Chapter 2 – The Country Life

 

Addy -

“Why didn’t I think of this sooner? We should have a grape-stomping station!” she says to her fiancé.

“What?” He looks at her like she’s crazy and I would agree.

“Of course, can you imagine the pictures we’ll get? It’ll be priceless. We’ll make the society page of The Post with grape stomping, for sure.” Her eyes go dreamy, probably imagining herself plastered all over the District’s society pages.

“Honey, people are going to be dressed up. No one’s gonna want to stomp grapes in formal wear.”

“Yes they will. They’ll be drunk from the open bar and wine tasting. They won’t care about their clothes.”

“You’re gonna stomp grapes in your dress?” he asks, exasperated.

“Why not? It’s not like I’ll ever wear it again.” She looks over to me with a determined face. “I want the grapes in a trough, a big metal one. Like what your cows drink out of. Oh, we can put your cows in the background for pictures! None of my friends have had grape stomping at their weddings. I’ll be one of a kind.”

I look across the large coffee table at the engaged couple and mask my frustration. Our planning meeting has gone forty-five minutes over schedule, even with the extra time I allowed because I know from past meetings, she’s high maintenance.

A grape-stomping station at a wedding reception?

And how am I supposed to get the cows to pose for pictures?

“Well,” I start, putting a smile on my face as I search for patience. “We do have an annual grape stomping event every year after harvest, but I’ve never thought to add it to our reception package. We do like to keep things organic here at Whitetail Farms. I can certainly price that out for you.”

“Price doesn’t matter!” she shrieks with excitement, clapping her hands.

“Hannah,” her fiancé scolds her.

“What? It doesn’t. Daddy said to do what I wanted and I want to stomp grapes.” She frowns at him before looking back to me. “Now, when shall I set up a meeting with the caterer?”

Hoping we’re finally done, I pull up the calendar on my phone to set up our next exhausting meeting. The reception is planned for October. I’m counting down the days like a child at Christmas and cannot wait for it to be over.

After scheduling a meeting with the caterer—allotting twice the time necessary for such an appointment—I stand, needing to end the misery I’ve been forced to sit through in the basement inglenook. I make a note to meet in my office where the chairs are hard and uncomfortable, not to mention, it’s downright ugly in there. The inglenook is comfy, inviting customers to stay for hours by the big huge fireplace, sunken deep into the lush sofa and chairs. I want people to be comfortable when they’ve just purchased a bottle, enjoying it over a delicious lunch. I have no desire to make Hannah Brown-soon-to-be-Hatfield any more comfortable than need be.

“This is going to be better than I ever dreamed,” she delights. Reaching over, she threads her arm through mine, linking elbows as we walk to the stairs and make our way up to the main tasting room. “All my friends are doing it up huge, hosting their receptions at the Kennedy Center or International Trade Center. They’ll all be copycat versions of one another. I can’t tell you how happy I am we decided to go medium, you know, intimate. Large is so last year. A smaller wedding will make getting an invitation from us downright prestigious, and out here in the country? It’ll be perfect—I’ll be the talk for absolutely ages.”

“We’re just happy you chose us for your big day,” I say with a forced voice and smile.

After more shallow pleasantries, Bradley Hatfield, III, drags his soon-to-be wife out the front door and toward the parking lot. I wonder what that marriage will look like in ten years, if it’s still around at all. I’ve only lived here a year, but with a Washington elite offspring marrying another Washington elite offspring, it’s anyone’s guess. What I do know is having a Washington elite wedding reception at Whitetail is going to be great for business.

“Addy?” I hear my name yelled from across the room.

I turn and see Clara coming slowly as she has to make her way through the mingling guests. She looks frustrated since she never moves slowly doing anything. She’s tiny, even five months pregnant. I’ve learned the farther along she gets, the grumpier she is.

She and her husband already have three boys, and they might be cute to look at, but they’re little monsters. This pregnancy was an accident and she’s not happy. She’s less happy with her husband, who’s over-the-top happy, because he wants a girl. She swears he impregnated her in her sleep. Routinely, she threatens him with murder in all kinds of creative forms, explaining the only reason she doesn’t follow through is because she’d be stuck with four hellions to raise on her own. And just to piss him off, she refuses to find out the sex.

Clara Robertson has been with me since right after I bought the place. My turn-the-vineyard-around strategy centers solely on bringing events to the property. There’s space in the basement and tasting room as well as the gardens and patios. If they don’t mind the humidity—which I’ve learned locals don’t—I can host large events outside in the spring, summer, and fall. With the views and scenery, it’s a perfect locale for anything from a wedding reception to a business meeting to an organized girls-night-out. There’s nothing we won’t host and just like Hannah’s grape-stomping station, we’ll make anything happen for a client.

But to pull it off well, I needed help. Clara hadn’t worked in years as she stayed home with her three little hellions. When the youngest started kindergarten, she wanted out of the house and after spending time around her kids, who can blame her? She practically begged me for the job, explaining she’d work the part-time position whenever I needed her—any day, any time.

She went on and on about how she needed an escape from runny noses and play dates and science projects. How she wanted to be an adult again, needing a reason to get up to fix her hair in the mornings and wear something that needed to be ironed, or maybe even dry cleaned. Finally, she explained how her husband landed a new job, allowing him to telecommute and keep his own hours. Her eyes then went a little whacky when she expounded, “It’s his turn. He needs to build the next exploding volcano and endure the perfect moms at the bus stop, and possibly, clean a fucking toilet. And when you’re surrounded by penises—it’s not a fun job. I need these twenty hours a week to keep my sanity like I need my next breath. I don’t care what you pay me. To be honest, I’ll pay you. You have to let me work here for twenty hours a week, please!”

What could I do? She sounded so desperate, I put the three prior boring applicants out of my mind and cancelled the rest of the interviews. I hired her on the spot. It didn’t hurt that before having hellions she worked as an event coordinator at the W Hotel in DC. As much as I’ve come to love my little winery, I’m no W. I knew I was lucky to find her.

She jumped across the table and tackled me with a huge hug, promising me she’d start the next day. She’s proven to be the perfect choice, bringing in all kinds of events, and creating repeat business. I know I can be a control freak—I have a hand in all facets of the winery and still like to manage certain events myself, like the Hatfield wedding. But she handles a majority of it and we both kick in to help the other when needed.

When she finally gets to me, she rustles the bunch of papers in her hand while smiling, her shoulder length blonde hair swaying about. “I got it—it’s done. The crazy horse-baby-making convention signed. It’s going to be bigger than expected—almost double!”

I smile back. “They’re the Eastern Horse Breeders Association. Quit calling our clients crazy, Clara. Just because you’re a breeding association all on your own doesn’t make everyone crazy like you.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs with a grin. “This is great. We were competing against two bigger venues. I’m pretty sure your neighbors helped seal the deal, but whatever. I’ll take it.”

“The Kanes are great. I’ll send over a couple bottles to thank them. Do you need help with your event tonight?”

“Nope, I’m good. It’s a client appreciation thing—easy. Evan will help me set up in a couple hours.” She starts to rub her belly and goes on. “I’ve got to eat before I do anything else. I really need a burger, but I guess I’ll have to make due with a Maggie sandwich.”

Before I could ask to join her since I’m starving myself, I hear Evan call from behind the bar, “Addy!”

I glance over and he’s pouring wine, but when I catch his eyes, his move to the front door. I cringe when I see what he’s looking at.

“Hot damn, I can’t believe he has the balls to come back. You’ve officially turned him down three times,” Clara says from beside me.

I look to her and frown, thinking the same thing. I’ve turned down all his offers—each with more ferocity than the last. This has been going on for months. I’m over being polite. It doesn’t matter how much he sweetens the deal, and each deal he brings to the table is pretty damn sweet. At this point it doesn’t matter, he’s starting to creep me out. I’m going to have to insist he stay off my property.

When I look back to Tobin DeCann, he tips his head to greet me from across the busy tasting room, and even that pisses me off. I hand Clara the Hatfield file and say in a low voice, “Do me a favor and call Morris. He’s probably out in the meadow looking at the fence. Tell him DeCann is here and I want him shown off the property.”

It doesn’t matter how small Clara is or that she’s waddling around pregnant, she crosses her arms and glares at Tobin while hissing, “I’ll tell him to leave. He’s an asshole sitting on piles of money who thinks he can wave it around and people will suck his tiny dick.”

“Clara,” I bite out. “Call Morris. Now.”

“You want me to get Van? He’s in the barrel room,” she offers slyly.

“Are you kidding me? He’d make more of a scene than you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll call Morris.”

I turn back to the front door and square my shoulders, preparing mentally for the task ahead. I’m all of a sudden grateful for my exhausting meeting with the Hatfields to-be, I dressed up today and I rarely dress up. Even though it’s a simple fitted cream dress hitting me at the knees, it’ll do its job and act as my shield.

He’s stopped right inside the front door. A show of power—waiting for me to make the first move. Damn him, this is my establishment. I’m the one who turned this business around. I’m operating in the black and started making money six months after I took over. I don’t need the likes of Tobin DeCann walking through my front door making a power play.

Doing my best to make my face devoid of emotion, I walk in my spiked peek-a-boo blush heels, silently applauding myself. Not only do I pull off a look of pure boredom, but my shoes give me a boost, bringing me eye-to-eye with him. I’m standing at five-nine, maybe five-ten, and have to fight the urge to cross my arms. Crossing your arms is a sign of self-protection and I’m aiming for indifference.

When I arrive, I allow an acceptable amount of space required for a business greeting, but decide to say nothing. Instead, I tip my head and raise an eyebrow in question.

There. Silent, disinterested communication. Take that and shove it up your pretentious ass, Tobin-Fucking-DeCann.

A slow smile spreads across his arrogant face and his eyes travel the length of me. I couldn’t care less and allow him the time to rake his light, sandy-brown eyes over my shield. If it wouldn’t crack my defenses, I’d roll my eyes, but it would, so I don’t. I remain perfectly bored, waiting on him to break the ice.

When he raises his eyes to mine, he also brings up a hand to greet me, but not in the manner a business associate would. Extending his hand, palm up, he clearly doesn’t wish to shake mine. He wishes to kiss it.

I persevere, tipping my head the opposite way and raise both brows this time, not accepting his gesture.

His smile shrinks to a smirk as he runs his bereft hand through his floppy, dirty-blond hair.

“You’re looking lovelier than your normal lovely today, Addy,” he purrs.

It’s plain weird for a man to purr.

“Lots of meetings,” I blandly inform.

His eyes move around the room as he slowly nods his head in approval. “Business is booming, I see. I’m more impressed every time I visit.”

“I’m pleased with the state of my company.” I meet his pretentious with my own brand of pompous.

“You continue to astonish me, Addy. Not only is your business prowess exceedingly shrewd, but you’ve created an environment at Whitetail that is warm and inviting. Certainly you can think outside the box. If you’ve achieved all this in such a short time with limited funds, think of what you could do with a silent partner.” He waves his male-manicured hand around to accentuate his point.

“Tobin, it’s sad your recollection is starting to fade.” My voice feigns sadness. “I do believe you should have that checked straight away. I’ll do you the favor of jogging your memory—I’ve no interest in a partner, silent or otherwise. I learned from the best and I know silent partners don’t always remain silent. Profits are exceeding my business plan. I’m pleased, my loan officer is pleased, and I could care less what anyone else thinks. My staff is hardworking and goal-oriented. I’m more than good with the state of my balance sheet. I’m thrilled.”

“Your staff is incompetent,” he accuses.

“I find my staff overly-proficient in their responsibilities,” I defend.

“I have a new proposition for you. It would behoove you to consider it.”

“No,” I return. “It would behoove me to get back to work. My schedule is tight and my time precious. You’re wasting it.”

“Addy,” his voice lowers, as if he’s trying to calm me. He takes a step, closing the acceptable personal space between us, altering it from business to intimate. “This doesn’t have to be so formal. Let’s discuss it over dinner. Say, Claire’s On The Depot? Clams on the half shell this time of year come from close to home, very fresh. Her She-Crab soup is the best around.”

And he does it again, but this time his intentions are more obvious than the last few. I hold my ground, fighting the impulse to retreat.

Just as I was about to refuse him, yet again, I hear from beside me, “Time to go, DeCann.”

I look to my side at my big, burly knight. He’s dirty, I smell the outside mixed with sweat, and he’s probably traipsed mud through the tasting room. Normally that would set me on fire, but not today. If it wasn’t an inappropriate moment, I’d reach up and kiss him.

Instead, I smile. “Hi, Morris. Fix the fence?”

Even if he is my knight, he still frowns. “Not yet. Gotta shop for supplies. Should be done in the next couple days.”

“Harry’s going to get out again,” I point out.

“She’ll come back, always does,” he goes on, both of us ignoring the headache in front of us.

I look away from Morris and Tobin because the big wooden front door opens. The visitor is wearing an ugly, yellow polo shirt with the name of a courier company embroidered on the pocket.

“Can I help you?” I ask, since he doesn’t look interested in wine or hosting a reception of any sorts.

“I have a delivery for Addison Wentworth,” he says, holding a small envelope.

“That’s me.” I quickly sign for my delivery, only to watch him leave as fast as he entered.

“Addy,” DeCann calls for my attention. “Have dinner with me.”

I slide my finger under the flap of my envelope. “No.”

“Time for you to go,” Morris repeats, moving toward him.

“I’ll stay for a tasting. You can look at the numbers,” he insists at the same time my eyes bug out at the contents of my envelope.

“The nerve,” I mutter, looking at a check written out to me for ten-thousand dollars.

“The only thing you’re gonna be tastin’ is gravel if I have to throw your ass outta here, DeCann,” Morris threatens him like I knew he would.

“Addy—” Tobin tries again.

Between Tobin DeCann hitting on me and trying to weasel his way into my business—not to mention the ridiculous check in my hand—I’ve lost it.

“Don’t come back,” I snap, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m tired of this. I’m not interested in you or your money. Stay off my property.” I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn on my spiked heel and say to Morris over my shoulder, “Make sure he’s gone. I have to visit my new neighbor.”

*****

Crew -

I make my way from the largest of the outbuildings where I’m working on the plumbing. Everything’s installed but the showers. I should be ready for the first round of recruits soon, Asa and Grady are working on a list for me to approve.

My phone alerts me, the cameras have picked her up on the surveillance system.  This is a good test—Asa just got it up and working a few days ago.  He’s making adjustments, animals kept setting it off the first night.  The system is intelligent enough to decipher between a deer and a human. Her Audi Q7 is easy to pick up.  The system is more impressive than I thought—tracking and focusing in on the driver.  I see the frown set in her deep brown eyes, but unlike yesterday morning when she was wearing her absurd boots and cut-offs, she’s done herself up.

I don’t know what I expected, although I did expect something. I have to give it to her, she’s quick. The courier picked up the check less than an hour ago.

I round the corner and stand at the base of the porch that spans the front of my old farmhouse and wait. I hear tires on the gravel before I see her make the bend. She looks even more frustrated in person than she did over the cameras. I let my face crack into a small smile, because for some reason, I find the woman interesting.

She finally comes to a stop five feet in front of me. After throwing it in park and switching off the engine, her door is thrown open and a sexy as fuck pink shoe appears on the gravel. Then another, and when I look up, she’s rounding her door before flinging it shut. Because of the sexy as fuck shoes, she’s taller than she was yesterday and her hair is down, but now in the afternoon sun, hints of red shine through. As hot as she was in her university raggedy t-shirt and cut-offs, she’s leaving nothing to my imagination in that dress with every curve on display.

“Mr. Vega—” she starts, but I interrupt.

“No need for formalities. You can call me Crew.”

She tips her head. “Yes, I was surprised to see your check signed as ‘Crew.’”

“Why?” I frown.

“Because it’s not a real name. I assumed it was a call name, like something given to a fighter pilot or some sort of preposterous nickname your man buddies gave you,” she spouts, waving my check toward me.

I let my brows raise. “My man buddies?”

“Whatever. Your friends, fraternity brothers, brethren, whatever support system you have,” she huffs.

“I didn’t lie. Told you it’s my name and it is.” I cross my arms, looking down at her.

“Okay, Crew,” she enunciates, her voice laced with frustration. “I explained to you yesterday, the fence isn’t a big deal. I also told you it wouldn’t be expensive. Further, I told you I need to keep my cows on my property so I’d take care of it. It won’t even be close to this amount, let alone double if we were to split it. I can’t accept this.”

“I added some for labor.”

“I told you I didn’t want anything,” she exhales.

“That’s unacceptable.”

Her eyes go big. “Unacceptable?”

“That’s what I said.”

She shakes her head, exasperated. “You can’t make me take your money.”

“Sure I can.” I shrug back.

“What?” she yelps.

“I’ll find a way.”

“What the hell,” she mutters, turning away from me and to the side. Now I get to admire her curves from a different view. I widen my stance, settling in for however long this takes as she keeps talking to herself. Finally, both arms flop to her side as she keeps on. “This is insane. Everyone wants to give me money. What are the odds? And on the same day.”

I break in and point out, “You’re gonna ruin those shoes, stomping around in the gravel like that.”

That did it. She instantly turns to me frowning. Bringing her hands up in front of her, she dramatically rips my check—once, twice and so on, before tossing it in the air between us like confetti.

“The fence is on me. I’m not taking your money, let alone ten-thousand dollars,” she huffs before turning to stomp through the gravel back to her car.

“We’ll see,” I call back.

She huffs one more time.

“Addison,” I call as she reaches for her door. When she turns, I drag my eyes up from her ass to her eyes. “Nice dress.”

Now I’ve pissed her off because she hitches a foot, putting a hand to her curvy hip. “No one calls me Addison. It’s ‘Addy.’”

That surprises me. I expected the dress comment to piss her off, not her name.

I give her a half grin, repeating, “We’ll see.”

That pisses her off more. She gives me a good glare before gracefully getting back in her car. I decide to stand here and watch her leave as she makes a quick U-turn, her Audi disappearing into the trees.

I instantly feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. When I see who it is, I greet him. “Grady.”

“Fuck me, who was that?” he belts in my ear.

Then I do something for the first time in so long, I can’t remember the last time I’ve done it. I smile big, and hell, I like the way it feels.

As I stand here in my gravel drive, watching the dust settle from Addison Wentworth throwing a fit as she drove off, I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained. It’s definitely been years since I’ve enjoyed anything as much as that.

I turn, making my way back to the outbuilding to finish the showers and drawl, “Just getting to know the neighbors, Grady. I think I might just like the country life.”