Page 19 of Que Será, Syrah

“Yeah. This time.”

I nod and shrug, acknowledging the truth in that implication. Because yeah—even knowing it’s a bad idea, on another day, I might decide differently. “I doubt it’s going to be a problem,” I tell Miles. “I cited her for driving without a license; I impounded the car she’d just bought; I embarrassed her in front of her sisters and stuck her with a hefty fine. So, I’m pretty sure she hates me right now.”

Miles shakes his head. “Jesus, Clay. No wonder you’re still single.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning that, in my experience, women rarely offer to buy drinks for men they hate—unless they’re trying to get something out of them.”

“You might be right,” I admit. “Or then again, maybe you’ve just been hanging out with the wrong women.”

Allegra

By the time I’m finished with my lunch, the deputies are gone. Monty—my new nickname for Deputy Nameless, short for Montague, obvs—shot one of those smoldering looks in my direction right before he left. The veiled smile. The hot gaze. The nearly imperceptible nod of his head. Even from across a crowded restaurant, I could feel the BDE. And it made up—if only a little—for the lack of encouragement I’ve been getting from him otherwise. There’s something between us, I’m almost sure of it. I have no idea what, exactly, but it feels hot and dangerous and damn near irresistible.

After splurging on dessert—because how do you say no to lavender Crème Brûlée? – I go back to running errands. I pick up cleaning supplies, painting supplies, and enough snack food to feed an entire stadium of tailgaters. Then make a quick detour to nearby Solano County to hit a big consignment furniture warehouse and arrange for a few pieces to be delivered.

When I get back home, I grab a few of the padawans (who, to quote Prince, are doing something close to nothing—as far as I can tell) and put them to work. Within no time at all they’ve got the boxes moved out of the tasting room, and the barrels moved in. Then we’re scrubbing floors and polishing woodwork; stringing lights along the ceiling; painting the walls a soft, cypress green that will highlight everything I need it to (the oak, the tiles, the wine); and washing the original Caparelli-logoed wine glasses that I’ve unearthed from behind the bar—one of the two lucky finds I’ve made here today.

The food is a big draw (as I knew it would be) and soon my army of hive workers has tripled, and then quadrupled in size. It’s a party now. And, to make things even more fun for them, I take a few minutes to teach them the words to a couple of the songs Nonna and I made up years ago.

The next thing you know, we’re all singing as we work. It’s like a scene out of a freaking movie musical. And just as I’m wishing my family could see me now, my sisters and Jake show up with another man. Judging by his build, I’m guessing this is the hockey player.

“I suppose we should have known who was behind the mutiny,” Jake says, looking equal parts resigned, exasperated, and fond. “Legs, what’s going on? You Shanghaied my interns.”

“I think you mean our interns, don’t you, bro-in-law?” I correct, and yeah, okay, that might have come out sounding a tad snarkier than I meant it to. “Aren’t they doing a great job?” I gesture at the room around us and then focus on the unfamiliar face, “And you must be Jansen?”

“Guilty,” he says with a slow sexy smile that’s almost as good as one of Monty’s. And which (were he not involved with my sister) I might even have found tempting. Rawr.

“This is my younger sister Allegra,” Bianca tells him. Then turning to me she asks, “Legs? Are those my barrels?”

“Maybe?” I say, casting a quick glance at the trio of sixty-gallon barrels that I’ve repurposed into bistro tables. “I mean, it’s not like anyone was using them.” I shoot another glance at her boyfriend and add, “And I’ve seen the wine cave, by the way, so don’t pretend you don’t have plenty more—even newer than these.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Well, I don’t know why not.” I shrug and then turn to Rosa who’s been staring fixedly at the wall behind the bar in a way that’s making me antsy. “Do you like the paint? It’s limewash. No chemical smell, so it shouldn’t affect anyone’s wine tasting experience. And supposedly you never have to clean it. Although, I’m not sure what the FDA will have to say about that. Do you know?”

“Where did you get that?” she asks instead, turning her frown on me.

“The paint? At the hardware store in Napa. Why?”

“No, not the paint.” She points at the metal Caparelli sign that I’d hung up earlier. “That sign. It’s just like the one we’ve got hanging in the kitchen.”

“It is the one from the kitchen,” I tell her, “That’s where I got it. I think it works much better out here, don’t you?”

“Legs!”

“What?”

“It was a gift,” she tells me. “A tenth anniversary wedding gift from Jake to me. And no, actually; I thought it was perfect right where I had it.”

“What do you mean ‘it was a gift’? You told me you found it in storage?”

“I found it,” Jake explains. “While I was searching through my mom’s storage unit. I think she must have picked it up while she was antiquing.”

“Well, I don’t know why either of you should have had it,” I tell him. “It’s obviously Caparelli property—and you know my Nonna would never have gotten rid of it. But I guess if Rosa really wants to keep it in the kitchen, that’s her call.”

“Gee, thanks so much,” Rosa says, her Serena level sarcasm on full display, yet again. “If you’re sure it’s not too much of an inconvenience?”

---