Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Feeling more in control, Julian took a folded gray shirt out of the top drawer. One with the Stanford logo silk-screened onto the pocket. As predicted, thank God, he found Hallie in the kitchen. But she didn’t lift her head when he walked in because she was frowning down at something on the granite island in the center of the room. What did she find so offensive about his stack of mail? He’d had his correspondence forwarded to the vineyard for the summer, but the postal service was slow to begin the switch, meaning he was mostly receiving junk at this point.
She pinched one such advertisement between her finger and thumb, turning it over, letting out a distressed sound at whatever was on the back. “Wild Wine Wednesday . . .” she muttered. “‘Let us blindfold your party and ply you with wine. Guess the vintage correctly and win a trip to the cheese wall.’ I hate how fun that sounds.”
“Beg pardon?”
“UNCORKED.” She blinked rapidly, as if to keep moisture from forming in her eyes, and Julian experienced an uncomfortable pinch in his chest. “The newest wine bar sensation in town.”
He set the Stanford shirt in front of her, an offering he hoped would prevent whatever was happening to her emotionally. “You don’t like this new place,” he guessed.
And then he died a little, because she used the Stanford shirt to dab at her eyes.
When there were perfectly good napkins within reach.
“Well. I’ve never been inside. I don’t know the owners personally or anything. They might be lovely people who don’t realize they are robbing a sweet old lady of her livelihood.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“Corked is right next door. A quiet little wine bar owned by Lorna. It has been there since the late fifties. My grandmother and I used to spend hours sitting at the white wrought-iron table outside. It was our spot. Lorna would give me a wineglass full of grape juice, and my grandmother and I would solve crossword puzzle clues or we’d plan gardens together.” She looked down at her fingers for a few seconds. “Anyway, the whole shop is empty now because UNCORKED moved in beside it. They have a twenty-four-hour disco ball outside and endless stunts to attract tourists. The worst part is they specifically named their shop as a play on Lorna’s bar and made a mockery of it. No one seems to mind, though. Lorna has quiet, intimate tastings without the fanfare. How is she supposed to compete with Adult Spin the Bottle?”
Her eyes took on a sheen that worried him, so he reached for a napkin and handed it to her, sighing when she used the shirt again, instead. “You’re very upset about this. Are you close with Lorna or something?”
“She was closer to my grandmother, but yes, we’re friends. And we’ve gotten a lot more friendly since I started attending daily wine tastings to offset the UNCORKED effect.”
The corner of his mouth tugged. “Day drinking is always the solution.”
“Said no one ever. Even in Napa.” For a beat, she appeared almost thoughtful. “It has definitely made me more prone to committing petty crimes.”
He waited for her to say she was joking. She didn’t.
With a big inhale, she let the shirt unfurl down onto her lap. “I’m just going to change into this outside before I hop into the truck, so I don’t get mud anywhere.” With one last glance at the wineshop advertisement, she backed out of his kitchen. “Any more mud, I should say.”
His plan had been to get Hallie out the door quickly, so he could start checking things off his to-do list for the night, but when she started to edge out of his kitchen, an anxious ripple in his stomach surprised him into saying, “Do you want a drink?” Totally normal to offer. He was just being a gracious host. “I have wine, obviously. Or whiskey.”
He might even need two whiskeys himself tonight.
Could he drop the strict limits he placed on himself enough to allow that indulgence?
The offer of a drink had visibly surprised her, too. “Oh. I don’t know.” She considered him a moment. A long moment. As if she was trying to make some important decision. About him? What was it? “I better not,” she said softly. “I’m driving.”
“Right,” he said, finding his throat was going dry. “Responsible of you.”
She hummed, nodding at the mostly full bottle of Woodford Reserve whiskey sitting by the stove. “You should have one, though. A gopher in residence might even earn you two.” She hesitated on the threshold of his kitchen, this wild-haired gardener with muddy shorts and a vendetta against a wineshop. “What would you have to do to earn two?”
His head came up quickly.
Because he’d been wondering that exact same thing.
How did she . . .
And then he remembered. Yesterday. When she’d walked into his office and read over his shoulder and asked afterward, Is it true? That you won’t let yourself have a drink at the end of the day unless you write for the full thirty minutes? He’d never answered her question, but she’d held on to it. Was she that curious about his habits?