Page 13 of Bordeaux Bombshell (Sunshine Cellars #3)
Sydney
I should be working, not sitting in the Sunshine tasting room with a billionaire’s wife and her daughter, staring out the picture windows at my nemesis’s ass.
It all sounds like the start of a terrible joke. Which I suppose it is, since my whole life has become one.
When I stopped by Maggie and Kel’s house this morning to take Olive to school after their late night at urgent care with Jordan, I hadn’t planned to end up here.
But between Kel’s frantic description of the frost—I vaguely remember the panic that ensued when a similar frost happened back when I was in middle school—and Maggie’s whispered plea for me to please drive because Kel had only slept for an hour the night before, I ended up exactly where I should not have.
At Sunshine.
“What kind of writing do you do?” Sophie asks me.
I pull my thoughts away from the shapely curve at the back of Nate’s jeans so I can string the appropriate words together. “Whatever my clients ask me to. Blogs, web page copy, social media posts. Whatever they need.”
Sophie nods, her blond hair swinging with the motion. “You must be talented. What made you decide to go the freelance route and not work with an agency or in-house?”
I wanted to be able to pack up and move to France if a certain someone ever got his head out of his ass is the real answer. But I give Sophie the standard one I’ve perfected. “I like the variety of having clients in different industries.”
After I’d graduated from college with my marketing degree, I worked for an agency for a few years.
The constant rush, the lack of pride in what we crafted, and the shit pay had worn me down until I found myself debating the merits of quitting and working at the sandwich shop across the road.
And the only reason the agency won out was because of the health insurance.
But when the agency downsized and laid me off, a former client reached out to me and offered me some freelance work.
That client introduced me to another, and by the time my severance was about to run out, I had enough clients to almost replace my salary.
I never looked back. Being able to pack up and move at a moment’s notice was an unexpected and welcome benefit.
Sometimes I miss the stability of working at a single place, and I definitely miss the benefits, but for now, being my own boss and having the ability to not work with assholes if I don’t want to make it worth it.
Sophie takes a sip from her water bottle, nodding in understanding. Part of me wants to be impressed that she and her husband dragged themselves here so early on a weekday morning, but that feels like giving them too much credit.
They own the place. Billionaires or not, they should be invested in its success.
And that means showing up at an ungodly early hour after an unexpected frost in April.
I can’t count the number of times my mom and I brought my brother and the Ridgefields breakfast or lunch after they’d been out here working their asses off from before the sun was up. It’s part of the job.
“I can understand that. When I was still working at the magazine, I enjoyed the variety of topics I was given to write about. Even when some of them were ridiculous.” Sophie pats her daughter’s arm. “You remember the blog I was assigned about broccoli?”
Emma shakes her head, then grins at me. “Fifteen Times Broccoli Was Cooler Than Cauliflower. I’ve never eaten so much broccoli in my life.” She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially in my direction. “If you thought cauliflower pizza was bad…” She shivers and makes a gagging noise.
Laughing, Sophie smacks her arm. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was.” Emma’s laugh rings through the empty room, and I can’t help joining in.
Emma recounts a few more of Sophie’s more memorable blogs from Hype, each just as ridiculous as the first. I add a few of my own to the mix, my favorite being the time I wrote all the website copy for a line of spice mixes, stuffed with every pun I could think of.
I know Nate still resents them for buying this place, but I can’t help liking them. It’s obvious they care about the Ridge. They care about Greg and Jackie and treat them with respect. I’ve never seen Sophie or Theo throw their weight around as the owners.
Truly, the only thing I can hold against them is that they took over the big house—the one I have so many memories of.
They didn’t even rename my wine when they rebranded, and for that, I will always be grateful.
Greg named the riesling line after my cat Amelia when she died my sophomore year.
Saying goodbye to her broke my heart, and losing that piece of her would break me all over again.
It’s just one more reason that, as much as I want to disembowel Nate on a regular basis—especially when he has that smug look in his eye after we trade orgasms—I can’t cut him off.
His home is my home.
His family is my family.
And even though my worst memories are tied to him, my happiest memories are too.
I can’t remove one without losing the other.
Beer splashes on my shoes when the crowd erupts in cheers.
The man singing karaoke onstage waves his arms to hype them up even more, even as his voice cracks and warbles on the high notes.
I cringe, but karaoke isn’t meant for people who can actually sing.
The general bouncing and flailing have knocked me around more than once as I weave between people to get back to my friends, drinks in hand.
“Next time, you’re coming with me,” I shout in my friend’s ear, sliding four glasses onto the table.
Immediately, Chelsea and Nicole scoop up their beers and turn back to each other, deep in an argument.
I don’t bother trying to interrupt—they got into it over their daughter’s report card and have been like this all evening.
When I asked why they bothered to come, Nicole laughed and said something about enjoying the kids being at Grandma’s.
Chelsea grinned and added something about angry sex that I didn’t catch over the loud music, but based on the lascivious way she eyed her wife, I chose not to ask her to repeat it.
I know a thing or two about angry sex—I don’t need them to elaborate.
“Sure thing, babe.” Payton slides a hand over the top of her drink, never taking her eyes off the two men standing in front of her as she lifts it to sip from the straw protruding between her fingers. “This is Everett and his friend Sawyer. They’re in town for a conference.”
The one on the right jerks his chin in my direction. “What’s up? I’m Everett.”
The two men have vaguely Midwestern-wholesome looks.
Hair that could be blond or brunette, square jaws, wide foreheads, light-colored eyes.
Not unattractive, but utterly forgettable.
Lanyards still hang from their necks, “Food Northwest Process he’s got reach I can’t avoid, and once again, he traps my digit beneath his.
Grinning, he flips our joined hands over and pulls the back of mine toward his lips.
Gross, gross, gross. Disgusted, I recoil, looking around for my girls, but Payton is deep in conversation with his friend, and Chelsea and Nicole are nowhere to be seen.
Desperately, I turn my head and strain to see through the crowd while he kisses my knuckles. His lips are both chapped and wet, which makes no sense, and his hot breath makes my skin crawl before I finally spot my friends making their way toward the stage.
I’m on my own.