A car door slams, and I glance out the window of my office to see a small black BMW parked by the fountain. A girl slips behind the back of the car and she appears to be alone. We usually don’t have many guests at eleven on a Monday morning, so my guess is that she’s here to sell something.
“Earth to Zach, are you even listening to me?” Kyle, my sales director says grabbing my attention. I turn back to him and find his lips pinched together, frustration evident. Whatever. He’ll get over it.
Scrubbing one hand over my face, I squeeze the football resting on my leg with the other and give him an apologetic look. My computer dings twice, alerting me of incoming e-mails and a sigh escapes me. My to-do list grows faster than I can cross things off, and I’m beat.
“Sorry, my head’s all over the place and now we have this Food Network Magazine project, too.” I shove a detailed list of requests and requirements for the next two weeks across the desk to him, grab a piece of bourbon bacon pecan brittle, and contemplate moving the plate so Kyle doesn’t eat any. Yeah, I know it’s a dick move, but I can’t help it—it’s one of my favorite things.
“I understand; you don’t need to explain it to me.” He picks up the list and scans it. “But this is going to be good for us.” His look is somber, but his eyes give away the hopefullness he feels. The last few months have been difficult for both of us.
“Well, it’s this or you lose your job.” I grin to try to lighten the mood, but he just snorts and shakes his head. “This is going to be good for us, and I know it’s going to boost sales. This winery has been in my family for over a hundred years, and I won’t be the reason it collapses. Short of selling my soul to the devil, I’ll do anything.”
“So, what time does the circus roll into town?” Kyle asks, pushing the paper aside smirking as he steals a piece of the brittle. I’m on to him, and this is his passive way of getting me back for that comment.
“I’m not sure. There was a message on my office line this morning saying the Charleston chef will be here sometime later today, and the crew isn’t showing up until tomorrow morning. We’re supposed to help them get settled, and our first interview is at noon.” I wish they had left a full name for the chef. After a quick Internet search, I came up empty handed. Apparently, Leigh is a common name in Charleston, and I can’t help but wonder if they tried to search the winery.
“Girl? Guy?” Kyle grabs a bottle of water he’s placed on my desk and takes a gulp.
“Girl.” Palming the football, I toss it into the air and catch it. “All they told me is that her name is Leigh.”
“I hope she’s hot.” My eyes lock on to Kyle’s. He raises his eyebrows, nods his head and smiles as if that’s the best idea ever. Kyle is five years older than I am, and he gets out even less than I do. He lives and breathes the winery.
A laugh breaks free from me and echoes around the office. “I seriously doubt it. This chick eats for a living. Who do you know that’s a hot chef?”
“Come on! There’s Katie Lee, Giada, Cat Cora, and besides, what do you have against big love?”
“Okay, I’ll give you those three. Three. And nothing—I love them all shapes and sizes, but you know as well as I do that I don’t have time for a girl. Plus, a girl brings gossip, bad media, and we need every word to be positive.” After Elaine, my ex-girlfriend, and I broke up, I threw myself into taking over the winery. I’ve been so consumed with running it and trying to keep it afloat, it seems I haven’t had time for anything or anyone else. The smile slips from his face, and he pinches his lips together.
Another car door slams, and my look is dragged back out the window to see the woman walking away from the passenger side of the car and toward the tasting room. She appears average height and build, blonde hair, and she’s wearing a loose shirt, tight jeans, and heels. Heels. No one wears heels out here unless there’s an event—or is a salesperson. Our winery is a farm winery. The girl stumbles as her heels sink into the gravel walkway, and she drops her big fancy bag. I’m immediately annoyed. I don’t have time to deal with any solicitors today.
“Do you know who that is?” Kyle asks, following my gaze outside.
“Nope, but whoever she is, she doesn’t belong here, not today at least.” Together we watch her walk up the stairs and through the door.
“All I’m saying is if you have to spend two weeks with someone, it would be nice if she was hot.”
“I can’t argue with you there, but still. No girls.” People have seen enough of my face. They don’t need to see it anymore, and quite honestly, I don’t need the headache of it all.
I am a football player, or I should say was. My whole life has been about farming this land and playing football. There was no question—ever—whether I would take over the vineyard; it was just a matter of when. I wish I could have played in the NFL a little longer—it’s a sore subject for me, very sore—but my time was up. One injury too many, and I had to graciously accept defeat, hang up my helmet, and say goodbye. At twenty-seven, I bought out my father’s ownership of the winery so he and my mother could retire and travel the world, and here I am. I really do love it, which is what makes this all bittersweet.
Kyle frowns at me as my phone rings. A light next to the back bar line flashes.
I punch the button for the speaker and bark out, “Yeah?”
“Zach,” Michelle’s voice blares across the office. “There’s a Ms. Leigh here to see you.”
Whoa, fashion queen is the chef? My eyes widen a bit and Kyle’s smile shifts to an I-told-you-so smirk.
“Please let her know I’ll be right out.”
Kyle leans forward and places his bottle back on my desk, grinning, and my eyes narrow at him.
“Will do,” she says.
“Thanks.” The phone clicks off, and the annoyance I already feel for this girl tightens in my chest and twists to something more like nerves. Getting the phone call that my winery had been chosen for the All About the South issue had been an answer to our prayers. It turns out that one of their executives was in town with family over spring break and stopped in. We didn’t know it at the time, but it was relayed to us that the executive loved our history, our location, and our wines. This assignment was a last-minute addition, and we’ve spent the last thirty-six hours preparing for the crew’s arrival. The thought of something going wrong has my stomach in knots.
Kyle slaps his hands together and rubs them back and forth as he stands. “Things just got really interesting,” he drawls out.
“Why do you say that?” I stand with him and grip the ball in both hands before I fake like I’m going to throw it, rolling my shoulder through the motion.
“Dude, I saw her. Even from here, the girl is hot. Didn’t you get a look at those long legs?”
“Actually, I didn’t.” Well, maybe I did. My eyes dropped right over her lean figure as they landed on her ridiculous shoes. She didn’t look awful, but I really don’t have one more second in my day to think about her. My focus is on restoring our name and increasing sales.
“Mm-hmm,” he mutters as he turns for the door. “It’s been a long time, you should think about it.”
Whatever, he can talk about the girl all he wants, but there’s no way I’m getting involved with her or anyone.
Elaine and I were together for over a year, but as soon as my career ended, so did we. Her sudden departure left an incredibly bitter taste that I haven’t been able to wash away, and then last November, a bad review dropped on our wines. Rarely does this happen, so when my father called eight months after I had taken over, yelling at me all what-the-hell-have-you-done, I was shocked and even more pissed.
The wine community is very tight, and in general, we all support each other. A bad review can haunt a winery for years, and that isn’t good for any of us. Unfortunately, my past of being photographed with A-list celebrities, Elaine the infamous daughter to our team owner, and the rumors that I would one day be a shoo-in for the hall of fame didn’t help. Someone caught wind of my name in connection with the winery, the story caught like wildfire, and the backlash has been near devastating.
“So, what’s going on with you and Michelle?” I change the subject and test the waters.
He tenses and his eyes dart to mine before returning to the hallway. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” His voice fades off at the end, and I nod, not believing him for a second. Since my point is made, I let it drop. He stays out of my personal life, and I’ll stay out of his.
Walking into the tasting room, I smile at Michelle. Her eyes leave mine for a split second to find Kyle and then bounce back to me. Like Kyle, Michelle has been here for years and is a great team member. She’s a little too rural for my tastes, and she’s an employee, but I can see the appeal. Her brown hair is always kept in a braid, she has adorable dimples, and she always wears short skirts with cowboy boots. A smirk lights up her face, and she shifts her eyes toward the woman standing across from her. What is it with the two of them today?
I follow her glance down the old mahogany bar and freeze.
Holy shit.
It’s as if the air is sucked out of the room and I can hardly breathe, catapulting the vision of her straight at me even though she’s standing eight feet away. I’m looking at the one girl I never wanted to see again.
I stop breathing.
Speaking of the devil, here’s one in the flesh. A she-devil!
Only I will not be selling my soul to her.
Ever.
Her eyes widen a little as my jaw locks tight and my teeth grind together. Flashes waver in front of my eyes as I lower them and trail over her body from head to toe. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, showing off every detail of her perfect face. Her shirt has slipped to the edge of one shoulder, revealing the smooth white skin over her collarbone, and her legs are endlessly long and wrapped in skin-tight denim. I hate to say it, but the shoes are incredibly hot. She’s hot . . . even more so than I remember.
Shit.
More flashes follow, and twinges alert me to a headache moving in.
My eyes land back on hers, and she’s scowling at me in complete disapproval. What she has to disapprove of, though, I don’t know. I’m the one who has to be worried. Fear slides like glacier ice into my veins, only to melt from the anger—anger, which is causing my blood to boil. I know who she is, I know what she does, and she needs to leave—immediately. Although she didn’t write the four wilted grapes review, I still despise her and everyone like her. I don’t want her to have any ammunition she could fire at us. We’ve worked too hard building back up our brand and business.
Kyle clears his throat to break the silence, or should I say standoff. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him and Michelle glance at each other.
“Really?” Her voice echoes across the room and sends my heart racing. Damn, I forgot how lovely her voice is. It’s all Southern and slightly raspy. Too bad she’s the epitome of a snake in sheep’s clothing, the devil in disguise. She props one hand on her hip and gives me a disgusted look. “That’s all you have? A blank stare and baby owl eyes.”
“Baby owl?” My voice is rough with emotion. What’s she talking about?
“Oh, he can speak. Yeah, you know.” And she blinks at me several times in an exaggerated way. Her long eyelashes waving at me.
Kyle chuckles and then turns it into a cough, covering his mouth with his fist as I flash him a warning look.
Turning back to Shelby, I ask her, “What are you doing here?” My hand holding the football squeezes to the point of pain, she sees the movement and her face clouds with confusion.
“What do you mean?” Slowly, her bag begins to slide down her arm. She catches it and places it on the floor next to her feet.
“I didn’t realize the question was a difficult one. Let me rephrase then, why are you standing in my tasting room?” The hate I feel for this girl drips off my words, and she takes two steps back.
“You’re joking, right?” She crosses her arms under her chest. My eyes drop straight to her rack, which is being pushed up in a very enticing way. Damn. Internally, I curse myself. I cannot find this girl attractive.
I don’t answer her, and her frown deepens.
“The magazine did tell you I was coming, right?”
“They told me they were sending a chef from Charleston, a Ms. Leigh from OBA.”
OBA! Oh, hell! I was so excited during the call I didn’t realize that was the name of the restaurant! I am an idiot.
She throws her arms out in a “here I am” gesture and then drops them down by her sides.
You have got to be kidding me.
Not once in all of the conversations I had with the editor of the magazine, did I ever consider the possibility that Ms. Leigh would be her. When Lexi, a close friend who is the sister of a former teammate, first told me she had someone for me to meet, she called her Shelby Leigh, but it sounded more like Shelbyleigh—one word, like KerriAnn. And after the charity benefit, I tried my best to forget her and her name, but her face—a face so beautiful it’s haunted my dreams—has stuck with me. But once I agreed to the article, I should have realized. I mean, I don’t know a lot of people from Charleston, but I do know one Ms. Leigh, and here she is . . . staring at me as if I’ve somehow ruined her day.
Shaking my head, the condemnation of this situation I’ve found myself in leaves a bad taste in my mouth. More flickers of light appear, and the pain above my left ear takes root and increases. I glance at Michelle, and my left eye twitches a little. She sees the movement in my face, frowns, and goes about getting what I need.
Of all the people the magazine could send! Why? Why did they send her? Don’t they know she’s a critic? A critic! Or should I say dream killer.
Anger surges through me, and my hand grips the football so tight I feel strong enough to pop it.
Wait, shit.
Of course they know! Magazines love to give reviews and recommendations. Hotels, restaurants, equipment, which brand is best, and so on. They all know each other, and they all stick together.
Slowly, I unfold my arms and set the ball on the bar. Kyle, who must have finally realized I am about to lose it, steps up.
“So, I take it you two have met?” Kyle says, waving his finger back and forth between the two of us.
“Unfortunately,” she says, shifting her weight to lean against the bar.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap at her. What have I ever done to her? She’s the one who goes around consorting with the enemy and sucking the life out of people.
“And now he needs a vocabulary lesson. Hmm, let’s see . . . unfortunately, as in regrettable, unlucky, or unsuitable.”
My jaw tightens.
I stride toward her, and her eyes widen. Usually, I tower over girls, but she’s already kind of tall, and in those shoes, any level of intimidation I might have held with my size is nonexistent. “You know, you have a lot of nerve coming in here and talking to me like this.” I lean down to get in her face, and her eyes drop to my mouth a split second before mine drop to hers. Her lips are parted as she breathes heavily.
“Trust me, coming here wasn’t my idea at all.” She leans a little closer, leaving us only inches apart, and I’m hit with the sweet scent of honey and vanilla. “I would have never picked this winery.” She about hisses the words at me.
What the fuck?
Her words are like a slap to the face, and unconsciously, I take a step back. Her chest is rising and falling at a rapid rate, and her skin flushes pink. Pink turns to red. All I see is red. I love this winery more than this girl will ever understand, and I’m officially done with this conversation.
Regret slips across her face and then it disappears. She drops her gaze to the floor and then locks it back on me with renewed defiance. A piece of her hair slips over her shoulder, and I hate that I notice it.
Breaking the stare down between us, I turn to Michelle. Her eyes are narrowed at Shelby, her lips are pinched together, and she looks madder than a wet hen.
“Michelle.” She shifts her attention to me, and her expression softens. “Will you please show Ms. Leigh to her accommodations? We’re done here.” She nods and slides a hot tea and an ice pack across the counter. Without another glance in Shelby or Kyle’s direction, I pick up the items, and walk out, leaving the football on the bar.
How in the hell did I get myself into this situation? Any sliver of hope I was feeling disintegrates, and the wind feels completely knocked out of me.
A chef they said.
A journalist I thought.
A critic . . . never.
I settle into my desk chair and press the ice pack over the throbbing spot. God, I hate these headaches. I never thought I’d hate anything or anyone as much as them, but after seeing her again, I may be wrong.
What am I going to do with her here for two weeks? Two. Weeks. That’s how long the magazine expects her to spend here while she’s cooking in one of our kitchens. “Photos. Lots of photos,” they said. Damn it. I’m going to have to be in those photos with her.
Part of me wonders if I would have agreed to the assignment if I had known she was the one they were sending, but reality is Wolff Winery needs the exposure. Our assignment is to work together to come up with delicious, easy, Southern farm-to-table food pairings to go with my wines. She’s to work the farm, learn all about us, and a crew from the magazine will be following and documenting it all. At the end, she will be the one who writes the featured article.
She’s to write the article.
Shit. Maybe I should have been a little nicer.