“Already done,” he says. “Tasting room’s full, though. Remember that wedding party?”
“The one showing up in an hour?”
“That’s who’s in the tasting room right now. They insist that they booked the room from two o’clock to three o’clock, not three to four like we’ve got on our schedule.”
Of course they are. What is it with wedding parties always being so damn early to their own scheduled functions?
“Tell Elise to comp their first round of drinks and finger foods,” I say as I start walking again. “I’ll deal with the planner.”
Marcus nods and peels off, already barking orders into his radio. I keep moving, my work boots crunching over the gravel walkways that line the outer perimeter of the vines as I head toward the main building.
People straighten when they see me. Conversations pause. It’s not out of fear, but there’s an inherent understandingbetween me and my staff: things run smoothly here because they have to.
Because I don’t allow for anything else.
I step into the tasting room long enough to smooth feathers, offer reassurances, and redirect the cacophony of the vineyard with a calm voice and a firm spine.
The planner relaxes. The guests smile. The wine keeps flowing. Within minutes, everything is as it should be, and the idea of a two-hour tasting instead of a one-hour tasting gets the ruffled wedding party back to celebrating.
But the whole time, my eyes drift to the clock mounted above the bar.
I leave the front-of-the-house to Elise, my wine tasting guide for the afternoon, and cut through the service corridor toward the kitchens. The main one hums with activity, as it always does. The prep cooks move in rhythm with each other, the stainless steel appliances gleam, the ovens roar steadily and fill the kitchen with robust smells every time they’re opened by someone.
It’s a good kitchen. A solid one.
Not good enough for Lia, though.
Too chaotic.
At the thought of her, I can’t help but picture her standing in that shoebox of an apartment kitchen. No counter space. One measly oven. Barely any cabinet space. No built-in pantry. No room to breathe, let alone produce at the level she needs to. I knew it the second I saw it. A baker needs space. Needs flow. Needs options.
Needs support.
The instinct slams into me again, sharp and unwelcome in its intensity.
Provide. Protect. Fix.
I scowl at myself as I push through the door to the second kitchen. It’s a bit smaller than the first one, but it comes with a great view above one of the washing sinks. It faces the westward vineyard of grapes, but its setup is more suited to catering the receptions that happen out back.
With a door straight to the outside, anyone from my staff—or anyone lost on the vineyard grounds—could simply walk in on her while she’s working. Ruin her groove. Pull her out of the trance that always happens to me when I’m cooking up a storm in my own kitchen.
That won’t do.
I double back out of that kitchen and put it out of my mind. It doesn’t take me long to get to the third kitchen the main building of the vineyard has, and the moment I walk in, I know it’s the one for Lia.
It’s quieter here. Cooler. The scent of old oak barrels lingers even through the steel and tile. I reach out and turn on the lights before crossing toward the oven, turning the dials to check the gauges myself.
Still temperamental.
“Not for long,” I murmur to myself.
The sound of footsteps announces Knox before I see him. He strolls in with his tool bag slung over one shoulder, hair a mess, grin firmly in place. He’s got a tool belt wrapped around his hips, which I’m pretty sure is the only thing keeping his disheveled overalls from piling at his feet.
“Walker,” he says as he comes over and plops his things onto the stainless-steel countertops.
I nod as I stand, closing the oven. “Eli.”
“This the beast giving you trouble?” he asks.
