Her fingers hovered over the track pad on her computer for an instant. Sweeping the pointer along the dock at the bottom, she maximized her browser. As the picture of Will Bradford came into focus, she let her thoughts wander to what working with him was going to be like. A techno-phobe who’d rather avoid organization. She shuddered. Heaven only knew what awaited her when she finally got her hands on his server, or his production facility.
He stared back from the screen at her, solemn, but secretly looking amused. Heavy scruff softened his jaw. Thick, slashing brows visible in the picture made her think he probably didn’t spare a lot of time manscaping. Which was fine by her.
Shaking her head, she stored those thoughts right where they belonged. In her ‘never-to-be-considered’ file. This man was a client. And a difficult one at that.
Good thing I like a challenge.
Chapter 3
Will grasped a wine stem and the neck of the bottle of Cabernet in one hand, and a file in the other. The light should be good for reading for at least an hour. He loped along the flagstone path set in the lush grass to the patio. The top of the bluff was his favorite spot to relax.
He set the opened bottle and glass on a small wrought-iron table, dropped the folder under the chair, and plopped onto the love seat. The cushions cradled his body like a comfortable blanket. He eased out a contented breath.
This was the best time of day. Late, late summer, about ninety minutes before sunset. Slanting sunbeams glinted on the thin wires strung between poles in the vineyard’s east quadrant. Thirty acres of thriving sauvignon grape vines rolled across the hills jogging away from his position. A low wall, made of native pale yellow fieldstones, gleamed in the waning light. The wall separated his property from his neighbors. Thankfully, they didn’t grow grapes. Almond trees marched in regimented rows as far as he could see.
Fluffy clouds scuttled low on the horizon, remnants of a brief shower they’d had earlier in the day. But, by the looks of the sky, tomorrow was going to be the kind of clear, sunny day that sped sugar production in his grapes.
Leaning over, Will poured wine into his glass. The deep red color slid toward ruby as a ray of light passed through the goblet. The first sip was tangy on his tongue, then shifted to peppery with hints of currant. This wine had put Rolling In The Clover on the radar of young, upwardly mobile hipsters around the country. Dang, around the world, really, if the email he’d received from the UK meant anything. Researching the possibility of exporting overseas was something to add to his to-do list. If he was a list maker . . . which he wasn't.
Reluctantly, he reached for the file he’d brought with him. He’d asked Meg to print all the information she could find about one Ms. Avalon Reese. Thinking about how she’d echoed him, insisting he call her Avalon, caused a grin to flirt with his lips. Winding her up was going to be fun. And easy, since it seems she was already tightly wound to begin with.
Might as well use his time to prepare for the coming battle about his lack of time management. Maybe she’d be proud of him for doing a little homework. Idly, he wondered how she’d reward him. Her husky voice and strict commanding attitude twisted his gut in a wholly unprofessional way.
He flicked away the thoughts as he opened the file. Good old Meg had also printed the questionnaire Ava had emailed. He shuffled it to the rear of the pile of papers. There’d be time to get to it. Why do now what he could leave for tomorrow?
First things first. Licking his thumb, he rifled through the very thorough stack, looking for a picture of Ava he’d seen in the printer’s paper tray. When he found it, he sifted it free of the others, closed the folder, and laid it on top of his lap.
She was a stunning woman. Not a single hair on her head out of place. Studying the picture, he decided he’d rather see it messy. A look that would suit them both. Her sleek brunette locks, with a hint of red, waved away from wide cheekbones. One tendril, left free of the tight hairstyle, lay seductively across her cheek.
He pulled the paper closer to his face and studied her eyes. Icy blue with dark rings around the outer rim of the irises. Her tawny skin tone reminded him of pictures he’d seen of Sophia Loren. His dad thought ol’ Sophia was the most beautiful woman on the planet, even into her eighties. Will recalled a pin-up calendar of the actress, circa Sixties, in Dad’s workshop. Whenever Mom had stepped foot in the room, she’d never looked at the calendar hanging at eye-level for anyone sitting at the workbench. Where his dad’s butt had seemed glued to the chair while his vines died.
Don’t go there, Will. You’ll only get disgusted all over again.
Ava’s bio was enlightening; even the words used to describe her were spartan and minimal. Like using too many came with too high a price. She’d bullet-pointed her experience, making Will want to read between the lines. What was her real story? Time would tell.
He sipped his wine, rolling the liquid on his tongue like a good sommelier, picking out the flavors that made it stand out from his competition. He’d like to claim credit for the distinguished taste, but he’d had very little to do with it. This was mostly about soil, and some varietal management.
He opened the file and consulted the other documents Meg had printed. As he thought, it contained information about On Time Management. How long they’d been in business, who their customers were, blah, blah, blah. Pure marketing bullshit. It contained nothing to give him a clue as to what they’d do for him.
Their client list didn’t contain a single agrarian operation. They had plenty of manufacturing and industrial businesses. Even an insurance agency. But there wasn’t a single business similar to his. That didn’t bode well for him.
He reached for his phone, thinking he’d call Drake and tell him the deal was off. Drake wanted him to manage his time better, but to Will’s way of thinking, spending time with Ava, explaining his processes, would be a complete waste of the precious time he did have. They’d muddled through this far, he was confident they’d be fine without help from an organizational engineer.
Except then, he’d never meet Ava in person. He ran his thumb over her photograph, stroking along her jaw, tracing the outline of her wine-red lips, as if she were there in the flesh.
He’d let her come, listen to what she had to say, satisfy his curiosity, and then send her on her way.
“Yoo-hoo!” A cheery greeting resounding behind him interrupted his thoughts.
He slapped the folder closed and took a huge gulp of his wine before rising from his seat to greet the newcomer.
“Penny.” He kept his voice neutral, knowing she’d take any sign of warmth as an excuse to pull up a chair and regale him about her latest natural fiber wall hanging, or some mixed media collage using dead vines from his father’s land. Or—he suppressed a shudder—invite him on a date yet again. He clutched the file in his hands to his chest, like a medieval shield. “What brings you by tonight?”
Damn, for once he wished he wore a watch, just so he could let her subtly know he didn’t have time to spend with her.
Penny pressed up to her toes and greeted him with a European flair, kissing his right, then left cheek. She headed for his right cheek again, her mouth hovering dangerously close to his. At the last second, he turned his head and her lips brushed against his ear lobe.
“Drakey said you need my help getting a room ready for a long-term guest,” she squeaked out in an imitation of a breathless thirteen-year-old girl. Impressive, considering she was only two years younger than his own age of thirty-six.
She bounced on her toes, her thighs jiggling below the hem of her Daisy Duke shorts. She wore a gauzy off-the-shoulder kind of top in a glaring fuchsia color, making her shoulder-length, pale blond hair look white. Dots of clownish pink color painted the hollows under her cheeks, and her lipstick matched. He preferred the garnet color he’d noted on Ava’s lips in the picture.
“I’m not sure I’m actually going to go through with the, uh . . . thing Drake signed me up for. So I’m not doing any work on the house yet.” And once he did, the dead-last person he’d call for help would be Penny Evans.
“I’ll not be taking no for an answer.” She actually stomped her foot, her plastic flip flop squishing into a puddle left from the earlier shower. “Drakey said you needed my help and I mean to supply it.”
Speak of the devil. His oldest friend, the chump who unleashed his baby sister on Will, sauntered along the stone walkway, carrying two more glasses. “Knew we’d find you out here.”
“Perfect night for some alone time.” Will emphasized the word, hoping at least one of them would get the message.
Not Drake, who helped himself to the wine, then made himself comfortable on the love seat Will had vacated.
“Anyway,” she gushed. “I’d be happy to tackle the guest room, and maybe spend some time on your other rooms as well. Maybe the master bedroom?” She cocked a brow.
“Not necessary. And I wouldn’t want you to go to the trouble. I’m happy with things as they are.” Why did everyone insist that change was good?
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Penny rested her palm on his forearm.
As discreetly as possible, Will shifted away from her. Asthma or not, he was going to put some serious hurt on Drake later. “Fine. Knock yourself out. But not tonight. Even if I agree to her coming, I’m not sure I want her staying here.”
“Her? Penny’s tone held a note of uncertainty.
Genius. Maybe he could pretend to be interested in Ava and get Penny to back off. Dodging her regular hints about the possibility of them being a couple had taken a lot of his time lately. “Yeah, Ava Reese. That’s the person Drake hired.” He pulled her photo from the file and waved it under Penny’s nose. “She’s a looker. Having her here, despite it being a waste of time overall, won’t be awful. Ya know what I mean?”
Lips pulled down into the saddest frown Will had ever seen, Penny snatched the paper and turned her shoulder to him to study the image.
Drake caught Will’s eye and mouthed not cool, dickhead to him.
Will shrugged. Drake knew, better than most, sometimes a big stick was necessary to beat Penny back.
Lips set firmly together, Penny faced him and handed back the photo. She bounced on her toes again, which broke the expression on her face, switching from grim to determinedly optimistic. “You’re right. She is very pretty. If you prefer cool, aloof women. But I’m sure she’s as sweet as ripened grapes.” She swept her arm wide, indicating the vines below them.
“Penny, I . . .” What? He what? Was sorry for hurting her feelings? Except he wasn’t. Telling her flat out there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in a fire pit might be hurtful but true. And not like him at all.
Penny stared off into the distance, soulful eyes unfocused.
“Sis, maybe you can do some research on what type of décor works best in the Tuscan style villa nearly falling down around Will’s ears. I bet he’d appreciate something authentic.” Drake’s words to his sister were soft and encouraging but he glared daggers at Will.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Maybe something a little rustic in the guest room. But comfortable. There’s an old iron headboard and bed frame in the barn. You can start there and build the room around it.” Great, he’d just agreed to letting Penny stamp her style on his home. Will clenched his fist behind his back. “But can you do me a favor and try to work during regular hours?”
“But you won’t be there.” Penny pointed out the obvious.
“I do my paperwork at night and I wouldn’t want to be disturbed by the commotion of any redecoration.” Cheap excuse, but it worked.
“Fine. I can get started tomorrow morning.”
Will had actually planned to sit at his breakfast table tomorrow and fill out the questionnaire Ava had sent. Will was an expert at going with the flow. He’d retreat to his favorite coffee house in Cloverdale in the morning. He had to see his banker anyway. Two birds, one stone.
Wouldn’t Ava be impressed with his multitasking?
“Now come on, both of you. The sun is hitting the right spot.” Drake pointed to the scenery before them. “Pour us some more wine, son.”
Drake was right. This was the magic time of the evening, when the purples, oranges, and pinks of the twilight sky reflected back on the vines, turning the red grapes to a shade of eggplant that promised rich, full-bodied flavor.
Will splashed some wine in the spare goblet and handed the glass to Penny. While she took the seat next to her brother, Will topped off Drake’s glass and then his. Carrying the bottle with him to the grassy verge, he lowered himself to the ground.
Rays of yellow light painted the sky, shimmering in the treetops on his neighbor’s property, and transforming the stucco walls of a nearby barn to amber. In the tree branches to the left of the patio, a mourning dove cooed and a finch warbled, both greeting the sunset with sweet song.
This was a time Will treasured. He considered it his recharge time. After the craziness of his days lately, it was the only thing that managed to soothe his frazzled nerves. Peaceful moments made him believe he could make a success of Rolling In The Clover. That his business wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Dad’s.
Clover Vines had been slammed with blight and his father had never recovered. Never really tried. And he’d been methodical about his time and effort. Look where organization had gotten Dad. In a farmhouse more run-down than Will’s own villa, surrounded by ghosts of past glories. Friendless and as broke-down as his vineyard.
Maybe Drake was right. Maybe it was time to consult with a professional who could help whip Will’s business into a more efficient operation. Working with Ava wouldn’t be a such a hardship. At least he hoped not.
Time would tell. And with her help, maybe he could manage it better.
As the sun sank behind him, he allowed his hopes to rise.
Chapter 4
Avalon idly sipped her coffee, grimacing as the bitter, lukewarm brew hit her tongue. She let the nasty liquid dribble back into her mug. Wiping her chin and rolling her shoulders, she popped the kinks in her back. The successive cracks along her spine told her she’d been stationary for too long.
She twisted her torso as she carried her cup to the sink and dumped it out. Sniffing the carafe sitting on the still-warm burner, she decided it didn’t smell too burnt. While she consulted the chunky lifesaver on her wrist, she splashed more into her cup. Slow day, if the limited number of new emails told a true story.
Leaning on the counter, she scanned the priority messages, unsubscribed from two sales alerts, and reviewed industry reports for clients she’d consulted for six months ago. It never hurt to read information pertinent for former clients. She’d reach out to them to share and create ongoing interaction with them. That was market expansion, and looked upon favorably by her employer.
She stifled a yawn, and gave herself ninety seconds to breathe deep, calming breaths.
The alarm she’d set for five this morning had pulled her from a dream about wine and vineyards. A certain sexy farmer had figured in them as well. Thoughts of him continued as she’d spent seven minutes in a hot shower.
She’d been on her laptop researching vineyards and growing seasons for three hours, watching videos about production and the like. The efficient, streamlined process of decanting wine into the bottles fascinated her. Now, a third of Avalon’s day was in the books when most people were finally reporting for work, checking their emails or online auctions, shoe shopping, or standing around the coffee station gabbing about crazy reality TV shows.
She’d bookmarked a variety of websites, filing them immediately by type. Government agency reports, industry statistics, competing vineyards. Although without input from Will Bradford, those site
s remained sparse.
At least she felt like she could be classified as an expert in growing seasons and transportation options. Her excellent memory was an asset a lot of efficiency experts lacked. She was fortunate she’d always had exceptional recall. After reading something once, it was ingrained in her memory.
Avalon moved back to her desk and tapped her fingertip on the spacebar on her laptop. Before she could take her seat, her doorbell buzzed. Six times in a row. There was only one person who ever rang so insistently.
Why the heck would her mother be at her door before nine in the morning? Or at all? Avalon bit the inside of her cheek, debating the logic behind pretending she wasn’t home.
“Ava, sweetie.” Her mother’s musical voice, followed by a harsh banging, made Avalon clamp her jaws together. “Honey? I know you’re in there. Your car is in the assigned spot.”
Forcing her shoulders down from their perch near her ears, Ava sucked in a calming breath. She dragged her feet from her office and scuffed them against the teak floor. The deadbolt on her front door cracked like thunder when she twisted it open, admitting the hurricane that was her mother.
“Hello, darling,” Mom screeched, throwing her arms around Avalon. “I’ve come for a nice long visit.”
Oh, God! Oh no! The last time Guinevere Reese had popped in for a nice long visit, it had lasted six hellish months. Half a year of late night painting sessions, blaring Big Band songs in the dead of night, being pounced on and woken from a sound sleep. Barging into Avalon’s office when the door was closed, interrupting conference calls, client presentations, and interfering with her steady workflow.
Chaos Among the Vines (Romancing the Vine Book 2) Page 3
