Page 65 of Not Home Alone

“It’s so beautiful,” I mutter as I stare out the window.

“Have you never been up this way before?”

“I don’t think so. When I lived here, I pretty much stuck to my neighborhood and Main Street. The park. The river, sometimes. Which is… weird, now that I think about it. Holly Grove is a small town, but my life in it has been pretty limited.” My life outside of it has been kind of limited too, I realize.

“So, in some ways I have more knowledge and experience of the greater Holly Grove area than you do,” he says, gloating. “Interesting.”

I let him have that one because the view is really so pretty, and I am grateful that he’s expanding my tiny horizons tonight.

The vineyard itself is even prettier. It’s hard to believe that such a beautiful landscape can produce such shitty wine. The truth is, I had a sip of Moody Estate white wine at a restaurant the last time I was in town. Someone made me drink it to experience how bad it was, so I’d feel better about the way Grant had treated me. It tasted like the devil drank vinegar and asparagus and then peed into a wine glass, and it really did make me feel better about everything for a few minutes.

But this vineyard looks like it should produce fine, delicious wine. Like the family who owns it should be close-knit and happy together. It’s beautifully lit with strings of white lights, and I think it’s like this all year long, so it’s not a Christmasy thing. But it would be a wonderful location for a small wedding—not that I think about that kind of thing. Certainly not in the context of my current date.

When Grant pulls up to the entrance, he hands the keys to the valet and pats him on the back, calling him by his name. Then he runs over to the passenger side to open the door for me and holds out his hand to help me out. It’s very gentlemanly. I scan the doorways for mistletoe, but I see no evidence of any kind of Christmas decor, despite this being a Christmas party. Phew! Wouldn’t want to have to kiss him so soon after hearing him get all porny about fermentation.

He bends his arm so I can hook mine through it. “We only have to stay for an hour, tops,” he mutters. The event space is a rustic-chic pseudo barn with a huge fireplace, exposed beams, string lights, and chandeliers. There’s greenery with hurricane lanterns for pillar candles, a bar, an impressive catered spread, and oak barrels for cocktail tables. No live music, just canned jazzy Christmas music from the speakers. It’s a nice setup, but in my humble professional opinion, they could have done a lot more with this space.

“Too bad they didn’t hire you for this event,” Grant says, smirking.

“No, it’s lovely!”

“I saw you critiquing. Want to get a drink before we mingle?”

“Absofruitly. Pretend I didn’t say that—absolutely!”

“Happy holidays, Mr. and Mrs. Jepson,” he says, nodding at an elderly couple as we pass them. They greet him politely and look surprised to see me on his arm. They definitely recognize me. Guess they aren’t included in any of the fun local chat groups, so they haven’t heard that we’re dating.

A waiter approaches us holding a tray with half a dozen glasses of red and white wine as well as two glasses of what looks like ginger ale. “Can I interest either of you in a glass of Moody Estate Chambourcin blend or perhaps the Vignoles? I also have ginger ale, or I can bring you anything else from the bar.”

“Ginger ale for both of us,” Grant says as he reaches for a glass.

“I’ll try the wine, actually,” I say, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I’d like a glass of wine. What can you tell me about the red?” I ask the server.

He grimaces, glances at Grant, clears his throat and says, “The Chambourcin is… bold. Very assertive on the palate. With notes of… oak. And… a surprising combination of fruits. Guests find it very memorable.”

“Oh, they never forget it,” Grant agrees.

“Fascinating,” I say. “And what about the white?” I don’t think it’s same one I tried at a restaurant.

“The Vignoles,” the poor server says, “is semi-sweet and more accessible than the red. Popular with guests who don’t normally drink wine. We serve it chilled to perfection, which is refreshing.”

Grant laughs into his glass of soda.

“I think I’ll try the red, actually.”

The waiter widens his eyes at me, his lips pressing together.

“Babe, I recommend the white.”

“I’ll try that one next!” I select the glass of red wine closest to me. “Thank you so much,” I say to the waiter.

“Cheers to you and your bold choice,” Grant says, holding up his glass.

I clink glasses with his. “Cheers to you and your adorable inability to understand that I would of course do the opposite of what you suggest.”

“Okay, but for real, take small sips. You don’t have to finish it.”

“Haha! Will do.” I give him an exaggerated wink and take a big gulp.