I turn the bottle around in my hands and look at the label. The corner of the sticker describing the type of wine is starting to lift on its own. With nothing better to do—except for the things I’ve done all day with little or no success—I pick at it. I pry it off slowly, an inch at a time, and relish in the satisfaction of watching it release from the glass.
The motion is soothing. It gives me a channel to focus on something that isn’t overdue statements and impending taxes . . . and the sense of imminent failure if I don’t figure something out.
My thoughts trace back through the day—from calling the treasurer’s office to confirm that they’d denied my appeal to the hours I spent combing through the basement. I searched through nearly everything down there in the hope of finding something I could sell to help make ends meet. There was nothing worth anything substantial. The only good thing about today was the Ingrams’ sweet smiles as they checked out this morning.
The label breaks free as a whole piece, and I slap it onto the counter.
“How mad would you be, Gramma, if I got a loan?” I say out loud. “Like, really, really mad? Or kind of mad? Because I remember how you were so against getting loans and how hard you and Grandpa worked to pay this thing off. But I don’t know what else to do.”
I take the wineglass I got out earlier and pour myself a drink. Then I pour it down my throat. The tartness of the alcohol reminds me of the time I tried to drink apple cider vinegar to lose weight. I’m not sure what’s worse.
What’s worse than both of those experiences would be going to the bank for money to help me out of this mess. It’s the easy answer. It’s the obvious solution. But every time I start to seriously consider it, a heaviness sneaks up on me. Not only would I be going against Gramma’s wishes, but I’d also have to face the ladies at the bank. They’d know why I need a loan, and that’s humiliating. I can hear the gossip now. “Poor Sophie Bates, needing money after Chad robbed her blind.”
Nah. Not doing that.
The glass clinks against the countertop at the same time the front door creaks. My head snaps to the clock. My stomach tightens as I hear Holden’s voice call out my name.
“Sophie?”
The sound echoes around the Honey House. The spicy scent of the kitchen, a man’s deep voice, and the warmth of the wine in my belly combine to make me a little light-headed.
I pour another drink. “I’m in the kitchen.”
Before I get the last syllable out, he rounds the corner. His forehead is crinkled, his lips pressed together. The lines grow deeper as he takes me in.
“You look like you’ve had a hell of a day,” he says.
“You know what? If you wanna judge me, just head on out of here.” I bring the glass to my lips. “Leave me with my wine.”
“Judge you? Let’s commiserate. Got another glass?”
I point at the cabinet by the refrigerator. “Over there. Bad day for you, too, I take it.”
“You could say that.” He glances over his shoulder as he pulls a glass out of the cupboard. “Do you have anything other than wine?”
“You don’t like wine?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, me either.” I take a sip and flinch. “This stuff is particularly awful. It’s what I think drinking starter fluid would taste like.”
He straddles the stool next to me and sits at the island. The leathery scent of his cologne licks at my skin, and I pull my arm away for good measure. He must notice, because his brows pull together, but he doesn’t point it out.
“If you don’t like it, why are you drinking it?” he asks.
“Because it’s all I have.”
“Good answer.”
He takes the bottle and fills up his glass. He holds it in the air and inspects it like I used to do when we were kids and I’d steal Liv’s drink. I’d hold it up like that to check for bits of food and backwash floating around.
“It’s clean,” I point out.
He sets it back down. “I was just thinking about how this is the exact color of the cinnamon bear goo that a ferret shit out today.”
Gagging, I lean away from him. He means it as a joke, but somehow it triggers the flames from the wine, and I start choking for real.
My cheeks heat from both the lack of air and the heat in his gaze as he watches me gasp. For half a second, I consider that he might think I need CPR. That makes me choke harder. I lean farther away to discourage him from patting my back or otherwise making contact, because that will only lift me to the next level of choking. I don’t even know what that might be. Death, maybe.