Page 34 of Corkscrew You
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, with a smile. “Or I’ll sip carefully. This stuff is like molten lead.”
“I aim to please.” I smile back. “Right. What do we need to worry about first?”
* * *
The morning races by. We head back to the office and Nate takes me through the accounting system, but not the actual accounts because he still has the shoebox of receipts to enter. And to be honest, I don’t want to know how bad things are until I have to. I’m much happier when things are in their Schrödinger’s phase – you can still be optimistic they’re alive rather than know for sure that they’re dead.
I tell him in return about my plans for the next vintage. That gets him talking about the winery in France, and we get so immersed in our conversation, we forget to stop for lunch. I only realize I’m hungry when my stomach makes a huge gurgle. Thanks, stomach. Way to be professional.
“It’s three-fifteen!” Nate checks his phone. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Wine is very interesting.”
“Agreed,” he says. “But we’ve only scratched the surface of the worry list.”
‘Is it really a worry list?”
I don’t mean to ask this in a sad, small voice but that’s how it comes out.
Nate looks at me like he’s weighing up how much truth I can stand.
“We can do it,” he says. “But we haven’t got a lot of runway, so let’s be as smart as we can.” He hesitates. “I wish I could offer you a cast-iron guarantee, but it’d be bad for both our sakes to set unrealistic expectations.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate you being upfront with me.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
And we stare at each other. There seems to be some sort of electrical disturbance in the air. Either that, or the office wiring needs an overhaul.
“I almost kissed you yesterday,” I tell him.
He makes a choking sound.
“Too upfront?” I ask.
If it is, it’s too late now.
He clears his throat. “I have something to confess, too.”
My heart jumps anxiously. Hope it’s not something that’ll make me cry.
“My stupid reason for getting all high and mighty yesterday,” he says, “was that I was jealous of Survivalist Ken.”
Who? Oh!
“Cam? What do you mean you were jealous of him?”
Nathan props his elbows on the desk and leans forward.
“I was jealous because he was sitting with you,” he says. “And because you were looking at him with affection. And because he’s big and manly and probably knows how to tame wild beasts. And because he’s known you longer than a few days. And just … because.”
Oh my, those eyes. So very blue. And that mouth. So very delicious. So very close.
“Do you want to come to the house for pie?” I ask him. “Or…”
I can’t say it. It’s not the sort of thing I say.
His jaw is tense, and his breathing has quickened.
