Almost Lover Read online

  Things that have nothing to do with brix levels and soil acidity.

  Now it’s like I live in some weird alternate ending of that old fairytale, where Rapunzel is stuck, no one is coming, and the tower is a life-sentence prison that’s not really even bad enough to complain about.

  I pull the crisp early morning air deep into my lungs, until they press my ribcage out. But I still feel suffocated.

  I watch the gold sun touch the twining leaves of the grape vines and think, like I’ve been trained to, how the temperature will affect the harvest, how these especially cool nights may be a diurnal temperature shift that will over sweeten the grapes and sacrifice quality. I lay the side of my head—not pounding too badly, thanks to Eddie and Enzo jumping in to combat my hangover—against the windowsill and sigh.

  “Why can’t I just enjoy a damn sunrise?” I mutter, feeling like my entire world could fit in the pages of a kid’s storybook. Which is as suffocating as it is quaint.

  I pull on jeans and a poplin shirt, tie my hair up and grab my hat. I need to go make the rounds after breakfast, take soil samples, test the grapes, and do some pruning. Also, I need to not think about Enzo or how spectacularly I embarrassed myself in front of him.

  That will be, hands down, the most difficult task on my never-ending list.

  My mother is already up, three different almanacs spread in front of her, a cup of strong coffee sweetened with two teaspoons of honey and a half a grapefruit on the table in front of her, the same tableau that’s been repeated every single morning of my life. She glances up at me.

  “You look like you had a long night. I didn’t think Eddie pulled in all that late.”

  I heat water for tea and grab a yogurt from the fridge, even though my stomach recoils a little at the thought of all that creamy milk product. But my mother is all about routines, and she gets antsy if we vary them. “It was just emotional, I guess. I was tired early.”

  “Emotional?” She rolls her gorgeous blue eyes, only just starting to show the faint lines of age. “Watching Airhead Barbie marry her rich, mid-life crisis prince?” She manages to say the words like they’re a joke instead of a declaration of her jealous heartbreak. “I can’t wait to see the pictures,” she murmurs. I know she wants to ask more and won’t. My mother has a willpower of steel when it comes to denying her curiosity.

  “I’m not in them,” I confess. Easier to get it out of the way now.

  Mother frowns, and a single sharp wrinkle pops out on her forehead. I think I am solely responsible for that wrinkle. “That was a childish stance, Jordan. There’s no reason to air your private feelings that way. Your public face should be your best one.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I murmur.

  I’m not remotely surprised she didn’t ask why I wasn’t in the pictures, and it’s a relief, frankly. My mother is very focused on presentation. Knowing I got sloshed and danced without my shoes on with a fired wine tender would not have sat well with her. I scrape the last spoonful of my yogurt and get my tea ready.

  “We got another letter from the tax assessors. Vultures,” she declares and sighs. “This season is really our most vital yet, and I feel like we’re competing with all the dozens of other trust fund babies and retired Hollywood idiots who decided starting a vineyard would be a piece of cake.” She presses her lips together, looking like a worried but beautiful Grace Kelly.

  That’s what everyone tells her all the time, that she looks like Grace Kelly. I have zero clue how someone as elegant as my mother birthed a gangly ginger like me. I think it confuses her, too.

  “Maybe we need to try a few new things,” I suggest, but I can’t tell if she’s actually listening. “We could revamp our wine tasting prices and offers. I know some area vineyards do a picnic type option. We have that nice section in the east quarter. If we mowed it down a little—”

  “Jordan, I run a vineyard, not a Club Med. If people want to have a damn picnic, they can buy a bottle of our wine and wander into the wild with a basket all on their own.” She shakes her head. “Was last year’s pinot noir too acidic? I felt like it might have been.”

  “I actually had the woman from the wine provider at Dad’s wedding compliment it last night,” I tell her.

  My mother’s scowl is more beautiful than most people’s smiles.

  “The ringleader of those clowns liked it? Then I’ll definitely reconsider what I do with it this year. Nothing confirms failure like an idiot complimenting your work.” She taps the handle of her coffee cup with a clipped, buffed fingernail. “I’ll be in the winery today. And you’ll be with the vines?”

  She barely waits for my nod before she gets up, rinses her coffee cup, stacks the almanacs back on the shelf and leaves me alone with the nothing but the shrill whistle of the tea kettle.

  The sun rises and sets. The grapes grow and my mother comes, once in a while, to pull a few off a vine here or there. I barely ever see her smile, which is a thousand times more gorgeous than her scowl.

  And I think about him.

  Of course I do.

  Those hazel eyes, refracting light and turning it into a carousel of colors. The way his laugh was as sexy and smooth as his dance moves. The tumble of threatening, liquid Spanish that spilled from his mouth when he was pissed. The way he stood his ground with my father.

  I always come back to that last memory; Enzo standing up for me, me backing down like a coward. I prune and test and monitor and think.

  “What’s wrong with you, Jordan?” my mother asks over salmon and salad one night. “You’ve barely said two words in days.”

  “Just tired. There’s so much work to get done every day.” I poke at my sweet potato, running the tines of my fork through the orange meat and tiny dollop of butter.

  “Work,” my mother snorts. “When I was your age, I was already married to your father. We were reinventing the entire vineyard. Your grandfather was a great man, but so damn stubborn. He let the place fall apart around his ears. He wouldn’t listen to anyone about anything. Especially when we were trying to help.” She crooks one golden eyebrow my way.

  My mouth hangs open at the ridiculous irony of what she’s saying.

  “I know you’ve worked hard. So, maybe it’s time to let me take over some more work.” I clear my throat. “A ton of what I do could be done by someone outside the family, someone we could hire. And then I’d be free to handle some of the marketing revamps, the social media. All that stuff that’s so important.”

  Mom swirls her ice water and flutters her lashes. “Social media? You can’t be serious, Jordan. I’m not twittering. I’m a winemaker.”

  “You don’t have to tweet—the term is ‘tweet’—because I can do that. If you let me. If we don’t make some changes to bring this vineyard into the twenty-first century, we’re going to lose more business.”

  I take a deep breath and listen. To the crickets chirping. The wind picking up and rustling through the grape leaves. The night song of the mockingbirds, a friendly back and forth that is everything our conversation is not.

  “You kids think you invented the whole damn world.” Mother sips an ice-cube into her mouth and crunches it between her teeth, even though she’s told me a million times not to do that. “You think going on the internet is going to…what? We have bold, delicious wines. I’m sick of underselling to these inferior places because they pay more attention to the Google than to the wine.”

  She slams her glass down.

  This time I raise my eyebrow back at her.

  “You’re sick of underselling, but you’re going to cut off your nose to spite your face? I’m not saying that winemaking isn’t the most important element. Without great wine, we’re nothing. But if no one knows we’re out here, if no one hears about our wine, how do they know to buy it? We have our traditional clients, but they’re the kind of people who like the exclusivity of their secret favorite. We need to reach the loudmouths who will help us get the word out.”

  Mother closes her eyes like I
suggested dancing down the street naked with “Golden Leaf” painted on our bodies.

  “That’s what it’s come to? Really?” She shoves her plate away and studies me. “You really think this will help?”

  “It’s not like this is my opinion, Mother. This is how people spread the word. How news gets around. And most of it is free or very low cost. We’re losing out by not devoting a little time and energy to this.” I press my hands into my hair and take three deep breaths. “I think I can poach a really good, experienced guy from one of the other vineyards.”

  “Really?”

  She leans forward because she loves competition. The idea of stealing something someone else has appeals to her.

  I try not to let my voice shake or visibly sweat as I go into my lie.

  “He’s amazing. Really innovative.” I see her frown and rush, “But also very traditional. He believes in the good old-fashioned way to do things with a twist here and there.” She sits back, intrigued. “And he’s being paid well, but he told me that he’s not impressed with the quality there. That he feels they’re coasting—”

  “Where did you meet him?” Mother cuts in.

  “Dad’s wedding.” I’m about to tell her the abridged version, when she jumps over my half-lie.

  “From Crescent Coast?” Her eyes are like liquid silver, and she presses her palms into the heavy oak table. “I knew their summer series was a little blah. This proves it! And he talked to you? What was his name? I thought he might be French?”

  “Spanish,” I lie quickly. “His name is Enzo. And we talked and danced—”

  “He liked you.” Her lips curve up in a satisfied smile. “Can we afford him?”

  “I think he’d be willing to take a reduction in flat rate if we work in a bonus percentage at harvest time.”

  I hold my breath, knowing my mother is not big on anything that deviates even slightly from the way we’ve always done things. She’s her father’s daughter for sure.

  “If you think you can get him, we can try it out. At least for a season.” She stands, scrapes her plate into the garbage, puts it in the dishwasher, and yawns. “I need some sleep. Let me know how things work out with…”

  “Enzo,” I say, rolling his name on my tongue and saying a quick, tight prayer that I’m not totally off the mark with this whole thing.

  “Right. Enzo. Enzo.” My mother repeats it like she’s tasting the name on her tongue. “Goodnight, Jordan.”

  I say, “Goodnight,” but I’m a second too late, and I wind up talking to an empty kitchen.

  I’ve had some seriously shitty jobs, but this has to be one of the worst.

  The warehouse is made of corrugated metal that traps the heat and dust. Trucks roll up to the docking platform, spewing diesel fumes, and I have to try not to breath so deep that I get an ugly high while I yank box after box off the back of them, scan their codes, load them on dollies, and deliver them to the right shipping department.

  At lunch I’m too tired to eat. Everything I put in my mouth tastes like fumes anyway. Winds up Jordan and her cousin were right. Good jobs are hard to come by this time of year. That said, I’m seriously considering admitting defeat, heading home, and camping on the damn beach if I have to.

  My phone beeps, and the screen blinks bright with a text from my sister Genevieve reminding me to call our parents for their anniversary tomorrow. It’s like the world sending me a sign that I’m not as completely alone and pathetic as I’d like to imagine. My parents, my brother, my sisters, my brother’s best friend, even my brother’s best friend’s mom all have rooms I could crash in, and no one would even ask a question.

  But that’s the problem.

  I’ve been coasting and crashing for so long, it’s lost its drifter appeal. I’m ready for something steadier. For roots.

  Plus that, I hear my ex’s bakery back in my hometown is doing amazing. An acquaintance told me she and her husband are even looking to open another smaller place in town, which doubles my chances of running into her.

  Or running into him and his fists of fury.

  Someday it won’t matter, but today isn’t that day.

  I have fifteen minutes left before lunch is over. I lay the seat of my car back and dream of the waves I miss so badly, it’s a throbbing, physical pain that feels like it’s cracking my ribs from the inside out. I’m drifting in and out of sleep when I hear a tapping on the glass of my windshield.

  I open my eyes and look through the grime my shitty wipers leave streaked across the glass.

  Red hair. Freckles. An anxious little smile. Big brown eyes that are sending me the apology she never bothered to deliver the night of her father’s wedding. I wrestle between my desire to close my eyes and refuse to invite trouble in or get out of this car and see if the petal smell of her skin will cut through the industrial stink that I can’t seem to get away from.

  Before my brain really has a chance to weigh it all, my hand pushes the door open. “Hey. I’m on lunch, and I only have fifteen minutes left. Sorry, Jordan, but I really can’t talk right now.”

  She squints at the rusty metal shithole baking in the sun where I’ll soon be returning to unload boxes until sunset.

  “How much do you make here?” She presses her lips together and closes her eyes like she’s preparing herself for bad news.

  “Kind of a personal question, isn’t it?” I do hard work for a fair wage, but I don’t necessarily want to shout my bank account balance from the rooftops. “I make enough.”

  “Ballpark?” She holds her hands out like she’s asking me to just trust her.

  I give her a number and a relieved grin spreads over her face. Based on the look on her face, I half expect her to skip around me, squealing.

  I run a hand over the back of my gritty neck. “Uh, maybe you haven’t gotten a raise in a while, but that’s not a number anyone in their right mind would celebrate.”

  “I can double that, Enzo!” she cries, grabbing my hand. We both look down at her fingers wrapped around my knuckles, and she drops it. “I mean, please consider taking a job at Golden Leaf. And we’ll be happy to compensate you adequately for your services,” she adds, trying so damn hard to sound professional, it almost makes me laugh.

  Almost.

  I cross my arms, lean back on my car, and look at the workhouse I really don’t want to go back to. But this whole shady ‘work for my family’s vineyard’ thing Jordan is offering doesn’t have much appeal either. I saw the way she interacted with her father. This is one chick who has a complicated relationship with her family business, and I have zero desire to get myself in the middle of that.

  “I don’t think it’s a great idea,” I tell her. “Look, it’s generous as hell. But you don’t need to pay me that much to break down wine tents and pour glasses for the customers. I only worked my last job for a few months. So I’d feel shitty, like you were doing me a favor.” I stand up and stop myself before I put my hands on her shoulders. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  I’m a few steps away, holding my breath to keep that one sweet whiff of her in my lungs to savor, when her voice stops me.

  “Wait!”

  I turn and she’s supporting herself on the side of my car, her head hung.

  “Jordan, there are plenty of people you could hire for that rate of pay. And any one of them could do a better job than I ever could. It’s not your fault I got fired, and, like I told you, I got a new job. Everything is going fine for me.”

  I watch those big brown eyes blink and feel my will power crumbling.

  “You like this job?” She stares at the warehouse like the sight of it makes her physically ill.

  I know exactly how she feels. But I’m not about to tell her that.

  Except I suddenly find myself doing just that, like my body doesn’t have any control of my flapping gums.

  “No. I hate it here.”

  “I know you miss the waves,” she says, playing me like a goddamn violin. “And I can’t offer you those.
But you don’t belong here. Maybe the hills, the vineyards would be a better fit for you?”

  It’s a siren’s song, and I’m suddenly directing my boat right into the rocks, shipwreck be damned.

  “I don’t know how to do that much,” I offer, hoping I’ll come up with a better argument so I can convince her and myself of what a stupid idea this is.

  “Okay, but I do. I grew up doing this all. I have so many ideas. Not that my mother listens.” She pinches her lips again. “We need a lot of updating around the place. I can teach you what I know, and you can start taking over what I do now. That will leave me time to get some publicity stuff going.” She stares at her hands, her fingers knotted together. “I’m making this sound like it’s me offering you a favor. But this is an old, traditional family business. My mother doesn’t like change. She gave me the green light to do this, and if I don’t bring you back, I may just be…stuck.”

  Alright. I’m ninety-nine percent sold, mostly because my current situation is so miserable. But something holds everything up. Something doesn’t make any damn sense.

  “Why the hell would your mother want me, Jordan? I’ve got almost no knowledge, no decent references, barely any experience…shit, I think I’d be her last choice.” I watch her smooth white throat move as she swallows hard. I watch the blush rise up from her delicate collar bones and paint her cheeks.

  She starts to feed me some line about ‘fresh ideas’ and ‘starting from scratch,’ but she forgets I watched her lie at her father’s wedding. “Hold it,” I cut in, ignoring my foreman calling my name. “You’re full of shit.”

  Those innocent eyes fly up and glare at me, hot and pissed. “What? I’m not.” She chews on her lip.

  The foreman screams for me again. I pay no attention, leaning in so close to Jordan, our noses almost brush.

  “I can tell you’re lying, Jordan. Spill. Now. Or I walk back to that hellhole and ask you not to come around bothering me again.”