Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 157(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 157(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
EXCERPT c. Lili Valente
It’s a wild plan.
A crazy plan.
But a plan that might have a happy ending for everyone involved.
Yes, I want Mr. Stroker’s land—it would be the perfect place to plant more cool weather Zinfandel, and it’s right next to property I already own—but I want a baby more. And if I promise Dylan that no one ever has to know, that it will be our secret, just the two of us until the day I die, maybe…
Just maybe…
I tell myself crazier things have happened. I tell myself super sperm is worth risking rejection and a mortifying “hell, no,” from a repulsed and outraged Dylan. I tell myself that I am a she-warrior and now isn’t the time to shy away from battle. I left a cushy job in Silicon Valley to run a vineyard with only three community college Ag classes and several years of Custom Crush hobby winemaking under my belt. I sold everything I owned—house and rental property—and sank it all into this dream I’m making come true with long days of hard work and a killer five-year business plan.
But a dream come true doesn’t amount to much without someone to share it with. Someone to pass it on to…
Back home, the three couples emerge from the tasting room as I’m biking up the path. The sight of the baby seat one of the women carries cuts through the last of my hesitation, searing away my doubt.
That baby carrier is a sign.
Everything that’s happened today, from wanting to jump Dylan’s bones at the coffee shop, to the baby in the buggy, to the little girl hugs and the doctor warning me it’s time to get busy, to the perfectly-pertinent conversation I just happened to overhear—they are all signs. This is my destiny, a challenge from the universe to see if I intend to keep that promise I made as I drove north on the 101 with everything I own in the back of a moving van.
Am I really going to grab life with both hands and squeeze every bit of joy from it that I can get? Or am I going to be a coward who sits on the sidelines, waiting for someone else to decide if they can spare some happiness to toss my way?
“No,” I say aloud, rolling my bike into the barn, where I’ve turned the old tack room into bike and kayak storage.
I’m not going to sit and wait.
I’m going to act!
Soon. Very soon.
But I honestly don’t expect it to be that very night. I don’t expect the engine to blow on the rolling overhead lights Bart and I just checked out last week. I don’t expect Bart to run over to the Hunter place to borrow their light cart to ensure the safety of our harvest workers.
I don’t expect Dylan to tow the light over with his tractor, or stick around to fuss over the broken engine with Bart, agreeing that a bum alternator is to blame. And I certainly don’t expect to be walking him back to his place after he graciously offers to leave his tractor so Bart can tow the light back to him in the morning.
But here I am, flashlight in hand, soft moonlight overhead, and Dylan so close I can smell the laundry detergent, dust, and healthy male scent of him. He smells good enough to eat, or at least to bite. All over. One sexy inch of flesh at a time.
Making a baby with him wouldn’t be a hardship, that’s for sure…
But how to start a conversation like this?
Where do I even begin?
“Thank you again,” I say, my voice thin and trembly. I clear my throat, willing myself to woman up as I add, “I really appreciate the help. I can’t believe that light went out. It’s barely a year old, and Bart and I both ran checks on it last week.”
Dylan shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I know how it is. Something always breaks at the worst possible time. It’s the Murphy’s Law of Harvest.”
“Oh good,” I say with a laugh. “I mean, not good, but at least it’s not a sign that the wine gods are against me.”
“No, I think the wine gods like you just fine. Your grapes look great this year.” He hums contemplatively. “Though, the Pumpkin King might have something against you, now that I think about it.”
I peer up at him in the dim light under the trees. “The Pumpkin King?”
“Yeah, the spirit who haunts the pumpkin patch.” He jabs a thumb toward Mr. Stroker’s property. “Doesn’t like pretty blond women? Would prefer a man who knows his way around this land to lay claim to his three acres?”
I stop on the trail, which is abandoned at this time of night, nothing but a winding ribbon of silver and shadow in both directions as far as the eye can see. But the light is better here, giving me a clear view of Dylan’s teasing expression. “So you’re saying the Pumpkin King is a sexist jerk?”