Page 15 of Blush Crush

His eyes flare, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think his chest puffed too, but that’s likely my imagination running wild.

“The fuck it’s not. Next time he comes in, grab me and I’ll handle it. You gotta stop letting assholes like that walk all over you.”

“Okay, tough guy.” I giggle, waving him off. “I don’t need you fighting nonexistent battles for me, but thanks for the offer.”

I start to walk away but don’t make it one step before Cole’s hand wraps around my forearm. He tugs gently.

“Seriously. I need to know. If anyone gives you trouble—come grab me.”

“Oh. Kay,” I reply robotically, shaking my arm loose.

“I know you’re trying to not make it a big deal, but I’m your landlord, and if someone is giving one of my tenants a hard time, I can handle it. I know I joke around with you a lot, but there are some things I take seriously, believe it or not.”

Marcus hardly comes in. There’s no need to make a thing of it. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him before walking away.

“What was that about?” Sadie asks as she reties her apron.

I glance back at Cole just as he exits with a cup full of ice in his hand.

“He needed ice for wine.”

“Pretty intense-looking conversation for ice,” Sadie mutters under her breath.

I don’t acknowledge her comment, busying myself with refilling the pastry case now that there’s a lull in customers.

Cole’s behavior was odd—more than just irritation over Marcus. And now it’s going to nag at me until I figure out what actually set him off.

His stupid implication that I let people walk all over me isn’t helping. Do I? I’ll be the first to admit confrontation isn’t exactly my strong suit. Being the youngest, I never really had to defend myself. Even Layla—who’s a whole twelve minutes older—isbetter at speaking her mind and standing up for not just herself but me too.

According to Layla I’m too empathetic for my own good. But it’s not like I can help it. I feel everything, usually too much. The friction in rooms, the tension between two people on the verge of an argument. Sometimes even family dinners are too much for me because I’m trapped with everyone’s emotions swirling and pulling me under like a rip current.

It can be a lot, to say the least.

Which is probably why I prefer books to socializing. There’s always a paperback shoved in the front pocket of my apron—whatever I’m currently reading. It’s embarrassing how much comfort having a book within reach gives me, like an emotional support blanket I can pull out between orders.

Yet another reason I’ll remain perpetually single. It’s not as if some book boyfriend is going to jump from the pages. Although, it’d be nice.

A girl can dream.

Sundays are my one day off. I usually leave my assistant manager, Lina, in charge and use the day to catch up on errands or other random tasks I didn’t get to during the week. Laundry, returns, cleaning, dishes. It doesn’t take much more than a few days of neglect for things to get out of control fast. And I’m just one person. Plus Duchess, my eight-pound ball of orange fur.

Lina came recommended to me by my sister Elyse’s fiancé Dominic. My previous assistant manager had moved on to another job and I’d mentioned at a family dinner that I wasthinking about hiring someone new. Dominic brought up his cousin almost immediately. He said she was trying to get back on her feet following a bad divorce and that she used to manage a restaurant, so she had plenty of experience. I’d taken the recommendation on faith, brought her in for an interview, and hired her the same day. She’s easily been one of the better decisions I’ve made for the shop.

Having reliable help has meant my Sundays have finally started to feel like actual days off rather than something I have to worry about.

But just as I was all done with my tasks and ready to curl up with my favorite Kleypas book and a reluctant Duchess, my brother Ethan sent me a text asking if I was free to fill in at the tasting room. And because I rarely say no to anyone in my family, but especially Ethan, I agreed.

The tasting room is packed, as expected for a late summer Sunday. I mill about, refilling glasses and answering questions. I may not work for the winery on a full-time basis, but I know my stuff. You don’t grow up a Ledger and not know wine. It’s practically in our DNA. My dad jokes that Ledger blood is mostly tannins.

I chat with a couple from Spokane, telling them the tasting notes as I pour. I explain to a group of girlfriends why the Syrah has a peppery smell. I even manage to sell a few bottles to a husband and wife celebrating their first anniversary.

I like this part—interacting with guests and hearing their stories. Especially the couples. There’s nothing I love more than a good love story, and a little wine always seems to draw one out. Where did you meet? How did you meet? How long have you been together? It gives me hope that maybe all the books I read are rooted in truth. That somewhere out there, my own love story is waiting to be written.

A glass clinks softly on the bar in front of me, pulling me back to the present.

“Excuse me,” a voice says near my elbow.

I turn, already smiling, and find myself looking at Wesley Hampton.