Page 17 of Bottle Shock
He smirks. “Maybe I’m just enjoying this nice weather.”
“Uh-huh.” I go back to my clipboard. “You look like a man who’s enjoyingsomething—and it sure as shit isn’t the weather.”
“Grow up,” he mutters, biting his smile as he brushes past me toward the whiteboard. He studies the numbers I wrote down, and his grin fades into a frown. “We need to talk harvest.”
I jot one last note before setting the clipboard aside. “Of course we do. It’s the beginning of August. I know the drill.Not sure if you’re aware, but this isn’t my first rodeo.” I look up at him and give him a wink.
“Fine.” Sighing, he drags a hand down his face. “Could you at least humor me, then?”
“Sure can.” It’s better if I let him work this out verbally, hopefully making him feel a little less anxious.
“The Merlot blocks are showing uneven ripening again,” he continues, all business now. “I think we should move picking up a week, maybe two.”
I lean back against the counter. “Or we wait and let it even out. We’ve had weird swings all summer. No sense panicking yet.”
“Panicking keeps us ahead of problems.”
“Or it creates new ones.”
Ethan crosses his arms. “Can you stop playing devil’s advocate? It’s annoying how calm you are about this when one wrong move can fuck up the whole season.”
“Someone has to be.” I reach for another sample tube. “If we were both wound as tight as you, the grapes would probably sense the tension and refuse to ferment. Plants can sense that kind of thing, you know.”
He gives me a flat look. “You think you’re so funny.”
I shrug, smiling. “Not trying to be.”
He paces once, muttering something about me being complacent, just loud enough for me to hear.
“I heard that.”
“I meant for you to.”
I grin. Ethan likes to poke, but I’m immune to it. “Good. Then hear this too—you overthink everything. The grapes just need time.”
He points at me with the pen he’s stolen from my counter. “One day your laid-back attitude is going to blow up in your face.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But today’s not that day.”
That earns a small, reluctant laugh. He shakes his head. “You drive me fucking nuts.”
“As the oldest it’s my job.”
He ignores me, turning back to the whiteboard. “We’ll run samples again in three days. If the numbers don’t stabilize, I’m moving harvest up whether you agree or not.”
“You’re the boss. It’s your call.” I peel off my gloves. “Just don’t drag me into one of your late-night panic sessions when the readings come back the same.”
Ethan’s jaw ticks. “I don’t panic.”
I raise an eyebrow. He’s the definition of panic. He was born panicked. “You literally texted me at two a.m. last month because the humidity monitor glitched.”
“That was different,” he says quickly, voice tight.
“Sure it was.”
He flips me off over his shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh. We’ve been doing this dance since he took over—him gripping the reins tighter, me pretending not to notice. It works for us. Mostly.
He finally turns back around, checking his watch like he’s got somewhere better to be. “Dad is coming by later to look at the crush pad. You gonna be around?”
