Laura Drake - Twice in a Blue Moon

The future manager must be willing to work for next to nothing.

“Yeah, that should be an easy ad to write.” She did a search for a central California winery job board, trying to conjure the words to put lipstick on that pig.

* * *

DANOVANSQUINTED AT his computer screen and read the post again, hoping to glean more information.

Wanted: Winery Manager

A great opportunity to get in on the

Grand Reopening of a boutique winery with a solid reputation for outstanding wines.

Great working environment!

Please apply in person to

The Tippling Widow Winery,

Widow’s Grove, California

He’d never heard of The Tippling Widow, but that wasn’t surprising. Mom-and-pop operations lay scattered in the hills all over the valley.

Reading between the lines of the sunny ad, it was clear that this would be a lot of work for little acclaim. He squared his shoulders. This job was far beneath him. He’d been a lead vintner at one of the largest winemakers in all of California.

Had being the key point.

He flipped to the Bacchanal website. His own smile met him. A flashy photo of the favorite son raising a glass of Pan’s Reserve Cab, his father-in-law’s arm around his shoulder.

His breath whooshed out. The family hadn’t changed the website yet. No surprise there. He was still stunned to blasted stillness inside...the family must be too. His daughter’s cherubic smile drifted across his vision, softening the edges, blurring it. He pulled his mind from the darkness. He had to keep moving forward. There was nothing left behind.

Who was he kidding? If the owner of Tippling Widow hadn’t heard of his epic ousting at Bacchanal two weeks ago, a simple phone call to check references would remedy that. Failure bubbled up, turning his skull into a witch’s cauldron of funk. Should he even bother applying?

He glanced at the walls of the crappy apartment he wouldn’t be able to afford next month. What choice did he have? Gathering the scattered chunks of his career, his ego and his regrets, he wrote down the address of The Tippling Widow. He had to try.

When he first pulled into the parking lot, he thought the place abandoned. But a basset hound lumbered around the corner of the covered porch to the front steps and sat down, staring at his car. He shut off the engine.

What are you going to say when they ask about your last job?

“Hell if I know.” His voice bounced off the windows and back at him. He’d just have to dance around the truth. A little. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, then, résumé in hand, stepped out.

Unpruned vines in untidy rows straggled up and down the hills like drunken soldiers.

Well, at least here you’ll be needed. Retucking his custom-tailored dress shirt into his favorite slacks, he smothered the last chance whisper in his mind, slapped on a salesman’s smile and strode toward the porch.

Taking the drooling dog’s thumping tail as a gesture of goodwill, he stepped around it on the way to the door. At the sound of sweeping coming from the right, he turned. A broom appeared from around the corner, followed by a small, thin woman in a faded T-shirt and spandex pants that ended below the knee. Golden-highlighted brown hair escaped a red bandana to fall around her sweaty face.

He might have to give up the Land Rover, but if this was an example of the help around here, at least there’d be some perks to the job. “Excuse me.”

She squeaked and jumped, her Keds actually leaving the porch. She raised a French-manicured hand to her chest, her deep brown eyes huge.

“Could you tell me where I could find the owner?”

She tucked a hank of hair behind her ear and shot a look at the roof of the porch, her lips moving silently. The broom fell with a clatter, and she scrubbed her hands on her slim thighs and extended a hand. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. The working owner,” she said with a blush and an apologetic smile.

He knew that name. His mind sorted data, trying to remember from where. Her hand was soft, warm and fine-boned. She might be a working owner, but with hands like that, she hadn’t been for long. “I’m Danovan DiCarlo. I’ve come to apply for the manager position.”

“I only posted that opening last night. I never dreamed anyone would be by so soon.” Her hand slipped from his. “I’m sorry to be a mess. Please, come in.”

She led him to the front door, stopping to pet the hound. “This is Barnabas. The Tippling Widow mascot.”

He followed her, wishing he could shake the hand of whoever invented spandex. He’d always been a leg man. The muscles in her calves were fluid in flexion. Her thighs were long and firm, and her ass...legendary. Suddenly, the name clicked. That body had graced the cover of the Hollywood rags Lissette consumed like trendy cocktails. This was Harry Stone’s arm-candy wife. What the heck was she doing here?

She led the way through a high-ceilinged, timber-framed tasting room, through a door and into an office. At least, at some point in the past, this space must have been an office. Large arched windows looked out onto the front lawn, and the wood modesty panel told him there was likely a desk under the piles of paper.

She lifted a stack of wine trade magazines from the guest chair. “Have a seat.” She looked around for a place to put the magazines. Not finding room on the desk, she dropped them into a corner. They hit the dirty carpet with a muffled whump . She walked around the desk and lowered herself into a scarred high-backed leather chair as if it were a throne. “I’d apologize for the mess, but I’m afraid once I start, I’d never stop.”

“If everything was shipshape, you wouldn’t need me.” He gave her a salesman’s smile and handed his résumé to her over the paper piles. Given Harry Stone’s money, Danovan figured that finances shouldn’t be a problem . And once he took over, she could go back to Hollywood. This job was looking up.

The light from the dirty window fell on her heart-shaped face as she read. Flawless pale milk skin, her mouth a bit too wide and big, sad eyes. Not just the sad within them, but in their shape, tilting down a bit at the outside edge. She turned the page with long, elegant fingers.

She looked up, and their gazes locked. He recognized the pain in those big eyes from what he saw in the mirror every morning.

Why so sad? He froze for a heartbeat, afraid he’d said it out loud.

* * *

ARROGANT AND FULL of himself. Indigo studied her potential employee, not caring that he stared back. She had nothing to hide. Profiles like his graced Italian coins. He had a spade-shaped face: broad forehead, arresting wide-spaced brown eyes. There was a diagonal line through one of his heavy brows. At first she thought it was a razored fashion statement, but looking closer, she saw it was a scar. It, along with a slightly crooked nose, just made him look rugged. And a strong jaw narrowing to a squared-off chin only added to the effect.

Oh, Harry, your cameras would love this one.

And he knew how good-looking he was. He wore handsomeness as casually as he did his expensive clothes. Hollywood was full of men like this, bursting with charm and hubris. He had no way of knowing she’d been inoculated against that type years ago. “Why would you want this position?” She read from the résumé. “Cum laude in agribusiness from UC Davis, you worked your way up to lead vintner at one of the largest growers in the area within three years.” She dropped the paper and studied the man it supposedly explained. “You are obviously overqualified.”

“Actually, I’m looking to this job as a way of completing my education.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the chair arms. “I need to know how to start up a winery if I hope to own my own someday.” His eyes traveled around the dingy room. “No offense meant.”