Page 110 of The Difference Between

Part of it’s the fact that, silly as it seems, I don’t want to let teenage Reese down. This is what I thought I’d be doing when I was young, and if I only get a few months to try it, I want it to be good. Excellent, even.

And, well, possibly the biggest part is that . . . I own the place. As of yesterday’s signing of closing paperwork, Glass of Vine is all mine.

I had the money, the time, and not a single reason to say no. The Family never would’ve approved the deal—I knew it as my fingers hovered over the send button of my email to Trish—it’s too small. So I bought it and knew there wasn’t a reason to tell anyone.

My mother and sisters—and Gavin—will read into it like it’s a concrete sign of me coming back here, and I’m not prepared to make that decision. I need to see how this plays out first to know if that’s even a viable option. I’m treating this like I have every other business I’ve acquired in my career: without emotion and with a focus on creating value.

According to my model based on diversified revenue streams—commercial bottle sales and tasting room purchases combined with future wine club memberships, special events, and classes if Banyan can keep his free-loving dick in his flowy pants—my projected annual numbers should hit at least one million in the next three years. That doesn’t include the increased income if I use Nancy’s house as a short-term rental once she moves out. Tourists who want a fully immersive experience would eat up the opportunity to sleep on a working vineyard—or winery if I ever get to that step—and I’d eat up the augmented profits by them doing so.

Yes, the vineyard is in good shape, but to accomplish all my goals before I go back to Chicago, this weekend needs to be flawless. And if that means me writing stupid sayings on signs, so be it.

Someone who wasn’t so controlling would have delegated that task to Gavin.

Gavin, who I haven’t stopped thinking about since Thursday night.

Gavin, whose truck is currently parked across the property at his shed along with a half dozen others like it is every Saturday morning.

I adjust the welcome sign and try various angles for the opening prop of the tasting room door.

I double-check the bottles and glasses behind the bar.

I close the door then reopen it.

I arrange all the handmade glasses by color.

I go to the bathroom to look in the mirror and wonder if I took this casual concept too far. As much as I love my go-to outfit of a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and pumps, if I’ve learned anything from Banyan these last weeks it’s that it’s easier to function in this environment with something more basic. I’m in jeans, tennis shoes, and a simple grey T-shirt.

Nash will be here in thirty minutes with the first tour—maybe I should go back to Mom’s and change.

I wipe my hands on my jeans. It’s seventy-nine perfect degrees with low humidity and I’m sweating.

Then it hits me.

I’m nervous.

Oh, God.

This has to go well—I may have plenty of money, but I still spent over a million dollars on this place and that’s still a lot of dollars. And I hate—hate—failing.

Banyan comes into view through the doorway, strolling through the vines in flowy orange pants, a white linen shirt—buttoned—and some brown horned device around his neck. My throat closes.

We can’t do a soft opening like this. Me and him?

What the fuck was I thinking?

It shouldn’t be a ton of people, but there might be enough that if something goes wrong, an extra set of hands would be nice.

Gavin’s working in his shop—whatever that means—he can’t help.

Nancy’s in the middle of a move. Even though she had her eye on a smaller house before she accepted my offer, because of how fast our deal went through, she doesn’t close on her new place for two weeks. She’s still living in the farmhouse and using every free minute to pack.

My mom shouldn’t lift anything heavier than ten pounds, not that there’s much to lift. Also, she’ll drive me nuts.

I pull out my phone. Who can I call?

Rue would be great, but when she told me to ask her nicely for help, that sealed the deal of me never eating crow to her. I’ll shut the place down before that happens.

I’ll call Remy. I’m scrolling for her number when the crunch of tires on gravel makes my stomach jump then drop. Nash can’t be twenty-five minutes early!