Noah: I stayed at the hotel thinking maybe we could explore town together. Was gonna see if you wanted to check out some of the pubs with me.
What, exactly, did that mean?
Friends, Luna. Just friends.
Me: Next time, let me know.
Noah: Noted.
Another ping.
A picture came through.
A gray cat—looking rather smug—perched dramatically on the arm of a couch.
Noah: She misses me. Probably. Hard to tell with Pippa.
I burst out laughing, earning a few curious glances from the others.
Another photo. Two goldfish. One noticeably…larger.
Me: You weren’t lying about Jumbo.
I took a sip of my wine and had a quick glance around the room to see how the rest of the group was doing—and immediately regretted it. Ed and Eddie were locked together in a very passionate embrace near the back wall. I didn’t look long enough to gather any more information than that. Josie, who still had her phone out and recording, made it very obvious when she spotted them too, eyes widening and freezing in place, with her camera lingering on them for several long seconds. Afterward, I watched her thumb very deliberately press post. I snorted and fired off another text to Noah.
Me: Josie is posting a video of Ed and Eddie. Let’s just say the wine’s hitting hard.
A minute later:
Noah: Pulled it up. That video should be illegal.
Noah: Those two are nuts.
I waited a few minutes to text back.
Me: What kind of wine do you like?
Bouncing dots.
Nothing.
More bouncing dots.
Noah: Whatever you’re drinking.
I read back over our entire conversation, trying to understand what was hidden between the lines, if there was anything hidden there at all.
Was this flirting? I was a little rusty, and so maybe not the best judge. And even if it was, was it just friendly flirting or flirty flirting?
God, I sounded like an obsessed teenager.
At the second winery, I wandered through the tasting room, holding my glass up to the light. I’d already tried a fragrant lavender white that tasted like summer in a glass, a bold Chardonnay that made my tongue tingle, and now I was sipping an almost-fizzy strawberry rosé.
“Dangerously drinkable,” Denise whispered as we clinked glasses.
A few stops and several sips later, we arrived at the final winery—an expansive, family-owned vineyard with a wraparound patio and a grassy courtyard strung with glowing fairy lights. The sun had just started to set, casting everything in a warm amber glow.
Our group was ushered toward an outdoor dining area, the long tables already set for dinner with mismatched vintage plates, wine glasses, of course, and clusters of wildflowers tucked into mason jars.
