I peer at myself in the bathroom mirror of the Climax Vineyards guesthouse, where the Hollisters let me stay whenever the day goes long and the drive back to Marloe is too much. I’ve showered, left some stubble, and combed my hair back. I haven’t dressed up exactly, but I haven’t dressed down, either, and I think I definitely pass muster in my blue shirt and jeans, along with my tan canvas jacket and boots. Just as I’m about to head for the tasting room to meet Gwen when she arrives, I get a text from Miguel.

Things are looking good at Milton’s.

He’s leaving the diner after a long day of contributing to the facelift. So far, the guys working there have put some primer on the old, dingy walls and started repairing the kitchen. I think Gwen’s going to like what she sees.

I quickly answer. Progress is being made.

I can tell he’s typing back, but then the rolling ellipses disappear from the screen. Then they start up again until his next message appears.

All kidding aside, I hope things go well for you, man. Here’s to hoping she’s no Debra.

I look at the words for a while. Miguel has been on my side ever since I got out of jail and started refurbishing my own life. While I was wasting my time in a cell, I realized that my old “friends” were going down a bad road, and I’d be damned if I followed them after I got out. So I found a low-paying job in construction — one that would take a felon — and walked away from those guys. I moved to Marloe proper and started over, but even though I developed skills, my record followed me around. That’s when I decided to get my contractor’s license, because if I could show everyone that I did good work and was trustworthy on my own terms, things would change. And they did. I met Miguel, teamed up with him, and collected a great crew, and I’ve never looked back.

That’s why Miguel’s text is a thorn in my side. If there’s one thing about my past that I haven’t been able to shake, it’s my attraction to women in need of rescue. Debra was the worst of that habit. She had a temper, and she had a nasty way of caterwauling when she was upset, which was often. She would cause scenes, and one time — only once — her neighbors called the cops because she was coming at me with a fucking kitchen knife, and I had to restrain her. We both got rung up on charges, but her neighbors vouched for me, and the charges were dropped. Still, she’s the main reason I don’t do long-term with emotionally volatile women anymore — or long-term at all.

She’s the main reason I’m only in it for fun with Gwen.

Without answering Miguel, I put my phone in my coat pocket and go to sit on the low stone wall in front of the tasting room. The gravel parking lot is lit by conical LED ground lamps that some might say resemble a certain excitable male body part climaxing. Then again, some might say differently, because the fixtures aren’t tacky so much as modern and subtle.

It’s a cool but nice springtime night, and the air smells like cherry blossoms. The sun has dipped in the sky, and the longer I wait for Gwen, the more I start to wonder if, somehow, my past has found its way to Cherry Valley and she’s heard about my mistakes. Why else would she not show?

But my mind has to be playing tricks. My past is firmly where it belongs — behind me. Plus, I believe with everything I’ve got that Gwen won’t shaft me. She shook my hand and looked me in the eye and promised she’d be here.

When I see a faded green pickup rolling over the road and spitting up dust, my pulse gets all tangled up. It’s got to be her, and sure as shit, as the truck gets closer, I see that it is. And she’s not alone.

Grace is driving.

What the serious fuck? Did Gwen bring her sister as a dating shield? Talk about hard to get.

After Grace skids to a stop, Gwen gets out. Grace only waves to me, then pulls the truck around and jams back down the drive.

For a cock-blasting moment, all I can do is stare at Gwen. She’s done something to her hair, and it looks softer, bouncier, with waves framing her gorgeous face. Under a worn leather jacket, she’s got on a lacy white top and jeans with fancy blue boots. She hasn’t dressed up much, but that last cowgirl touch turns me on like you wouldn’t believe.

As her gaze meets mine, I notice the most amazing thing: she doesn’t look a bit tired this evening. In fact, she looks awake and lively, and God help me, but I feel that emotional pull toward her again. It’s like I might’ve had an effect on her by helping her with Milton’s and taken care of her in some small way that matters.

Jesus, here it is — the rescuer in me that always gets me into trouble. I shake it the fuck off.

You’re not the type to settle down, I tell myself. And you’re sure as hell not the type any decent woman would ever want in the long run.

She pulls her jacket closed and walks over to me.

“You’re just in time for the evening tour.” I rise to my feet. A tour would be a great way to get Gwen warmed up before it’s wine time.

“That sounds nice.”

She comes to stand in front of me. All I’d have to do is lean over to kiss her and get it out of the way so she’ll fully relax. But I realize that when I kiss her, I want it to be a big deal, and just thinking about it has me holding back. I walk away from her and toward the garden by the tasting room where local craftsmen will display their work.

She catches up to me, which I take as a good sign that her interest has been sparked again. She’s looking at the stone-faced tasting room. “I didn’t tell you the other day how beautifully things are coming along here. You do fine work, Quinn.”

Okay, we’re starting off the night with a compliment. That bodes well, but it doesn’t mean I should drop my own hard-to-get act yet.

I show her the metal sculptures that are already on display amongst the stone pathways that vaguely form an image that matches Climax’s wine label design, and she stays quiet. She also hangs back as I bring her into the nearly bare, unfinished tasting room. Then I start some small talk about how our days have gone — fine thank you, how was yours? — and when we come to the spacious, newly tiled, and completed patio, she gets even more reserved.

I’ve got uncorked bottles of red zinfandel and a cabernet sauvignon already breathing on the table, plus a cooler on the ground stocked with a chardonnay and a rosé along with some food. White lights shine from the willow trees, and I’ve turned on the rock fountains, too. I walk over to light a candle on the table, and the flame is reflected in the eight glasses I’ve set out.

“Oh my,” she says softly.

I realize how romantic things look. “I thought you might like a preview of how nice this’ll be for that upcoming wedding.”

“That’s right. Zach and Mandy’s reception. Yeah, they’ll love this.”

Even though she sounds slightly relieved that I didn’t set all of this up to seduce her — cough, cough — she just stands there with her hands stuffed into her jacket pockets. To get things moving, I pull out her chair. She seems surprised that I know how to be halfway gallant as she takes a seat, but after she sits, she fidgets, still looking uncomfortable.

Jesus, does she think I’m going to pounce on her like a starved werewolf or something? Sure, I’ve got some animal blood pumping through me because she’s right here, the Gwen of more than one wet, hot fantasy, but I’m not feral. Not yet.

As the trickling water saves us from making conversation, I hold back a rough sigh. One hard-to-get man, coming right up once again. I take my seat across from her, then open the cooler.

“From what I’ve learned about wine and the tasting of it,” I say, taking out the white, “you start with the lightest first and make your way to the heaviest. This is Climax’s chardonnay.”

She smiles a little at my casual tone. I haven’t ripped off my shirt. I haven’t howled at the moon. I’m distant and pleasant and totally non-threatening. Hopefully she’ll get interested in me again before I fuck this up.

“Does a contractor’s license come with a sommelier certification?” she asks.

“Good one.” I uncork the bottle and pour a bit of the buttery white into her glass. “But I can’t even touch Mark Hollister with this wine shit. I’m no aficionado, but I’ve developed a taste for the stuff.” I don’t add that wine represents the guy I’m becoming, not who I used to be. Bye-bye to the cheap-beer-swilling troublemaker who ran with a bunch of assholes. I splash some chard into my glass, too. “So why’d you have Grace drive you out here?”

“I have a strict rule about no drinking and driving, period.”

“Strict rules? You?”

She smiles a little. Then I show her how to swirl the wine in the glass to bring out the bouquet so we can take in the aroma. I don’t want to get too prissy and pretentious, so I let it go from there, giving her room to taste it and then asking her what she thinks of it. I’m hoping she’ll talk about how velvety and citrusy the chard is, but after she swallows about half of the serving, she only says, “It’s good,” and doesn’t drink the rest of it.

This is an indication that she is not impressed.

I don’t explain the spit bucket that’s also on the table just yet and instead get out the rosé. After telling her what it is, I pour it into our second glasses, hoping for a better outcome.

“You can always decide which wines you like and have more,” I say.

“Actually, I … kind of can’t stay all that long.”

I raise my eyebrow at her.

“I appreciate all this effort you went through,” she says. “But our agreement didn’t require me to stay here for hours upon hours. Both of us have things to do bright and early.”

“I know I do, but what does the lady of leisure have going on?”

She lifts the rosé to the light and swirls it. “I’m having what you might call a staycation. Sleeping a lot. Walking around town. Reading books. Doing things like rediscovering the library and realizing it’s fascinating to sit at one of the old tables and just smell all the leather bindings while watching Mrs. Hoff ghost around the stacks.”

“Mrs. Hoff?”

“I guess you haven’t heard about her yet.”

After I swirl, there’s a moment of what seems like pure impulse when Gwen leans over and clinks glasses with me.

Okay. Progress?

We drink, and she swirls the wine some more. “Mrs. Hoff is our librarian. Her husband died a while ago, and he bequeathed all his books to the collections. She runs the place like a tomb. School kids dare each other to spend time inside, and it’s not because she creeps them out, but … I don’t know. I think they feel how sad she is about losing Mr. Hoff.”

“In a way she sounds like … who was that woman in that Dickens book?”

“Miss Havisham in Great Expectations?” She gives me a look like she’s impressed. “Except Mrs. Hoff is still stuck on the guy she did marry?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “What can I say? High school English, you know?”

She grins, and I’m beginning to wonder if only a little wine has loosened Gwen up. Surely she can’t be this much of a lightweight. Then again, didn’t she tell me that she doesn’t really drink?

“Anyway,” she says, “Mrs. Hoff isn’t decrepit. She’s still young and pretty and looks a little like Audrey Hepburn back in the day.”

“Huh. Sounds like I might have to visit the library.”

I swear she frowns a bit, and I hold back a smile. Progress.

Even though Gwen hasn’t finished all of the rosé, I give her some zin in the third glass, then do the same for myself. After I identify the wine, we go through the look, swirl, and smell drill, then drink. This time her eyes light up, and she takes a second sip. A pretty long one, too.

“So how does it feel to be off work?” I ask.

She sighs and smiles. “Wonderful. And now that I have time off, I can reflect on how much goes into handling a business and how I’ve been running myself ragged.”

“Tell me about it. When you own something, you not only have to make sure the nuts and bolts are in place, but you’re looking out for every single person on the payroll.”

“Stressful,” she says, then drinks again. This time she downs the rest of the wine.

I pick up the bottle and motion toward her glass. She gladly presents it to me, but I don’t pour too much. Then she keeps the glass raised, so I go ahead and give her some more.

Loose-limbed, she sinks into the chair, closes her eyes, and smiles. As I watch her, something pries itself wide in my chest, but when she opens her eyes, it shuts again like a lid slamming down on a box that wasn’t supposed to be opened. I rest my ankle over my leg, swirling my wine and chilling.

“I really like this,” she finally says, then proceeds to drain most of her glass.

Whoa.

I glance around the patio. “I think a lot of people will like it here, if I do say so myself.”

“I wasn’t talking about the patio.” She shrugs lethargically. “Although it is very pretty. I’m talking about this wine. It’s kind of spicy … peppery. And it’s got some fruit in it. What is it again?”

“Zinfandel. Zin to those who have a close relationship with it.”

“I always thought zinfandel was that pink stuff.” She points to the rosé.

“You’re thinking of white zin, which is sweeter, kind of like the bubblegum of wine.” As she drinks some more, I subtly pull the bottle away from her. “I think you’ve got a thing for the hearty, bold reds.”

“Hearty wine for a hearty girl, right?”

Hell yeah.

I’m waiting for her to check her watch and announce that — whoops, look at that — it’s already time to go, but all she does is ask where the restroom is. I point her toward the tasting room where there’s a functional ladies’ room, and once she goes, she’s back quickly, sitting back down to kick it in her chair.

She drinks more.

Okay. If I let her sit there drinking at the pace she’s set for herself, is she going to get messy? If she doesn’t really drink, does she even know how to pace herself? Or should I let her be a big girl and do what she wants to do?

My take-care-of-her urge wins out. “How about something to fill your stomach?”

Gwen pauses, and fuckin’ shit, I should’ve just shut up, because I think I’ve just reminded her that she wants to get this deal over with and go home. But then she smiles and toasts me.

“Sure, McMuscles, I could definitely use a bite.”