping to ease his aching balls.

  He cleared his throat. “Um, don’t disturb her sleep cycle. I’m sure between the two of us we can get it in shape.”

  “Fine. Let me know when the OE calls. I’m happy to conference in with you if you want.”

  Will flipped closed his phone and dropped it in the front pocket of his jeans. Kneeling at the base of the first plant in a long row of vines, he plucked weeds. The busy work would aid him in forgetting someone would soon come to help him organize his business.

  Besides, yanking weeds was merely a desperate ploy to stay outdoors long enough to be sure office hours were at an end. Then with any luck, the phone wouldn’t ring while he opened a bottle of red wine and relaxed on his patio to witness the sunset.

  Chapter 2

  “We’re sorry. The mailbox is full.”

  Avalon stared in disbelief at the iPhone nestled in its desktop holder. After her call to . . . what was his name? . . . rang seven times, it got dumped to the man’s voice mail. Her palms itched just thinking about the business he lost by not regularly cleaning out his messages. She scrolled through the spreadsheet she’d spent seventeen minutes populating with pertinent details for her new client, Rolling In The Clover Vineyards. The document meant she could easily find info she needed—phone, address, principals’ names, industry, etc., while a fast double-check of the number on her phone display verified she’d dialed correctly.

  Fuming, she opened her email program. Although she wanted to fire off a scathing message about deleting voicemails after listening to them, she refrained. Not the best way to begin a customer relationship. Instead, she politely mentioned she’d been unable to leave a message and could Will Bradford please return her call at his earliest convenience. She backspaced over the right this damn minute line she’d impulsively added, signed it with her contact details and pressed ‘send.’ With any luck, his phone was set to ping him loudly with incoming emails and he’d call immediately.

  Like a dope, she stared at her phone, willing it to ring. Sweeping her gaze to the clock in the upper right corner of her laptop she saw it change from 2:33 to 2:34. Still nothing.

  “For the love of Pete.” She huffed out her frustration and shoved her chair back from the sleek glass and chrome desk.

  She already knew she’d have her work cut out for her with this client. Plucking the phone from its cradle . . . overkill, she knew because her watch could connect a call as well . . . she strode to her kitchen. The instrument in her hand remained silent for the two-point-three minutes it took her to down one full glass of water, pour another, and lick a tablespoon of peanut butter she’d dipped out of the jar she kept in the fridge. If she didn’t consider her addiction to time management, her afternoon peanut butter ritual was her only vice.

  That and the bottom drawer of her dresser.

  She sucked the remnants from the back of the spoon and tossed the utensil in the sink, intending to head back to the bedroom she’d converted to her study. She got as far as the kitchen door before her stomach twitched and the skin on the back of her neck crawled a little. Slapping a palm against the doorjamb, she jolted to a halt. The pinching feel in her gut intensified. She hustled back to the sink. Retrieving the spoon, Avalon carefully rinsed it then placed it in the tray in the dishwasher and shut the door. The anxiety her carelessness had provoked immediately eased.

  The only way to avoid chaos was to be sure everything was in its proper place once she finished using it.

  So, okay. Maybe I have one other addiction. To tidiness. But that addiction was her secret. Most of her co-workers believed she was super organized. And she was. But her thoughts went back to the dresser in her bedroom. The one holding a jumbled mess of colorful T-shirts. Every other drawer contained neatly folded items, color-matched for ease of selection. Even her lingerie was organized, unlike any other woman she’d ever known.

  The cabinets in her bathroom could be featured in Martha Stewart’s magazine. Streamlined, with every item easily reachable. Glass shelves pristine and free of the gunky evidence of a normally-lived life. On the few occasions she’d had to look for anything in her friends’ medicine chests, she’d lost her breath at the disorganization and soapy, scummy look of it all.

  Once, when Avalon’s floors were being refinished, she’d stayed at Beth’s. And suffered from low-grade anxiety whenever she’d ventured into the bathroom. A solid week of studiously keeping her back to the mirror had sucked.

  Avalon trooped back to her office. Setting her water on a coaster precisely placed on the corner of the desk, she checked email.

  Nothing yet from Mr. William Bradford. She tapped ‘redial’ and then hit the speakerphone button in what was sure to be a futile effort.

  On the sixth ring, her call was answered. “Bradford.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bradford. I’m Avalon Reese, with On Time Management.”

  After a brief pause, the man grunted. “You the efficiency guru Drake hired?”

  Avalon’s shoulders tensed. “I’m an organization engineer. Your accountant retained our services to help your business grow.”

  “I don’t really need any help. I’m just humoring him.” His deep chuckle rumbled around her brain, not easing a speck of the tension his remark had built.

  “I assure you, Mr. Bradford, organization is no laughing matter.” Her voice was tart and she bit her tongue on the urge to chastise him about his voicemail box.

  His response was gruff. “I’m sure you don’t think so. But before we proceed, please don’t call me Mister anything. Reminds me of my dad.” The sharp request was delivered with an edge of bitterness.

  “Fine, William. I’d like—”

  “Will. No one but my dad calls me William.”

  “Will it is, then.” Wondering what the guy had against his father, Avalon activated the cell next to his name on her spreadsheet. Quickly she typed in the nickname.

  “Or honey.”

  Huh? What was he saying about honey? “I beg your pardon?”

  “You can call me honey, or sugar, or anything you want. Just don’t call me late for supper.”

  “Mr. Bradford, you aren’t making any sense.”

  His sigh lasted at least three seconds. “Just trying to have a little fun with you. And if you don’t call me Will, I’ll be hanging up on you.”

  “Mr. Bradford, I—”

  “That’s it. You have no sense of humor. We can’t work together. Goodbye.”

  “Wait!” Shock laced her voice, dragging it up an octave. “Seriously? Mr. Brad—uh, Will, I wasn�
�t hired for my sense of humor.”

  “Evidently.”

  Her head jerked back as if he’d slapped her. “You retained my services because I can bring order to your chaos. Working with me isn’t meant to be fun.”

  An alert for an incoming call flashed on her phone at the same time her wrist tingled. Just lovely. Her mom had impeccable timing whenever Avalon was on the phone with a client. Like a damned homing pigeon.

  “Why not?” Will asked.

  She dug her fingers into her neck, ignored her mom, and yanked her attention back to the task at hand. “Why not what?”

  “Why can’t it be fun? All work and no play . . .”

  With no idea how to take this man, Avalon sank back in her chair, staring at the phone as if it had sprouted legs and was about to walk away.

  The dead air between their phones lengthened and grew heavy.

  His next sigh echoed that heaviness. “Ava?” She clenched a fist at the diminutive of her name. He continued, “Have I scared you away?”

  She pictured him leaning forward, brows raised, like he really wanted to know if he’d put her off working with him. Which was likely, judging by the hope in his voice.

  She sat up straighter. “It takes a lot more than a sad sense of humor to scare me.”

  “Spunky. I kind of like that about you.” The timbre of his voice stroked her imagination.

  She clicked over to the vineyard’s webpage, where his bio was on full display. His profile picture showed a confident, cocky man, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wide, with rows of vines rolling away up a hill behind him. The setting sun glinted in his dark hair, sparking threads of gold among the chocolate brown. There was no smile on his full lips, although his gaze looked amused.

  She minimized the window and focused on the call. “Will, if we could just get back to business. I’d like to set up a video teleconference so we can meet face-to-face. It will give me a chance to get to know you.”

  “You mean, like you sitting in your office, wherever that might be, and me, here in Cloverdale behind a desk? Not exactly an in-person meeting.”

  “But I’d see your face and you’d see mine.”

  She pictured him shaking his head. “Nope. Not truly human contact, so, not the same. Besides, I don’t have the equipment necessary for that kind of set up.”

  “You don’t have a video camera on your laptop?”

  “I don’t have a laptop.”

  Welcome to the Twilight Zone. Gad. “What about a desk top model?”

  “Nope.”

  “You don’t have a desk top computer?” How the heck did he run his business?

  “Don’t be daft. I have a computer, but there’s no video equipment attached to it.”

  Her bangs fluttered as she released an aggravated breath. Skype or Go-To Meeting wouldn’t be options then. “Okay, what about Facetime?”

  “What’s that?”

  It took a second for his question to register. “It’s an app on your iPhone.”

  “Oh. Don’t own an iPhone.”

  Okay, not an Apple guy. She’d have to pick an alternate software. “What kind of smart phone do you have?”

  “Don’t have a smart phone. Just a flip phone.”

  Flies. She could trap flies in her mouth, her jaw was hanging so far down. “A flip phone?” she squeaked.

  “I’ve had it for . . . I don’t know, six or seven years.” He sounded inordinately proud.

  “No wonder you aren’t organized,” she mumbled. She typed his phone, or lack of phone, information into her spreadsheet in all caps.

  “How is a phone going to keep me organized?”

  Her watch buzzed and an instant later a text from her boss, Karen Miller, popped up on the companion app on her laptop. Can you provide an update on Will Bradford and the RITC project? Followed immediately by another text, this one from her mom, since Avalon hadn’t answered Guinevere’s call.

  She started to tap out an ‘On A Call’ reply to her boss. After the first two letters, the rest auto-populated, like a good app should. She pressed ‘send’ as she answered Will. “You’ll have everything at your fingertips. Twenty-four-hour access to email, website updates and statistics, inventory control. Everything to make running your business more efficient.”

  She started typing a must-have list. First order of business was acquiring a new phone for the client.

  “Why in the world would I want to be that accessible?”

  “Mr. Brad—Will, the cardinal rule of being successful in business these days is to be connected. Being instantly responsive matters.”

  “Not to me. My business is running just fine as it is.”

  Good heavens, she wished she could see his face to be able to tell if he was serious or not. Not knowing anything about him, she had no idea from his tonal inflections if he was just pulling her leg or speaking what he perceived to be the truth.

  “Listen, Will. Do you regularly check your email?”

  “Of course.” Now he just sounded offended.

  “I’m going to send you a questionnaire about your business processes. Would you please fill it out and return it to me at your earliest convenience?”

  “Is this information my receptionist, Meg, can fill out?”

  Avalon typed Meg’s name in the support staff cell. “Sure, if she’s familiar with all your marketing programs, production schedules, headaches, concerns, and problems. There are some competition questions as well.”

  “Ava, I don’t need to know what my competition is doing. All I care about is what I’m doing.”

  “Avalon. Not Ava.” The way he’d shortened her name reminded her of a bombshell film star from the Fifties. Something she was light years away from. “And you should care about what the competition is doing. Without that information, you may never get ahead.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Will had lowered his voice until it barely tickled in her ear.

  Her palms began sweating. “Um, I guess. I do reserve the right not to answer.” She scrubbed her hands on her thighs, bracing for whatever he wanted to know.

  “What if I don’t want to get ahead? What if all I want to do is make a wine I can be happy drinking, and maybe sell a few bottles to other people who can be happy drinking it as well? What if I don’t care if I’m successful, as long as I’m happy?”

  Unfathomable. Most men only wanted to get ahead. Wasn’t the need to get ahead in the world written in their DNA? Who was this guy?

  At least her palms had stopped sweating. Now, if only the twisty, churny motion in her belly would go away. “If you aren’t interested in selling enough wine to make your business successful, why do you own a vineyard? You’d be better off working at the nearest big box discount store. From the information Mr. Evans submitted, it seems your ship has sailed. Demand is great for your product. So great in fact, that you aren’t able to keep up. Hence my involvement.” Did I just say ‘hence?’

  “I’ll grant you that.” Grudgingly, if the tone of his voice was to be trusted.

  “What if the systems I install let you expand your success, but still allow you the time to just drink your wine?” Relaxation wasn’t a word in her lexicon, but if he wanted downtime, he should have it. “Once we organize your business, it could run itself.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jiminy Christmas, he ought to bottle that skepticism. It would probably sell as successfully as his wine.

  Avalon braced herself, and asked the money question. “Will you let me try?”

  Once again, the dead air between them went heavy as she waited for his answer. She ignored the buzz on her wrist and held her breath. Her ideas would only work if he went along with them. Bought into them. He had to be willing to try new things. And wasn’t that
what life was all about? It was certainly her mother’s motto. She’d flitted from idea to idea, dragging Avalon along, even when it meant living in their car for several months.

  Avalon slammed the brakes on those thoughts. Her focus today belonged to this client. She had to stay in the here-and-now. It did her no good to relive a life experience she couldn’t change. Wouldn’t change because it was the very thing that had led her to her career choice.

  “Send me the forms. I’ll fill them out.”

  Victory filtered into Avalon’s brain. He’d agreed to try.

  “But I’m reserving the right to back out of this experiment at any time.”

  Triumph washed away, replaced by determination to show Will Bradford a better way. “Once you see what I can do, you won’t want to back out.”

  She clicked ‘send’ on the email she’d already queued up. “The email should be in your inbox momentarily. As soon as you complete it and send it back, I can start my research. The faster we get going, the sooner you’ll be able to stop and smell the roses.”

  “Lavender.”

  “Huh?” His disjointed responses were difficult to follow. It was like he was holding a separate conversation from the one they were engaged in.

  “Lavender. I stop to smell the lavender. Roses aren’t great for flavoring wine. Gives whites a bit of a cloying taste, not to mention rose bushes are difficult to cultivate in a vineyard. Lavender and mustard flowers grow like weeds. That makes my job easier.”

  “Now that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said today.” Heat flashed into her face and she covered her mouth with her fingertips. She’d uttered the thought aloud.

  His chuckle relieved her guilt. “See, I am learning.”

  With a promise to complete her paperwork as soon as he could, he ended their call.

  She punched her watch and checked a slew of new messages. And six text messages from Guin. When her mom couldn’t reach her for a voice conversation, she’d resort to texting her a useless story via cyberspace. Nothing required immediate attention, so Avalon let the watch fade back to sleep mode.