Page 22 of Merlot Marriage

I’m going to lose my shit if she doesn’t explain herself soon, not that I should be surprised. If I could barrel through life the way she has, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have the emergency Xanax prescription in my bedside table.

I tap the button to put her on speakerphone. “Yes, Maggie, Philip is here.”

“Hi, Maggie. Everything alright?” Philip glances at the phone as he throws an arm around the back of my seat, backing the car up and turning with that smooth one-handed motion that is unreasonably hot.

“Hi, Philip. I seem to recall Ophie saying you have some experience with wine. Is that right?”

He raises an eyebrow in my direction, but I just shrug. I have no idea what Maggie wants. “If you mean did I spend a few summers as a teenager working at our family friend’s vineyard in Stellenbosch, then the answer is yes. But I wouldn’t say I have much experience beyond my own drinking of it.”

“Honestly, it’s not a big deal. You’re so friendly, you’re the better option even if you don’t know anything.” Maggie mutters something inaudible before laughing. “Sorry, Kel thinks I should explain the problem first.” Again, her voice goes muffled, like her hand is over the speaker.

Mimicking her, I cover mine and look at Philip. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

He shrugs and grins. “Does anyone?”

“Right. So, long story short, we have no one to run the tasting room at Sunshine this afternoon. Kel has to take Olive to a birthday party, and I have a meeting with a potential client at three, so neither of us can do it. The Suttons are in Canada, and Theo said he’d rather close than have Nate run the room again—he scares off customers.”

“What about Greg or Jackie?”

“They left for their cruise last week.” Maggie sighs.

“What cruise?”

“Greg surprised Jackie with one of those around-the-world cruises. They’re gone for the next three and a half months. Listen, if you can’t do it, that’s okay.” The stress in her tone is obvious, even though her words contradict it. I can just picture her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose like she does when she’s in planning mode.

“So, you need someone to come work the tasting room today? I volunteer as tribute, m’lady.” Philip flashes me a grin as he easesus onto the highway. “I can be there in about an hour and a half, is that alright?”

Maggie squeals, and I shove the phone away from our faces to avoid hearing loss. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much, Philip! I can man the fort until two, so as long as you can get here by then.”

I tune them out as they iron out logistics. Philip will be perfect—he’s charming, chatty, and I’ve never known a person who could bullshit their way through a conversation with more ease. I think it’s the accent. Americans are always bamboozled by a British-sounding accent.

We pass the drive home in quiet, occasionally singing along to a song or pointing out sheep, cows, or other animals.

Honestly, does livestock even exist if you don’t point and name them as you drive by?

Philip stays quiet as we go inside, dropping an absent-minded kiss to the top of my head on his way back out minutes after we arrive. At the threshold, he turns to watch me as I load our breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

I look up from sorting silverware into the basket. He’s halfway out the house, a concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows as he stares at me.

“Of course. I’ll be home after close.”

He nods before slipping out the door, closing it behind him with a softclick. I finish cleaning up the kitchen before changing into my work uniform and leaving for the coffee shop.

Midweek afternoons in the summer, when it’s finally hot and slightly humid, mean I stay busy behind the bar making iced and blended drinks. The whir of the blender is so constant, I only notice its absence when we have a lull.

Last summer, we had a short stint offering milkshakes and the usual coffee menu, but the owner nixed that option after threedifferent baristas strained their wrists scooping the ice cream. This summer, he added smoothies, which are better for our wrists but hell on the eardrums.

“Ophelia?” Sarah leans in close. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah?” I pause what I’m doing and turn to my coworker. None of my other coworkers know Philip, and I am in desperate need of a distraction. Sarah hates to cook and goes on as many dates as possible so she doesn’t have to eat alone. She always has crazy stories, so I was excited to see that we were on shift together today. “Why?”

“You’ve been mixing that lemonade concentrate for a while.” She gives me a meaningful look, and I drop the stirrer in my hand onto the counter.

“Just tired.” I shove the pitcher of thoroughly mixed lemonade into the fridge and grab a cup to start working on the next drink.

“Tired? Or distracted?” She bumps my hip with hers, takes the cup from me, and jerks her chin toward the pile of blender pitchers that needs washing.

---