Page 32 of No Rhyme or Riesling

He crossed the loading bays and made sure the flatbed was accessible, then filled out the necessary paperwork to sign two pallets out of inventory before he strode over to the forklift and fired it up.

It took him a moment to get his bearings. Despite being certified, he didn't often need to operate the machine himself, so he took extra care to remember which lever did what before he flicked the shifter forward and began to move. John already knew where the pallets were, since he always heavily involved himself in inventory. He drove down the main aisle, endless rows of stacked pallets stretching off to either side of him, climbing up towards the high ceiling. Pinot noir. Chardonnay. Merlot. Sangiovese. On and on, they went, tidy pallets wrapped in plastic. He didn't even have to look at the signs to know what was where. The pallets of estate cabernet were down just past the row that held viognier.

John turned the forklift, lined it up, lifted down a pallet from its stack, and drove back over to the flatbed. He set the palletcarefully on the surface before going back and repeating the process.

He could have waited until morning and had their forklift driver take care of it all, but John wanted to see it done now. Otherwise, he'd sit around his house all evening, wishing he'd gotten it handled.

John parked the forklift, strapped the pallets down to the truck, then left a copy of the purchase order and a bill of lading in the truck's cab before he shut off the lights and went back to his office, hoping Everett and Ward would be gone.

Except they were both still there, deep in conversation.

Christ.

The two men barely even paused to acknowledge John's return. John stepped around behind his desk, trying to tune them out while he looked again at the to-do list he'd written for himself on Monday morning. Several items had been crossed off over the past few days, but plenty remained.

“I guess I've just never felt a true sense of companionship with any of the women I've dated,” Ward was saying.

Everett breathed a laugh. “I hear you there.”

“Like,” Ward went on, “I want someone who will have my back, and I'll have theirs. Someone who sees things eye-to-eye. Not necessarily that they'd have to agree with me on everything, of course. That would be boring. But…”

“A partner,” Everett suggested.

“Yeah. Exactly. Someone who can face me as an equal. Look me in the eye and know that we share the same values. Someone who wants to face the world together–”

John gave a start. “What did you just say?”

Ward cringed. “Damn. Sorry.” He glanced at the clock. “We totally got carried away.” He started to stand up. “I should get out of your hair–”

“No, really,” John insisted, staring at him. “What did you just say?”

Ward gave him a puzzled frown, but he repeated several of the phrases he'd just used.

John kept staring, then swore under his breath, snatched up a notepad, and started scribbling it all down.

Face the world. Have my back. Eye to eye.He could almost hear the music beneath the words as his pen raced across the page.

“John?”

John froze, then dropped his pen and quickly flipped the notepad over, hiding what he'd written, hoping his cheeks weren't as red as they felt. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry.” Before either Ward or Everett could say anything, John announced, “The pallets are loaded. I'll make sure they're delivered first thing.”

Everett eyed him for a moment but didn't comment on the sudden subject change. He merely gave John a nod and thanked him. “You're right,” he said to Ward. “We should get going.” He checked his watch, then shot John a look. “Don't work too late.”

John gave him a nod, but didn't verbalize any promises since he wasn't sure he could keep them. He mutteredgoodnightto them both as they headed out the door, the pair picking up their conversation right where John had interrupted them.

He let out a heavy sigh when his door shut, cutting off the sound of their chatter. After a moment, he slowly reached out and flipped the notepad back over, eyeing the phrases he'd written down.

John could almost feel the words weaving themselves together into a new verse. Maybe even the chorus. He'd have to sit down and think it all through. Maybe over that glass of wine he'd been craving earlier. John sighed. It would be aperfect evening. Just him, a bottle of syrah, his guitar, and fresh inspiration forAdam's Song.

Except, when he finally got home that night, he barely had time to eat and shower before collapsing into bed.

As John fell asleep—plagued by unfinished lyrics dancing around in his mind—all he could think was that the weekend couldn't come fast enough.

Chapter 12

_________

ADAM

---