Matty Maxwell had hosted a campfire for our graduating class a week before graduation. We all had some drinks and spoke about our favorite memories throughout high school, while simultaneously overlooking our hometown.
I chose to sit next to Bea that night, knowing it would probably be our last night together for a long time. We laughed, we cried, and promised we’d stay in touch, and not following through with that promise will forever be one of my biggest regrets.
Driving further ahead, we find a parking lot in front of the old barn, which is now a stunning, functional space and looks brand new.
Right next door is an elegant, dimly-lit restaurant with a bar attached, and a wine cellar out front for you to hand select your own bottle from their collection on your way home.
This place is every wine lover’s dream.
Disneyland for adults.
Heavenly.
"This is incredible," I whisper under my breath, but I know they can hear me.
"You can picture yourself working here, can’t you?" Olive asks.
"More like she can picture herself getting married here," Lizzie corrects our sister, but I ignore them both.
The vineyards offer endless photo opportunities, and considering there’s a restaurant next to the barn, I would assume they prepare all the food in house for the weddings that they host.
I can even see a little chapel up ahead.
"You guys don’t mind coming back to get me in an hour? I want to look around and see if I can get a meeting about the potential job position," I say, trying to sound confident, but on the inside, I’m slightly freaking out.
"Sure, ajobposition. Say hi to your new boss for me." Lizzie winks, but Olive just nods in response.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Lizzie. And thanks, Ol. See you guys in an hour," I shout over the engine, slamming the door shut, watching my sisters drive away.
Wiping my clammy hands down my thighs, I check myself in the reflection of one of the bar windows before I attempt to find the reception.
The place is enormous, but thankfully, they’ve installed street-like signs, pointing you in the direction of where you need to go.
Finding the sign I’m after, I follow it until I’m face to face with a girl named Ariana, who’s staring at me like I don’t belong.
I knew I should have gone home to change.
"Hi," I say, clearing my throat. "I’m here to see Mr. Wingrove." I smile politely at Ariana as she raises a brow as if to say, 'and who might you be?'
"And you are?" she asks, looking me up and down. I hope she can’t smell the alcohol on my breath.
"Cassandra Herring. I’m an old friend," I say, interlocking my fingers on her desk, and I swear she hasn’t blinked once.
"I’m sorry,Cassandra, but Mr. Wingrove has a lot of…women, coming in here, claiming to be an old friend." Her mouth quirks at the corners. "Anyway, you need an appointment to see Mr. Wingrove, and unfortunately, he’s not in today," she finally says, and I don’t know why she didn’t say that to begin with instead of assuming I was some sort of groupie.
"Thank you," I nod anyway, pushing away the anxious feeling I had about seeing him again, admitting defeat.
"Look who it is," a deep, almost recognizable voice says, stopping me as I’m about to give up for the day and head back to my parents’ place.
Now that I hear his voice, I don’t know if what I’m feeling in the pit of my stomach was nerves, or if my body could sense he was nearby, setting free the butterflies that had been lying dormant for the last fourteen years.
"Harley Wingrove," I say, breathlessly, because apparently, the sight of him snatches the air straight out of my lungs.
"Herring." He smirks, as if he knows the effect he just had on me, and I can’t stop my eyes from drinking him in entirely.
He’s taller than he used to be, well over six feet. The muscles in his long legs strain against his dark grey trousers as he stands, towering over me. His white, button-up shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His shoulders are broad, and his chest looks like it would feel so firm. My fingers would break with a simple graze.
What I would do to just…glide my fingers down his bare torso; feel the firmness and the warmth of his body beneath my hand. His chiseled jaw is sharp, ticking as he clenches it.
