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Maggie
I ruined my new suede boots for this?
When I spotted the path leading up to the top of the ridge, I’d assumed the paving stones went all the way to the top. Three-quarters of the way up I’d discovered my mistake, but the lure of reception and the client text I knew was coming had spurred me on. Gritting my teeth against the squish of mud, I’d scrambled the rest of the way.
I shouldn’t have bothered.
Caroline Springer: If my darling can’t have Powell’s, then we don’t want a downtown location. Can’t you think of something better?
In my ten years as an event planner, I’ve dealt with my fair share of problem clients, but this one truly takes the cake. I can’t even write her off as a bridezilla—the constant texts, phone calls, and emails are for a baby shower. For her daughter-in-law. Who already has two teenagers. But I don’t have the luxury of rolling my eyes at Mrs. Springer’s absurd requests—I need this event to go off without a hitch if I want my fledgling business to stay afloat.
Forget about my business—my rent just went up another two hundred dollars a month. I need Mrs. Springer like a flea needs a dog.
I don’t reply immediately. Instead, I shove my phone in my jeans pocket and take in the view. A golden blanket covers the valley below me, a beautiful contrast to the cloudless blue sky above. This will probably be one of the last sunny days for a long time, and I soak in the sunshine warming my cheeks. There’s a cool bite to the late-September breeze that brushes the back of my neck, and I shiver in my thin cardigan.
Closing my eyes to let the sun soak into my eyelids—I read an article once that said your body soaks up vitamin D best through skin that rarely gets exposed—the sounds of the winery wash away my annoyance. There are birds chirping in the trees and the occasional call of a goose passing overhead. Leaves rustle in the breeze. I could have sworn there was a tractor running out in the field when I was climbing up the hill, but I don’t hear it now.
“Ma’am? You can’t be out here.”
I smother my squeak of fright at the unexpected voice. Determined not to let whoever this guy is know he just scared the shit out of me, I take a moment before opening my eyes to answer him. “Then why is there a path?”
He’s tall. And broad. With the kind of muscles that come from working, unlike the overly sculpted guys I pretend not to check out at the gym. His hair is hidden beneath a knit beanie, but judging by his hazel eyes and sun-reddened skin, I’d bet my mother’s second-favorite antique tea set it’s dirty blonde.
He turns to look down the hill I’d climbed, then back at me with a scowl. “The path stops. You’re supposed to stop with it.”
Shrugging, I tear my gaze away from the weather-beaten vest that covers his chest and the worn flannel beneath it. “You should have a sign or something if you don’t want people coming up here.”
He mutters under his breath, but his words are lost to the wind that whips a handful of fallen leaves past us. He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns away from me, still muttering.
And because sometimes I’m an asshole, I don’t follow him. Instead, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my list of go-to venues, scanning for a new option for Mrs. Springer’s shower.
“Listen, lady, they don’t pay me enough to put up with this kind of thing. You can’t be up here.” Off-brand Chad Michael Murray is back. I ignore him as I fire off a text to one of my tried and true contacts, praying she has an opening. When it doesn’t immediately show as sent, I lift my phone, waving it back and forth for the cell signal gods to see and take pity on me.
“Give me a second. If y’all had Wi-Fi down there this wouldn’t be a problem.” Groaning when my text doesn’t go through again, I take a couple steps away from the flannel-wearing lumberjack beside me and try again. Well, I try to take two steps, but he grabs hold of my elbow before I get far and stops me.
He makes an exasperated noise. “Go down to the tasting room and look for Jackie. Ask her for the Wi-Fi password and quit f—messing with my vines.”
I tug at my elbow and he lets go, although he doesn’t drop his hand, waiting for me to try something else. “I’m not touching your precious vines.” We glare at each other, his hazel eyes hard. After an uncomfortably long moment where I try in vain to pull my elbow free, I sigh. “Fine, whatever. You said the owner’s name is Jackie?”
Off-brand CMM releases me as I start back down the hill. “Not the owner, but yes.” He raises his voice to keep talking as I make my way down the hill at a brisk pace. “Tell Jackie that Kel sent you to keep you out of trouble.”
I wave a hand overhead, acknowledging his words with my middle finger. Keep me out of trouble? What I need is for someone to drop a venue for this baby shower in my lap. Where am I going to find somewhere nice enough to suit Mrs. Springer that isn’t booked months in advance?
My sister and her friends wave from their chairs near the fireplace as I come back inside. I point at the bar top in the corner and shrug. They go back to their conversation, used to me dealing with work emergencies at all hours. Spotting an older woman pouring wine behind the bar, I beeline for her. Her short hair is dyed light brown, although her roots give away the salt and pepper beneath it. Deep laugh lines frame her mouth and eyes—the resemblance to my mom puts me at ease right away.
“Can I get you a glass of something?” she asks as I approach the bar. She pulls out a clean wine glass before I can answer, the delicate glass catches the sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows to my right.
“Are you Jackie, by any chance?” I peer at the board on the wall behind her, looking at the names of the wines on offer but not absorbing the words.
My question must take her by surprise, as her eyebrows lift and a question forms in her eyes. “I am. What can I do for you?”
“Kel mentioned you could give me the Wi-Fi password? I have a work emergency, and he didn’t like me being so near the vines in my quest for some reception.”
Jackie laughs as she rummages around behind the bar. “No, he wouldn’t. Let me guess, he found you at the top of the hill?” She slides a business card across the heavy wood toward me. “Here you go. Please don’t share it, though. We try to encourage our guests not to work while they’re here.”
I pull the card closer and follow the instructions, sighing in relief as my message to Alyssa goes through. Flipping it over, I examine the graphic on the front, the name surprising me. “Ridge Runner B&B? Is that nearby? I didn’t know there was a bed-and-breakfast out here.”
Jackie pulls a glass rack out from beneath the counter and starts unloading clean wine glasses. “There isn’t. It was an idea Greg and I had years ago but could never afford to start. Ridge Runner is long gone, anyway. It’s not something the new owner is interested in pursuing. Not that I blame him.”
