Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
She’s hitting close to home, and it’s stupid to keep playing the tough guy. Not after she’s opened up. I slump against the couch, drag my hands through my hair, then meet her gaze. “I sometimes dream I can’t run. I’ll be outside jogging, but my legs won’t move. They’re stuck on the sidewalk. And I can’t really control my body anymore. Can’t lift my legs or move my arms. And then I feel stuck, and I yell, and nothing happens. I can’t even make a sound,” I say, embarrassed that I’m a grown man with recurring nightmares. “That sounds fucking stupid as I say it.”
She rubs my knee some more. “It’s not stupid, Ledger. We’re just processing things all the time. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s what dreams are. We’re working through the day.” There’s a pause, then she adds, “Is your injury acting up?”
Was I that obvious? “Yeah,” I admit. I guess I don’t want to keep it to myself anymore. Or I don’t want to keep it from her. “But it’s just a twinge. No big deal.”
“Was it the hike?”
I shake my head adamantly. “No. Hell no. I can walk, run, skate. Work out.” I sigh. “It just hurts sometimes. That’s all. I can handle the pain.”
“Of course you can,” she says sympathetically. Then she runs her hand through my hair, her touch soothing. My heart rate calms some more. “It’s probably just because the season is starting soon.”
That has to be it. “Yeah, probably.”
“And if you ever want to get that free haircut and talk about it, you know where to find me,” she says.
After.
After this honeymoon is over.
It’s a nice offer.
But right now, I do want to return to bed with her. I stand and hold out my hand for her. “Let’s go back to bed.”
She takes it, and we return to the bedroom. She gets in, sliding to the middle, next to Dev. He stirs, blinks his eyes open, then flashes her a dopey grin. “Hey,” he mumbles, then closes his eyes, slinging an arm around her when she settles back in.
She’s facing me and when he falls back into slumber a few seconds later, she glances down at his arm wrapped around her, then whispers to me, “He’s cuddly.”
Yeah, I know my buddy. And he really, really likes her.
I don’t say that. I just smile, feeling a little better than I did ten minutes ago.
30
WHY CAN’T I PUNCH GRAPES?
Aubrey
Things no one tells you—grapes are icy.
Also, there’s no real stomping involved. I’m in a short barrel on the wraparound porch of a picturesque white bungalow-style home that’s part of Valenti Winery, massaging the grapes with my toes, trying not to freeze my feet off.
It’s warmish outside. But inside this barrel? It’s chill-ay.
“I think my feet are going numb,” I whisper to the guys. Dev’s in a barrel next to me, treading on some grapes too. It’s a funny sight. This big, burly man in khaki shorts, squishing grapes with his bare feet.
“Woman, this is nothing,” he says.
From my other side, Ledger scoffs. “Yeah, have you felt ice?”
I huff as I tread some more. Nearby there are a few other visitors engaged in similar squishing activities and also a winemaker walking by, checking on our stomping.
“But you don’t go on the rink in your bare feet,” I hiss as I flinch, then wince. Damn. “I think I got a stem between my toes.”
“Will you survive?” Dev deadpans.
“Want me to call an ambulance?” Ledger counters.
I deserved that. “I’ll live,” I say, chin up.
But seriously. What is the proper etiquette at an early morning grape stomping? Do I pull the stem from my foot like it’s dental floss?
I don’t even know, so I try to ignore the interloper between my toes as the winemaker strides past the group, a calm, instructive tone to her voice. Her name is Isabella, and her jet-black hair is wildly curly. Her Mediterranean complexion and last name suggest she’s from Italy.
“We harvest our grapes in the early morning hours for a couple reasons,” she explains, her peach linen pants and blouse as flowy as the breeze. She stops a few barrels away from us to give a tip to a man with a mesh cap touting “Everything’s better in Texas” across it. Then, she continues her lesson for the group. “We can better control the sugar levels and avoid oxidation when the grapes are a little colder. And it’s easier for our staff to harvest them before the temperature rises.” She sweeps a tattooed arm, bangles jingling on her wrist, toward the trees and peaks hugging this vineyard. “Yes, we have some warm days in Washington.” Her tone turns conspiratorial. “But please don’t tell anyone. We want Washington to remain the best-kept secret of all the states.”
“But doesn’t it rain here all the time?” the Texas cap man drawls.