“I know. I wish I was there,” I say quietly.
“It’s all good,” Sarah says gamely. “You’re gonna take the winery world by storm with your tasting room designs, and I’m gonna be the best art dealer Toronto has ever seen. And once a year we’ll meet up in some crazy tropical destination for a girls week. Deal?”
“Deal.”
When we get off the phone an hour later, I’m feeling ready to win Finn and Pierre over tomorrow. Sarah’s always known how to get my head out of whatever spiral I’m in, and focus in on what’s really important. Her eye for art and design helped me put the finishing touches on what I’m planning, and I go to bed knowing that whatever happens, I’m committed to making this project turn out amazing.
Chapter five
Finn
My AirPods do a bad job of drowning out the noise of the crowded lounge on the ferry that carries me to the mainland. Traveling at Christmas is the worst, and if I hadn’t sunk so much money into the winery I would have sprung for a float plane to take me home instead of this boat packed with families traveling for the holiday. At least I managed to get a window seat, and the older man beside me is quiet, content to read his paper. I’m trying to take advantage of the forced downtime by scrolling through news headlines on my phone, but no matter what I do, my fucking thoughts keep drifting back to Ashley. The initial excitement I felt over seeing her walk into the room at the winery for the first time faded quickly when it became apparent that her presence was going to cause a hit to my wallet that I really can’t afford. And even the next day, when she came back with a more complete plan, lust and anxiety continued to do battle inside of me. She might be the sexiest woman I’ve laid eyes on in a long time, she might smell like the richest bouquet of flowers, but those sketches she showed us, and the samples she pulled up on her laptop while we chatted screamed expensive to me. And Pierre’s excitement and enthusiasm only spurred her on. I tried to keep what he said in my mind — he’s there for the bulk of the financial investment because he recognizes that the bulk of the actual work of running the winery, and making the wine of course, will fall on me. That should make me feel better about the rising costs, but it doesn’t. I want to pay my way, at least as much as it takes to maintain the 60-40 split of investment, ownership, and eventual profit that Pierre and I agreed upon when we first came to our partnership. And I just can’t seem to shake the sinking feeling that Ashley’s decadent design is going to force my forty percent to be a hell of a lot more money than I initially intended it to be.
I pull up the document that holds the digital version of her design and open it again. It's not that I don’t like her idea. I’ll admit it — I do. It’s beautiful, and her talent is astounding. Now seeing it in its entirety, I feel bad for my throw pillow comment the other day. She has captured the vibe of La Lune Rouge in a way even I couldn’t describe. Luxurious, yet welcoming. A place that makes anyone feel spoiled, and at home, all at the same time. The rich colours she’s chosen, and the textile samples she showed us, they paint a picture of a tasting room that will rise above any winery I’ve visited in British Columbia. It’s on par with the boutique wineries in Napa that I worked at, the ones that get away with charging a fortune for tastings. But that’s what scares me. I don’t want to have to charge that much for people to taste my wine. I want it to be available to everyone. I want quality wine to be something all can enjoy.
She hadn’t been able to give us a detailed budget projection when she first presented us with the completed plans. Which naturally heightened my discomfort. But the email from Pierre containing the budget she sent him is sitting in my inbox. I’m avoiding opening it, immature as that may seem. I don’t want to spend my time with my parents agonizing over how to come up with the money needed to make her perfect vision a reality. Ignorance isn’t exactly bliss, but it’s better than the consuming worry I know I’ll have once I prove my fears to be correct and look at the cost.
I inwardly roll my eyes at my negative perspective. This isn’t me, at least it didn’t used to be. Worrying more about money than about finding pleasure and happiness in everything. I’m not ashamed to admit I was sheltered, and fine — spoiled — growing up. I wanted for nothing, and as an only child my parents both doted on me. Add to that my mother’s permanently upbeat attitude about life, my father’s work ethic, and my grandfather’s patient guidance, and I’ve had it good. Now that my dreams are in reach, I feel like I should be celebrating, not silently panicking.
Settling back into the cushioned seat, I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, forcing thoughts of budgets, dwindling savings, and mounting debts from my conscious mind. Unbidden, a vision of Ashley sneaks in. But without the accompanying financial dread, I see her differently. I see the sensuous curve of her hip, the luscious fall of her hair over her shoulders, and the way her plump lips taunt and tease me, begging me to kiss them. Hell, even the fire I saw in her eyes when I tried to challenge her inspiration had me ready to toss her over my shoulder like a goddamn caveman and have my way with her.
If this were any other situation, if she were anyone else in the world, I would be pursuing her. I would much rather be figuring out how to get Ashley in my bed, not fighting frustration that she could ruin me financially. But that will never happen. Not just because it’s clear she’s important to Pierre, but also because we’ll be working together for the foreseeable future, for better or worse. I had a brief fling with one of the servers at the bistro attached to a winery I worked at one summer during university. A fling that ended in me being fired because it turned out she didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t interested in more than a night or two and her uncle owned the winery. I swore I’d never mix business and pleasure again. Which makes it seriously fucking frustrating that I feel like a teenager with how my libido seems to come roaring to life at just the thought of her.
Enough. It’s a little ridiculous how consumed I am in equal parts with money and Ashley. It’s all making me feel pathetic, and that’s not an emotion I’m enjoying. I straighten up, pick up my phone again, and open the group text message between myself, Ethan, Reid, and Jackson.
FINN: Okay assholes, when I get back over there I’m instigating a monthly poker night.
JACKSON: Sounds good, man. Let’s do it when the girls have their “book club”
REID: Why do you put quotes around book club…
JACKSON: Because it’s definitely just a chance for them to drink lots of wine and talk about sex.
ETHAN: Dude. How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to say the word sex. I don’t wanna be picturing you and my sister.
JACKSON: Right. Yeah. She’s a virgin. We’re totally celibate.
That makes me snort loud enough that the man next to me looks up, startled. I mouth the word sorry, and go back to the messages.
ETHAN: Fuck you.
REID: Huh. Well I’m free any night. No book club issues here.
FINN: How long are you gonna keep THAT lie going?
REID: What lie?
JACKSON: You and Abby Martin. Seriously. We all know you’re with her.
ETHAN: It’s true, bro.
FINN: Exactly.
REID: And here I thought I was friends with a bunch of dudes not a bunch of women. Why are we talking about my love life…
ETHAN: Because you refuse to admit you have one. With Abby.
FINN: Damn… Ethan comin’ in hot with the burn.
