Love Story (Love Unexpectedly 3)

My panic surges into full-on terror. “Reece, wait. I don’t want Horny, I want…you.”

He goes rigidly still for a moment.

Then he shakes his head, and without another word, shuts the door in my face.

Chapter 37

Reece

Good news: four days in, the new job is going great.

Better than I could have expected, really. As promised, the winery’s got a small-family feel with a big-time budget. The wine’s damn good, my coworkers are chill and friendly, and even coming in as the new guy, my pay’s better than at my old job, courtesy of Sonoma’s higher cost of living.

Granted, all I’ve done so far is shadow other people, learning their processes, their lingo, and most importantly, their grapes.

But in under a week, I’ve already got ideas. For the first time in a long-ass time, I feel excited about possibilities. Not only about the grapes and the blends, but about how they’re underselling their merlot and treating their cab like it’s a happy-hour special instead of a robust, steak-night special.

I mean, not that I give a crap about the marketing mechanics. That’s for fancy-pants like you know who to worry about. But I do know grapes. I know wine.

And Abbott has some good stuff.

It’s going to be even better once my training wheels come off and I get my hands dirty. Literally.

So that’s great.

What’s not so great?

I still don’t have a place to live. Joe, lead winemaker, and my official boss once he gets back from his honeymoon, returns in two days. And though I know he’s grateful to have someone to feed his ugly cat, and I’m grateful for the place to stay, he’s going to be none too happy to find his new vineyard worker still sleeping on his couch.

Blowing out a long breath, I lean back, thumping my head on the headrest of the blue Chevy pick-up.

This damn second-hand car is a big part of the reason I haven’t yet found an apartment.

I’ve never been a crackerjack with math, but over the past few years I’ve learned a thing or two about basic budgeting. I got damn good at figuring how much I needed to take care of Dad, make the mortgage payments, and still have just enough left over for basic groceries and one-ply toilet paper.

I’d figured out how much I’d need to make it on my own in Sonoma down to the penny.

I just hadn’t figured buying a new car into the equation. I’d been counting on having Horny. The piece of shit wasn’t just supposed to get me across the country; it was also supposed to get me to and from my new apartment and my new job.

Instead, the morning after I left Lucy’s place, I’d taken a chunk out of my savings, driven to a used-car lot, and bought the cheapest and most functional truck I could.

I’d given the kid on the lot twenty bucks to follow me in the new car to Lucy’s place, where I’d left Horny parked outside.

My motives were only partially good. We hadn’t talked about what the two of us would do for transportation once we’d parted ways, and I hadn’t wanted her stranded on her first day in Napa.

But giving her Horny was a little selfish too. After the two weeks that had just passed, I also hadn’t wanted to see that car again. Not for a long while. Maybe not ever. Too many memories of how good it had felt to look across the car and see Lucy sitting there, chattering about the use of complementary colors on wine bottles, or singing along to a horrid country song, or just smiling back at me.

Yeah, I hadn’t wanted any of that.

So here I am, poor as shit and on the verge of being homeless.

My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten since before I left for work a good ten hours ago. The apartment I’d just toured is next door to a sandwich shop, so instead of starting the car, I climb back out, hoping that the faded sign on the door of the shop means that their prices aren’t as astronomical as some of the fancier places around here.

The whole damn area is expensive. Gorgeous. Breathtaking, even, if you love the business of grapes like I do. But expensive.

It’s time to lower my living standards, obviously. All chances of getting my own place, no matter how crappy, are out. I’ll need a roommate, and not one whose apartment smells of weed like the first place I’d visited today. I’m too old for that shit. And not one whose girlfriend laughs like an angry Chihuahua like the second guy I met.

I ignore the part of my subconscious that tells me I’m delaying finding a place to live so I’ll have