Unfortunately Yours (A Vine Mess, #2)

Julian snorted. In an affectionate way. His girlfriend didn’t operate under the constraints of time and clocks and calendars. As a result, his inclination to schedule every second of the day had begun to wane. Drastically. And he appeared to be quite happier for the change. Why, he wasn’t even wearing a tie and were those . . . flip-flops adorning his feet?

Before she could comment on her brother’s startling choice in footwear, Corinne cleared her throat. “We’re discussing business right now, Natalie.”

Natalie plastered a smile on her face, refusing to let the hurt of dismissal show. “Julian, when you have a chance, shoot me the name of that imaging service you were speaking about. I’m just curious.”

“Stay and talk about it with us,” he said, splitting a thoughtful frown between Corinne and Natalie. “I haven’t even gotten started on their methods of disease detection.”

“Whoa. I’m too young to die of excitement.” Natalie laughed, holding up her hands and backing away. “It’s fine. I’ll see you guys back on the surface.”

“Natalie,” Julian called when she reached the stairs, but her smile was beginning to wane, so she kept going, as if she didn’t hear him.

It’s fine.

Next Friday night was right around the corner. That was when she would prove herself.

That was when she would shine.

God knew she was never meant to do that here.

*

August propped a picture of Sam against the gravestone, sat back, and cracked open a cold one. “Cheers, buddy.”

He’d woken up even earlier than usual this morning to make the drive down to San Joaquin Valley National Cemetery, where Sam was buried. Calling his parents and informing them of the news about his wedding had been fun. Fun like a root canal. His ears were still ringing from his mother’s outraged screech. They were on a cruise to Alaska—which he didn’t even know was a thing—and obviously couldn’t make it to St. Helena by tomorrow. He’d managed to escape with what remained of his hearing by promising to bring Natalie to Kansas to meet them soon.

Maybe he should just crawl into one of these graves right now, because he didn’t know when or even if he’d be pulling that off. But it sure was nice to think about. Considering they were both tough as nails, Natalie and his mother would probably square off across the dinner table, refusing to blink. August was here for it.

Propping himself up from behind with his left fist, he lifted the beer to his lips with his right hand, tracing the name on the gravestone with his eyes. “I came here to ask you something important, man. Will you walk me down the aisle?”

Sam stared back at him from the glossy photograph, half smiling. August had snapped the shot with his phone at the end of day one of BUD/S training, where they’d met. Sam looked dog-tired in the photo, but there was a touch of exhilaration there, too, like he was relieved to get through the first twenty-four hours.

“Wait, you’re telling me only the bride gets to walk down the aisle?” August reared back a touch. “That doesn’t seem fair. I’ve been working on my runway strut for nothing.”

He listened for a minute, trying to imagine what Sam would say.

“Natalie? Yeah, she’s . . .” He let go of a breath. “Way out of my league. Remember how I used to tell you no woman would ever get me under her spell? Well, this one could. She could have me whipped in the time it takes to crack an egg.”

The wind drifted through the sunny cemetery, rustling the trees.

“I’m already whipped, you say?” August smiled into his next sip of beer. “I don’t recall asking for an opinion.” He cleared his throat. “But seriously, you know, I have no idea what I’m doing these days. I’m trying to open your stupid winery and I suck at it. Out of nowhere, I’ve got a fucking cat. Stop laughing.” The beer was sour in his mouth now. “You were really good at the things I wasn’t. I taught you how to fish, you reminded me when it was time to buy new socks. I told you the mustache made you look like a serial killer, you talked me out of mining for Bitcoin. The balance is off now. But, uh . . .”

He swiped at his eyes and shifted into a different position.

“I don’t feel off-balance when she’s around. I mean, I do. She definitely makes me feel like I’m juggling dinner plates. There’s also this feeling like . . .” He thought about it for a few seconds. “You know the feeling you had when I took this picture? Like the hard shit is over? I feel that with her. Or that it’s possible with her, I guess. I don’t know. Like if we just get through the difficult shit, all the strain we went through to reach the other side . . . I’ll remember it like it was a joy, instead of being hard.”

August listened to the wind.

“Yes, she’s hot, too, you dog. The hottest. Don’t get any ideas.”

Beer empty, he let the bottle tip sideways in the grass, then decided to do the same himself, lying with his cheek pressed to the ground.

“I knew you’d ask about the wine sooner or later. Like I said, it’s going terribly. Harvest is the easy part. Pick the grapes at night, keep them cold. Crush the grapes—yes, I left the stems and skin on during fermentation to bring the tannins to life. We’re making a Cabernet. I know that much, dick.” He exhaled. “Now the red stuff is in the barrels and that’s where I got tripped up last year. Did you know people add egg whites and clay and sulfur and all kinds of shit to bring out the flavor of the grape? There is no recipe. It’s all . . . trial and error science. And that was your deal. I’m the one who gives wedgies to the scientists.”

He rolled over onto his back and looked up into the clouds, sighing a little when one of them took the shape of Natalie’s lips.

“If you were here, I know what you’d be saying. Ask for help, August.” His throat tightened up unexpectedly. “It’s weird, though. I know I should, but I can’t. I was supposed to do this for you. I was supposed to . . . have your back at all times. I failed. I’m sorry.”

When his voice cracked, he knew it was time to go.

With one more hard clearing of his throat, August rolled back up into a sitting position, collected the picture, folded it on the crease, and carefully tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll be back soon, if you’re lucky.” He fist-bumped the gravestone. “Love you, man. Wish me luck.”





Chapter Thirteen




It was the antithesis of how Natalie had pictured her wedding.

The theme of her thwarted nuptials had been modern. Chic, black-tie, smoky jazz, and chandeliers. A rooftop ceremony at dusk, followed by champagne and mingling with colleagues. Making professional inroads at her own wedding had been a given. Although, in a manner of speaking, she was doing the same here. Marrying in the name of returning to the world of finance. The fast-paced, often ugly, no-time-to-cry business of investing.

But she never, not once, envisioned herself getting married in St. Helena in the front yard where she had once woken up beneath an overturned unicycle and Ludacris blaring from her Bluetooth speaker. Don’t get her wrong, the setting was unmatched. Mount St. Helena was clear as a bell in the distance, smothered in sunshine. The vineyard seemed to be putting its best foot forward today, rows of lush greens and rich browns rolled out like shiny ribbons in the flattering afternoon light.

Natalie walked around the perimeter of the tent where the reception would take place into the evening. It was smaller than she’d expected, based on her mother’s description, thank God. She’d convinced her mother to keep the guest list on the intimate side and for once, they hadn’t argued about it, though only one man on the list seemed to matter today—Ingram Meyer. At least to Natalie and August. For Corinne, the wedding was as much about image as it was about helping them succeed. Wasn’t it?

A hundred yards ahead, Natalie could see Hallie bustling around in ripped jean shorts and a sky-blue halter top, securing big, bright boughs of crimson roses to the aisle chairs where the ceremony itself would start in about an hour.

Natalie didn’t even have her dress on yet.

Hair and makeup was done—she’d taken care of that herself.

Everything was being handled. All she needed to do was get fake married.

Just get through today, stay married for one month to make the union believable and not blemish the Vos name with a scandal. Then she’d be on her way.

It took Natalie several moments to realize she was scanning the yard for August.

Shouldn’t he be here, with only an hour to go before the ceremony?

Had he changed his mind?

When they’d parted ways two nights ago after axe throwing, everything had seemed fine. Meaning she’d called him a lumbering twat and he’d made kissing noises at her until she’d slammed the door of her Uber on him. All perfectly normal.