Page 23 of The Sweetness of Life

ALL DAY TODAY, I’ve thought about Shelby. What’s she doing? Is she slaying someone’s dream? Is she working on the twenty-five recommendations article? Is she cooking more delicious food? Did she wander around the estate? Has she tried more of our wines? Did she really enjoy the tour of the cave? Mainly, my thoughts revolve around wondering what she’s wearing. Yep, stupid, I know, but I can’t help myself.

When I showed up to the cottage yesterday, I expected her to be dressed casually, but I didn’t realize she would wear it so well, especially in those little shorts. From pants on day one to a dress on day two and those shorts on day three, I swear every time I see this girl, she’s showing more skin than the last time, purposely trying to drive me crazy. Then, she put on those damn boots that made her look adorable when we all know it’s a ruse because she’s really just a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I mean, who wears fancy rain boots when it isn’t raining?

Kyle asked me how our time together went, and all I had to tell him was, “Fine.” He regarded me skeptically, as if he were expecting me to say more, but really once I got her to retract her claws at the cottage, the day moved along smooth enough. She didn’t say anything that made me want to leave her in the middle of the vineyard by herself, and I appreciated how much she wanted to know about my family and the winery. None of yesterday changes how I ultimately feel about her, but finishing out the two weeks may not be so bad after all—if I stick to the plan, that is.

When Kyle and I walk into the tasting room, I find her sitting at the back bar talking to Michelle, who’s standing across from her. They’re leaning in as if they’ve known each other for years instead of days. This should make me happy, but it does the opposite, causing me to glower. I understand the idea of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, but having her fit in and get along so well with my staff is messing with my head. Together, Kyle and I make our way over to them, acknowledging a few regulars on our way.

Michelle and Shelby are still laughing—hard, like to the point of tears. I glance over to Kyle, and he winks at me. He’s thinking what I’m thinking, and this is his way of letting me know he and Michelle had that talk.

Michelle looks up, spots Kyle, and the smile on her face gets impossibly bigger. I smirk at him as he tightens his facial features to keep from responding. Poor guy; it’s easy to see he wants to.

At Michelle’s reaction, Shelby turns on her stool to see who she’s looking at, and I’m met with sparkling blue eyes. Her smile drops a little and her eyes turn wary though her overall disposition is welcoming, so I know I did something right yesterday.

Sucking in a deep breath, my eyes fall to the bare skin of her arms and legs. She’s wearing a red sundress and another pair of impossible shoes. If she were anyone else, I’d say she’s a welcome sight for my tired eyes, but really she’s just another problem on my long list of them.

“What are you two looking at?” Kyle asks, taking a seat in front of Michelle and to the right of Shelby.

“Funny movie clips on YouTube.” She grins at him.

“Why?” I ask as I take the seat to the left. All three of them turn to look at me. That came out a little harsher than intended.

“Why not?” Michelle answers, shooting me a cool it look. “Turns out Shelby and I both have a love for dry humor.” She smiles at Shelby and then holds out her phone. “Take Napoleon Dynamite, for example.” She hits play, and there’s the dude with the curly hair walking out of his house and toward the pasture.

“Tina, you fat lard. Come get some DINNER . . .” The llama grunts at him as he holds out a spoon and says, “Tina, eat . . . the food. Eat the FOOD!” Then he flings the casserole on the ground.

Both girls squeal with laughter, and I find myself chuckling with them. Damn, that really is a funny movie.

“How’d it go? All fixed?” Michelle asks, her look bouncing between Kyle and me.

“Yeah, we think so,” he answers before leaning over the bar to grab a basket of crackers. “We just need to watch the pH levels over the next couple of days and add some more nutrients to the soil.”

Kyle’s voice fades as my eyes lock on Shelby’s. Slowly, hers drop as she takes in my appearance. I know we’re filthy, but I don’t care, and I prop a dusty work boot on the footrest of her stool.

In front of her are four glasses, three for the current white flight—although they aren’t tasting glasses, they’re full size—and one for Michelle. In front of me, there are three empty tasting glasses.

“Who was sitting here?” I turn and ask her.

“The photographer.”

“Right.” An unwanted and unexpected wave of jealousy courses through me. It never occurred to me he would spend time with her. He should be taking the photos, not drinking the wine and laughing with her.

Wait.

Why do I care who drinks wine with her?

I don’t.

“What were you doing?” she asks me, following my gaze to the wine glasses. “I thought you might join us.” She pushes the photographer’s away and then slides one of hers in front of me.

“We had a problem with the draining tiles at the bottom of the hill.” I pick up the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, familiar, and tastes exceptional.

“What happened to them?” She shifts in her seat, uncrosses her legs, and then crosses them again so she’s angled in my direction. The skirt of her dress slides up her thigh a little. That’s it; that’s all I needed. After seeing her in the shorts yesterday and this dress today, I’m not just drawn to her legs—I’m officially obsessed with them. I clear my throat to answer her.

“Well, it’s been a pretty wet spring so far. There was some erosion around a few of the joints, extra sediment buildup, that kind of stuff. We fixed it, but the soil was too wet for the vine roots, which is what he meant about having to rebalance the soil.”

She picks up the glass of wine in front of her, which is the sauvignon blanc. I can tell based on the color, or I should say lack of color; it’s so light and gives off a pale yellow tint. She brings it to her mouth, and I sit enraptured as her glossy lips touch the rim of the glass. She takes a sip and my stomach tightens with an unwanted desire—a very unwanted desire.

“So, you actually do work around here?” Her voice pulls me away from her mouth, and I cringe inwardly at being caught. She’s still smirking at me when her words sink in. Isn’t that just like a true critic? Someone who makes general assumptions and doesn’t care to know the truth. My irritation over loving her legs quickly shifts to an overall irritation with her.