If cringing was an Olympic sport, I’d be medaling right now. Silver at least. Probably gold.That was what happened whenever Mom decided to forget her woes and responsibilities—and the fact that she was nearing sixty—and ‘live every day fully.’ It was also what happened when she’d had too many tiny plastic glasses of wine.“Your mom is killing it,” my friend Chad observed at my side.The DJ was playing “Uptown Funk,” a song I wasn’t sure Mom had ever actually heard before, and she was doing some combination of what looked like the Funky Chicken and a pantomime of being trapped inside a box. My brother Dalton was out in the middle of the grassy lawn with her, encouraging her insanity with his own ridiculous moves.“That’s one way to put it,” I muttered, swallowing down what was left in my own tiny plastic glass. “She really needs to get back to her table,” I said, glancing around at the steadily growing crowd of afternoon food and wine lovers gathering in the grassy park where the annu

“I should kill you for making me wear this bra,” I muttered, trying to wiggle and tug just right to get the girls to settle into the strapless bra that was currently trying to stab me in the ribs. Bras without the harness straps were for girls with a C-cup or less. That was, like, a golden rule or something.“You’ve got the goods, you need to show them off. You’ll thank me when Mr. Forever notices you today,” Ashley said as she stood patiently by the back bumper of her car waiting for me to get my outfit to cooperate.The snort I gave her was not feminine. “You mean when he falls eyeballs first into my cleavage and forgets my name? No thanks.”“You’re always saying those guys you date don’t take you as a real prospect. Show them you’re more than just a female friend they can rely on for really tasty chocolate chip cookies.”“Or for doing their tax returns for free every year,” I grumbled, reaching back into the car for my crossbody bag. It cut across my boobs and made them look like w

The rest of the wine festival went well—at least from a sales perspective. I introduced myself and West Wines to a few wineries I hadn’t spoken to before, making connections that would hopefully help us grow. Dad had made us one of the biggest distributors in this part of the state, but there was always competition. And now that West Wines was going to essentially support the launch of Mom’s winery, well, I didn’t want to tell her this, but it was going to be tight for a bit.My mother wasn’t wrong about needing help. Besides not having the first clue how to make wine, she wasn’t much of a salesperson. She was too kind. If I left it to her, she’d be giving the wine away. Jacques already had his hands full in the winery—he’d mentioned that Mom was a lot more prepared to embrace the “art” side of winemaking than she was willing to undertake the more scientific aspects.But making her own wine was Mom’s dream, and it was the only thing that had made her smile since Dad had died. So even

The front door slammed behind me and caught part of thecloth shopping bag I had in my hands to take to Mom’s house. I tried to pull it free, but it was lodged pretty good. With a sigh, I grabbed my keys out of my purse to open my place back up, but then I fumbled the keys and almost spilled my travel mug of coffee.“Careful there, El,” came the voice I tried to avoid when I was running low on time or patience.Frank. My duplex neighbor.I gave him a weak smile, which froze in place when I saw him standing in his bathrobe and boxers, scratching his considerable beer belly. He had one of his female mannequins sitting in the single chair he could squeeze in on his tiny front porch. Usually, he kept those ladies inside the house, which was creepy enough. No need to bring them outside and remind us he had a few screws loose.“Off to your mom’s?” he called across our adjoining decks, then took a huge slurp of coffee before offering the cup to his inanimate friend.My routine was highly pre

I shouldn’t have texted with her. I should have told her right away that I wasn’t Chad. I almost forgot she thought I was until that last text came in.Beautiful Accountant: Enjoy your work. Goodnight, Chad.I sat back in Dad’s chair, the loud groan of the hinges sending a wave of deep sadness rolling through me. The single lamp was on over the desk, and the room was otherwise dark and quiet. Seeing my phone light up with El’s name had brightened the place—and my evening—but the brutal reminder that she didn’t even know who she was texting dimmed things considerably.That and the news that she was going to quit.It was probably that information that had stopped me from coming clean. She was leaving anyway, and though Solano Creek wasn’t a big place, I spent all my time at West Wines or Cunning Ham Winery. The odds I’d ever see her again felt miniscule. And who knew if she was even staying here? I knew nothing about Isabel Watson.Nothing except that she was beautiful. And smart. And t