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I can see it so clearly from the outside of the fray as I step away from the Gelbert Family Vineyard house. People keep showing up and I don’t want anything to do with them. I keep searching my family’s vineyard for space and comfort. I’m wandering through the Syrah vines touching the leaves and floating among the not-yet-formed grapes, thinking about the moment he claimed me. The moment I knew I was supposed to be by his side.

I sit on the ground and let the warmth wash over me, allowing the world to go blurry for a moment. I used to nap in the vines as a little girl blanketed by the sunshine. They’d find me out here soaking up the sun and talking to grapes. I settle down and let the sharp images bleed into a dream.

Five Years Ago

I’m doing a sloppy job closing my café.

“What’s the rush Pop?” I grin at the older couple at table seven.

“You know damn well where I want to be, so eat up.” He laughs as he shovels his last bite.

The woman, who used to be the elementary school’s principal, knows all of us inside and out, smiles. “I heard your whole crew will be at the LaChappelle/Whittier Vineyard’s wine club member’s party tonight.”

“Yup. Almost all. Nine out of ten of us will be there.”

The man smiles and says, “Does an old vintner’s heart good to know that your generation is all still close. Whose the missing piece?”

His wife touches his hand, “The youngest Schroeder daughter, I assume.”

I bus their table while I confirm her suspicions, “She’s still in college. And it’s probably best since she’s like ten years younger than the rest the crew and doesn’t need to be corrupted just yet.” Ingrid is the only one of us that’s younger than me. I had to be the baby of all my friends and cousins for eight years until she came along.

Her husband smiles, “Ah, the kids of the ‘Five Families.’”

I grin at him walking away and saying, “There’s not a memory from my childhood without one of them.”

I shove the linens into the wrong basket and I’m wrapping up the rest of the food. And think to myself, most of my adult memories are with them too. With the staff gone for the night, I glance at the almost empty dining room.

I drop a gelato at table six, turn and discover a gorgeous dark-haired, hulking guy staring at me from my kitchen. My head reels as he winks at me.

It’s that man. The business associate of Josh Whittier. I met him at their winery when I was finishing up a catering job. The brawny, huge Italian one who enthusiastically ate my leftovers. The one I’ve chosen to pretend doesn’t exist on this realm because he’s just too much, well, too much of everything. Tall, big, sexy, with stunning dark eyes and dreamy dark stubble. He’s a man, not a boy. He’s not one of the pretty assholes I grew up with, who I love. But the boys of the ‘Five’ aren’t even the same species as this man.

He’s otherworldly with his almost coal black hair and cola dark eyes and that Mediterranean skin, so contrasting to my pale Irish complexion. I’m a walking stereotype. I’m short, pasty, with a mass of red curls and light green eyes.

Everything about him physically says this man was drawn to be my exact opposite. I can’t look away or think of anything but him after his hand took mine weeks ago. Since the moment he moaned, eating my food. I’ve imagined that moan in a variety of scenarios but not one of them involved him waltzing into my kitchen unannounced. I peer in and he waves hello. I duck down like I got caught doing something wrong.

Wait. It’s my kitchen. I stand back up and turn away from him and drop a couple of cheesecakes at table seven. Shoulders back, tits out, pretending I’m confident and not rattled by this mystery fantasy man. I refill our local sheriff’s wine, who is off duty tonight with nowhere to go. He keeps touching my hand. Perhaps he’s interested but no thank you. He’s nice enough but never done it for me.

“Pop, that vegetable thing was so good, and I hate veggies.”

I explain, “Primavera. It’s really the local veggies that make it so good. I just made the pasta.” I turn to go because there’s still a deliciously menacing man in my kitchen. Robert grabs my wrist so I don’t walk away, but before I can say a word, there’s a wall of machismo at my back.

“Sir, I believe the lady has other customers to tend to.”

He shrugs. “Poppy and I are old friends.” He tightens his grip, and I think he thinks this is cute.

“Let me rephrase, officer. Don’t touch her.” He’s not afraid of this man, who, although is a bumbling cop in a tiny town, he’s still the sheriff.

My eyes go wide as Sal Pietro peels the fingers from around my wrist, one at a time. My body flames, as does my face, with flickers of desire at this man’s instant possessiveness over me. No one has ever wanted to protect me like that. I’m scrappy, and I’ve gotten used to handling things myself.

I sink into that deep voice, and I’m like a cartoon animal floating away on the waft of a freshly baked pie.

I come back to my body when I realize they’re both staring at me. And I have to act like a normal human.

I toss my hands up and turn to both of them. “Sherriff. The veggies are on me tonight. Just finish up and skedaddle. And you…” I shoo Sal away and he backs away from Robert to the bar. I poke him in the chest and almost break my finger. He looks down at my finger, and then at me with a slow smirk spreading across his face.

“Yes, Gingersnap?”

I shake my head. “What did you call me?”