Slade: Need to talk.
She texted back: Ya think?
Her phone buzzed again.
It was her dad: Word is your bottling permits are for sale. 80K cases? Don’t let them push you around.
Gossip among the wine-making community was worse than here in Harmony Valley.
Christine wanted to yowl in frustration.
She answered back: Not for sale. Chill.
Not what I hear. Time to call it and get out.
Christine’s stomach knotted tighter than one of Slade’s ties. Her father wasn’t going to stop badgering her. Not until she’d proven they weren’t selling—which she wasn’t even sure she believed—or she quit. Christine wanted to believe in Slade. She wanted to helm this winery. But if they did sell, when was the better time to jump ship? Before the sale or after? Her father was a firm believer in before.
Another text came in: You still employed?
She assured an old friend that she was, grumbling to herself about gossip, all the while feeling doubt weaken her knees, her backbone, her resolve.
This was supposed to be her dream job, the winery that solidified the platform of her reputation. Instead, her platform seemed ready to crumble and her dad’s genes were telling her to run.
But there was more at stake here than merely a job. There were her grandmother’s expectations and the partnership’s promises that the winery would bring jobs to town. There were Ryan’s expectations of a long-term job. There was Slade’s expectations that she’d run away if she saw his scar.
He’d promised they weren’t going to sell. She had to believe him, despite everything in her telling her otherwise.
“Everything okay?” Ryan asked.
“I need a shower and a drink.” Christine’s phone buzzed again. “And maybe another drink. Not necessarily in that order.”
* * *
“YOU DIDN’T HAVE to pick me up,” Christine said when she opened Slade’s truck door. Something was missing from both his expression and the truck. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re over at Flynn’s, having a sleepover with Truman. Best-case scenario, the kid won’t wake up tomorrow morning with makeup on and his hair styled.”
Christine shut the door and spun back toward the house, hurrying despite the heat.
He turned off the big black beast and ran after her. “Wait.” He caught up to her on the front porch. “We need to talk.”
“About what? How you’re selling those bottling permits or the bottling permits and the winery? About your firing me?” Anger seeped into her fingers, wanting to grab on to something and shake. She gripped his arm.
“I told you we weren’t selling.” But unlike earlier in the day, his voice lacked conviction.
She gripped his arm harder, as if she could squeeze the truth out of him. “Then why have I gotten so many messages from other winemakers and my dad asking about the permits being on the market?” Her conscience fought with her anger. Anger won. She let go of his arm, thrusting it away. “Everyone’s asking me if I need a job.” The only way this could be worse was if her name was linked romantically to Slade’s.