Page 89 of Just for Tonight

I watch the buyer place his hand on top of mine, but slide mine away as if I didn’t notice. I did notice and I’m trying to figure out what to do.

How am I going to save this situation?

Is it even possible to save the situation – and the sale – without giving this guy what he obviously wants?

My excuse for moving my hand away was to reach for my wine, as if I needed a sip and was unaware of his move. I scan the restaurant while I let the wine touch my lips, thoughts spinning.

Truth be told, I’m fed up with men right now. My Uncle Victor was supposed to handle this meeting, but he double-booked himself tonight.

My Uncle Franz is getting more vocal about his disagreement with me over the planned harvest dates of the red. My grandfather is insisting we work it out between ourselves.

Darcy is pressuring me to book a trip to the Okanagan right this minute. My argument that the harvest has begun and I need to do my job falls on deaf ears. He’s told me more than once that the team here will have to get used to running the place without me. (And no, he still hasn’t asked my opinion of his choices for our shared future.)

Worst of all, Jake is gone as if he never existed. I can’t find out that he’s even been in Empire and I don’t want to call him again. I miss him, which is irritating because I doubt he misses me.

Maybe he hasn’t forgotten me. That’s the best I can hope for and it’s not much.

We are at the Italian place in Havelock and it’s too busy for me to appeal to the staff for help. What can they do? Why, oh why, did I let him drive me from the vineyard? I always drive myself, but I was cornered by this client into saving one of us a trip. My uncle agreed cheerfully, never considering the nuances, and I didn’t think about it.

I was thinking about Jake.

And now I’m caught. I look up to meet the client’s gaze – shrewd, bright, confident – and know this is how he wanted it.

Bastard.

The trick will be getting home without this guy demanding what he wants first.

I talk about the future of Rhodes Vineyards as I try to find an exit strategy. As vineyards go, we’re not the smallest. We’re not Gallo either. Once upon a time, we sold most of our production direct to the consumer. We have tastings and tours every weekend all summer long and into the fall, and that used to clear out the inventory. I like selling directly to the buyer and there are times when I get better results than my uncle and his team.

This buyer asked for me.

Of course, he did.

When we had sufficient production to go into distribution, we sold to the LCBO. For most of forever, the provincial government has been the only retail means of selling alcohol to the public. The LCBO (the Liquor Control Board of Ontario) operates a chain of stores and a massive warehousing and distribution operation. Distribute to them and you’ve got the province of ten million consumers covered. Most of the other provinces have their sister marketing boards for alcohol. Again, easy peasy.

Eventually, of course, the provinces began to loosen their hold on distribution. I think British Columbia was the first to allow alcohol to be sold in grocery stores and other businesses. Right now, Ontario is opening up that option. It’s new territory for us and explains the smooth older man sitting across from me, the one with a different alliance on his mind.

He buys for a small high-end grocery store chain and has come down here as a result of our winning awards. Only the best will do for his customers.

To be honest, I’m a lot less interested in his business than I was this afternoon. If we do this deal, it will be because he’s gotten what he wants, or thinks he will soon, which means more dinners like this in my future, and I’d rather just forget the whole thing.

The waitress brings our salads and he turns his charm upon her, giving me a moment to strategize. She is polite but cool, and I admire that.

I just need to get out of here and home safely.

Rescue comes from the most unlikely of corners. I hear the door to the restaurant open just as I’m taking my first bite – painfully aware that my companion is apparently fascinated by my mouth – when I see the hostess smile.

“You’re back. Welcome!” she says, stretching out her hand to the new arrival.

It must be a regular.

I glance over my shoulder to find Jake Cavendish just inside the door. He looks uncharacteristically casual, in taupe chinos and a button-down shirt, his hair tousled and his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. I remember his comment about sailing, but there’s nowhere to sail around Havelock.

“Oh!” I gasp without meaning to, then realize I can work with it.

If I’m going to throw myself at anyone’s mercy, Jake is indisputably the best choice.

I excuse myself and cross the restaurant with quick steps, feeling my client’s gaze bore into my back.