Season of Change. Melinda Curtis
with an emotion he couldn’t read. Disappointment? Determination? Her gaze cut too quickly to the twins, then returned to him, the chipper expression back on her face. “There are plenty of empty buildings on Main Street. You could convert some space there. I bet some of those buildings are historic landmarks and you could apply for a federal grant to pay for all or part of the refurbishment. The partnership could buy a building and lease it to the winery.”
She had a good head for business. Not since he and Evangeline had spent their internships working at a Wall Street investment company had a woman’s situation analysis seemed...well...almost sexy.
And look where that had gotten him. Unplanned pregnancy. Shotgun wedding. Nasty divorce. Nastier custody battle.
Slade’s grip on reality returned. Main Street was almost exclusively owned by Mayor Larry, who’d been the winery’s biggest roadblock. The uneasy feeling in his gut intensified. “What’s our third option?”
Her smile definitely dimmed. “You can purchase all your wine-making equipment to meet your five-year production plan and I’ll make cuts elsewhere to pay for storage-rental fees. This makes the most sense to the bottom line, but I’ll have to drive a minimum of sixty minutes each way to check on our wine. That takes a big chunk out of my workday.”
Slade nodded. “Maybe we could hire a fourth employee.” It was, after all, why they were building the winery. To bring people back to town. And it seemed to have the least impact on his budget.
“This shouldn’t be about employees. It should be about the wine.” A warning of boundaries about to be crossed.
“If you don’t make good wine, I can’t keep people employed.” He settled his elbows on the table, setting boundaries of his own. “What if the opportunity arose tomorrow to make more wine? Would you turn it down?” The town needed her to say no.
“It depends.”
Unacceptable. She had to align with him. “I realize this is an unexpected and challenging situation. I want our wine to be of the highest quality, and at the same time employ as many people as we can. If the opportunity presents itself—”
“I’d have to know the quality of the grapes to assess the financial implications. Are you giving me grapes the quality of a five-dollar bottle of wine? Or fifty? And where would I store it while it ages?” Mexican pop filled the silence while she considered him with swimming-pool-blue eyes. “At this point, I can agree to consider it, but I can’t promise you anything.”
Several promises he’d welcome from her came to mind. None of them related to the business of wine making. Slade drummed his fingers on the table. The attraction to her was unexpected. He forced himself to look at her alternative-rock T-shirt. And then he looked at his daughters. This should be a no-attraction no-brainer. Business was business.
“How firm are you on this budget?” Christine asked.
“Concrete. The winery’s already been a money suck.”
She arched a brow. “Seriously? You didn’t sock some away for a contingency?”
“We spent our contingency.” And then some. A building collapse. Road improvements. Neither of which they’d budgeted for. He winked at the twins, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s kind of like your mom’s shoe budget—there were unexpected must-haves and then the contingency was gone.”
The twins didn’t so much as twitch. Not an eyebrow, not a lip, not a dimple. And Christine stared at him oddly. It wasn’t fair. Slade was funny. In his own way. With his friends. And Flynn’s nephew, Truman. Why was his humor falling flat?
It was of increasing concern that his daughters, who had at least spoken to him civilly at Christmas, weren’t speaking to him at all. At first, he’d thought it was quirky, almost cute. It was starting to grate on his nerves.
Christine smiled slyly at the twins. “We ladies know that there’s always room in the budget for another must-have pair of shoes.” She gave the approaching waitress an encouraging wave. “Oh, good. Food’s here.”
Slade looked down in time to see a plate of nachos land in front of him and Christine’s delicate fingers snatching a chip loaded with meat, cheese, sour cream, and guacamole. He glared at her. He was used to intimidating people with his glare.
Christine laughed, winked at the twins again, and positioned her bowl of ice cream for an assault. “This wine cave...” She filled her spoon with slightly melted ice cream. On its way to her mouth, a drip of vanilla landed on her chin. She swiped it off with her finger and sucked her finger clean.
The world narrowed to her mouth, her lips, the flick of her tongue.
Slade reminded himself he was Christine’s employer, reminded himself she held the future of his investment in her hands, reminded himself that he hadn’t been interested in a woman in a long, long time.
“This wine cave,” she began again, swirling her spoon around the edges of her ice-cream bowl. “It isn’t the only decision you need to face.”
He made himself crunch a big bite of cheesy nachos before answering her. “What’s your point?”
Christine put down her spoon, suddenly serious. “My point is that it might be better to scale back and understand the quality of wine we’re dealing with before you invest more time and money. We can rent climate-controlled storage space with the small lots of wine we’re producing this year if you can’t afford something here in town.” The word afford poked at Slade like someone questioning the legitimacy of his Rolex. “It’s inconvenient, but I’ll deal with it, because you may find after a year that you and your friends don’t want to own a winery.”
“We’re committed to long-term success. I’d think you’d be interested in that, as well.”
“I am.” She patted his hand and then stole another nacho chip. “I signed a contract with you for a year. Where I come from, that’s long-term.”
Right now, a year was looking like a twelve-month tax season, one in which he was being audited.
* * *
“NOW PROBABLY ISN’T the time to mention that there’s some basic vineyard equipment I’ll need, but I’m going to anyway.” Christine pushed her empty bowl of ice cream to the center of the table and started in full-time on Slade’s nachos. He arched a dark eyebrow at her, but she hadn’t eaten anything that morning, since she’d been busy moving the last of her things to her grandmother’s house. Ice cream wasn’t cutting it. The man was a millionaire. He could afford to order another plate of nachos. “For starters, a tractor, a truck scale, a forklift, and harvest lugs.”
Sighing, Slade moved the nachos closer to Christine, abdicating ownership. “We’ll put together some estimates and new projections. You did mention something in your résumé about the ability to balance budgets?”
“I did.” Christine decided she’d pushed the man enough for one day and merely grinned around the last bite of nachos. She wanted to make great wine, not a lot of wine that may or may not be great. And to do that, she needed to continually win the battle over Slade’s well-intentioned but unrealistic production goals and his budget miscalculations.
He tossed cash onto the table. “I should get the twins home.”
She followed him out the door. He sent the twins ahead to the truck.
“We’ll work this out together, keeping in mind what our investment goals are and what goals you can deliver on,” Slade said from between lips that barely smiled. “Can you bring me a revised purchasing plan and budget in two days?”
“Absolutely.” Christine wasn’t sure where she found the audacity to add, “But I’m going to make recommendations based on year-one output for the next few years.”
Those perfect lips of his settled into a thin line.
The sad part was, it didn’t diminish his perfection