It knocked the fucking wind out of me.
When I awoke this morning, I hadn’t wanted to examine last night too closely, which was partly the reason I’d forgotten I’d invited him to stay. I hadn’t wanted to admit that I liked people asking me if he was my boyfriend thanks to the unintentionally coordinating costumes, and how much I hated the lead weight sinking in my chest when I had to choke out that he was “only my business partner.” I couldn’t allow myself to bask in the glow of his obvious jealousy that I’d invited a date.
But now…was everything changing?
Owen cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck andshifting awkwardly on his feet. I still hadn’t said anything, but I needed to. I needed to save him—to saveus, to salvage this thing before the moment expanded and morphed into something we couldn’t get past.
So I did the first thing that came to mind.
“Would you want to come to this family thing with me today?” I blurted.
Owen’s nervous fidgeting stilled, his gaze slowly raising to meet mine. God, I could drown in those eyes, the exact color of the turquoise waters off the shores of Macedonia where my dad’s ancestors hailed from. It would be as easy to drown in their depths as it would the ocean.
“Family thing?” he asked, and I didn’t blame him for his skepticism.
“It’s an old Delatou tradition,” I said quickly. “On the first of November every year, we crush grapes the old-fashioned way.”
His eyes widened. “Old fashioned as in…”
“Yep,” I said, grinning. “With our feet.”
My skin from the soles of my feet to my ankles would be stained purplish-red for weeks after, but it had always been one of my favorite days of the year. These days, we had machines to do the heavy lifting, but I loved that we still kept the old-school grape crushing tradition alive. The liquid yielded from our efforts would end up dumped behind the barn, but it was a fun throwback to the days when wine had been made that way. Plus, it served as a reminder of the difficult work the Delatou men and women before us put into making the winery and our entire business enterprise a lasting success.
As little girls, my sisters and I had treated it as a nationalholiday. We’d wake before the sun, begging Mom and Dad to take us to the barn to get started. Vividly, I remembered the first time I’d sunk into a bucket of red grapes, could easily recall the soft give of them underfoot as I worked my toes into them. The sliminess as the skins split open, the stems poking the delicate skin of my arches. How my thighs and calves would burn after hours of standing and stomping and squishing.
As we got older, the occasion had grown into a day-long celebration. We’d crack open the first case of ice wine from the season before, grill on the ancient charcoal fire pit Dad built outside the barn when he was a teen, and celebrate with one of Brie’s latest confections from Granny Smith’s recipe book.
Owen opened his mouth, and by the way the skin between his brows puckered, I thought for sure he’d reject me.
But the man continued to surprise me.
“I’d love to,” he said softly.
I couldn’t hold back the wide grin that unfurled on my face.
“Great!” I said, unable to curb my enthusiasm. “Do you want—”
“I need to go home,” he said quickly. “You know, to shower and change. Can I meet you there? Just tell me where to go.”
I explained how to get to the barn, though given that we’d only closed down the corn maze for the season the day before, there were still signs out on the dirt two-track indicating the way. Owen nodded, agreeing to be there by noon, then took off without another word.
Maybe things weren’t changing between us after all.
Now, more than ever, I needed my run, needed to let the steady cadence of my footfalls on asphalt drown out my roaringthoughts.
So I laced up my Hokas and set off.
The run proved to be completely useless, and I’d managed to work myself into quite the state by the time I arrived at the barn later. When I pulled into the little gravel lot off to the side, I counted cars, realizing I was the last to arrive.
Even Owen had beat me.
At least the man was punctual, though it did nothing for the nerves writhing in my gut.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed out of my Jeep, dragging my feet the whole way to the barn. Facing the firing squad wasn’t high on my list of priorities today—or ever. Still, I squared my shoulders the moment before I rounded the corner to the giant opening created by the doors swung wide, my chin lifted high as I stepped onto the concrete floor.
My dad spotted me first, brow furrowing at my silent entrance. Normally, I’d make a scene, make everyone aware that I had arrived. Today, I wanted to be as small as possible, and he quickly recognized something was off with me.
When he approached, he folded me in a tight hug, and I allowed his Old Spice scent and fatherly warmth to wash over and soothe me.
