Unfortunately Yours: A Novel (Vine Mess Book 2)

For as long as August Cates could remember, his dick had ruined everything.

In seventh grade, he’d gotten a hard-on during a pep rally while standing in front of the entire school in football pants. Since his classmates couldn’t openly call him Woody in the presence of their teachers, they’d called him Tom Hanks, instead. It stuck all through high school. To this day, he cringed at the very mention of Toy Story.

Trust your gut, son.

His navy commander father had always said that to him. In fact, that was pretty much all he’d ever said, by way of advice. Everything else constituted a direct order. Problem was, August tended to need a little more instruction. A diagram, if possible. He wasn’t a get-it-right-on-the-first-try type of man. Which was probably why he’d mistaken his “gut” for his dick.

Meaning, he’d translated his father’s advice into . . .

Trust your dick, son.

August straightened the wineglass in front of him in order to forgo adjusting the appendage in question. The glass sat on a silver tray, seconds from being carried to the panel of judges. Currently, the three smug elitists were sipping a Cabernet offering that had been entered into the Bouquets and Beginners competition by another local vintner. The crowd of Napa Valley wine snobs leaned forward in their folding chairs to hear the critique from one judge in particular.

Natalie Vos.

The daughter of a legendary winemaker.

Vos Vineyard heiress and all-around plague on his fucking sanity.

August watched her full lips perch on the edge of the glass. They were painted a kind of lush plum color today. They matched the silk blouse she wore tucked into a leather skirt and he swore to God, he could feel the crush of that leather in his palms. Could feel his fingertips raking down her bare legs to remove those high heels with spikes on the toes. Not for the first time—no, incredibly far from the first time—he mentally kicked himself in the ass for sabotaging his chances of taking Natalie Vos to bed. She wouldn’t touch him through a hazmat suit now, and she’d told him as much umpteen times.

His chances of winning this contest didn’t bode well.

Not only because he and Natalie Vos were enemies, but because his wine sucked big sweaty donkey balls. Everyone knew it. Hell, August knew it. The only one to call him out on it, however, was preparing to deliver her verdict to the audience.

“Color is rich, if a bit light. Notes of tobacco in front. Citrus aftertaste. Veering toward acidic, but . . .” She held the wine up to the sun and studied it through the glass. “Overall very enjoyable. Admirable for a two-year-old winery.”

Murmurs and golf claps all around from the audience.

The winemaker thanked the judges. He actually bowed to Natalie while retrieving his glass and August couldn’t stifle an eye roll to save his life. Unfortunately, Natalie caught the action and raised a perfect black brow, signaling August forward for his turn at the judging table, like a princess summoning a commoner—and didn’t that fit their roles to a T?

August didn’t belong in this sunny five-star resort and spa courtyard on a Saturday afternoon ferrying wine on a silver tray to these wealthy birdbrains who overinflated the importance of wine so much it felt like satire. He didn’t belong in sophisticated St. Helena. Wasn’t cut out to select the best bunch of grapes at the grocery store, let alone cultivate soil and grow them from scratch to make his very own brand of wine.

I tried, Sammy.

He’d really fucking tried. This contest had a grand prize of ten thousand dollars and that money was August’s last hope to keep the operation alive. If given another chance, he would be more hands-on during the fermentation process. He’d learned the hard way that “set it and forget it” didn’t work for shit with wine. It required constant tasting, correcting, and rebalancing to prevent spoilage. He might do better if given another season to prove himself.

For that, he needed money. And he had a better chance of getting Natalie in the sack than winning this competition, which was to say, he had no chance whatsoever—because, yeah. His wine blew chunks. He’d be lucky if they managed to let it rest on their taste buds for three seconds, let alone declare him the winner. But August would try to the bitter end, so he would never look back and wonder if he could have done more to bring this secondhand dream to life.

August strode to the judge’s table and set the glasses of wine in front of Natalie with a lot less ceremony than his competitors had, sniffed, and stepped back, crossing his arms. Disdain stared back at him in the form of the two most annoyingly beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Sort of a whiskey gold, ringed in a darker brown. He could still remember the moment the expression in those eyes had gone from take-me-to-bed-daddy to please-drink-poison.

Witch.

This was her domain, however. Not his. At six-foot-three and with a body still honed for the battles of his past life as a Navy SEAL, he fit into this panorama about as well as Rambo at a bake sale. The shirt the entrants had been asked to wear for the competition didn’t fit, so he’d hung it from the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe he could use it to clean up the wine when the judges spit it out.

“August Cates of Zelnick Cellar,” Natalie said smoothly, handing glasses of wine to her fellow judges. Outwardly, she appeared cool as ever, her unflappable New York demeanor on full display, but he could see her breath coming faster as she geared herself up to drink what amounted to sludge in a glass. Of the three judges, Natalie was the only one who knew what was coming, because she’d tasted his wine once before—and had promptly compared it to demon piss. That occasion was also known as the night he’d blown his one and only chance to sweat up the sheets with Princess Vos herself.

Since that ill-fated evening, their relationship had been nothing short of contentious. If they happened to see each other on Grapevine Way or at a local wine event, she liked to discreetly scratch her eyebrow with a middle finger, while August usually inquired how many glasses of wine she’d plowed through since nine A.M.

In theory, he hated her. They hated each other.

Dammit, though, he couldn’t seem to actually do it. Not all the way.

And it all went back to August’s mistaking his gut for his dick as a youngster.

As in, Trust your dick, son.

And that part of his anatomy might as well be married to Natalie Vos. Married with six kids and living in the Viennese countryside wearing matching playclothes fashioned out of curtains, à la The Sound of Music. If all of August’s decisions were up to his downstairs brain, he would have apologized the night of their first argument and asked for another shot to supply her with wall-to-wall orgasms. But it was too late now. He had no choice but to return the loathing she radiated at him, because his upstairs brain knew all too well why their relationship would never have gone past a single night.

Natalie Vos had privilege and polish—not to mention money—coming out of her ears.

At thirty-five, August was broker than a fingerless mime.

He’d dumped all of his life savings into opening a winery, with no experience or guidance, and losing this contest would be the death blow to Zelnick Cellar.

August’s chest tightened like he was being strapped to a gurney, but he refused to break eye contact with the heiress. The growing ache below his throat must have been visible on his face because, slowly, Natalie’s smug expression melted away and she frowned at him. Leaned in and whispered for his ears alone, “What’s going on with you? Are you missing WrestleMania to be here or something?”

“I wouldn’t miss WrestleMania for my own funeral.” He snorted. “Just taste the wine, compare it to moldy garbage, and get it over with, princess.”

“Actually, I was going to ordain it as something like . . . rat bathwater.” She gestured at him with fluttery fingers. “Seriously, what’s up? You have more asshole energy than usual.”

He sighed, looking out at the rows of expectant spectators who were either in tennis whites or leisure wear that probably cost more than his truck. “Maybe because I’m trapped in an episode of Succession.” Time to change the channel. Not that he had a choice. “Do your worst, Natalie.”

She wrinkled her nose at his wine. “But you’re already so good at being the worst.”

August huffed a laugh. “Too bad they’re not giving out a prize for sharpest fangs. You’d be unmatched.”

“Are you comparing me to a vampire? Because your wine is what sucks.”

“Just down the whole glass without tasting it, like you usually do.”

Was that hurt that flashed in her eyes before she hid it?

Certainly not. “You are an—” she started.

“Ready to begin, Miss Vos?” asked one of the other judges, a silver-haired man in his fifties who wrote for Wine Enthusiast magazine.

“Y-yes. Ready.” She shook herself and pulled back, regaining her poise and sliding her fingers around the stem of the wineglass containing August’s most recent Cabernet. A groove remained between her brows as she swirled the glass clockwise and lifted it to her nose to inhale the bouquet. The other judges were already coughing, looking at each other in confusion. Had they accidentally been served vinegar?

They spat it out into the provided silver buckets almost in tandem.

Natalie, however, seemed determined to hold off as long as possible.

Her face turned red, tears forming in her eyes.

But to his shock, the swallow went down her throat, followed by a gasp for air.

“I’m afraid . . . ” began one of the judges, visibly flustered. The crowd whispered behind August. “I’m afraid something must have gone terribly wrong during your process.”

“Yes . . .” The other judge laughed behind his wrist. “Or a step was left out entirely.”

The rows of people behind him chuckled, and Natalie’s attention strayed in that direction. She opened her mouth to say something and closed it again. Normally, she wouldn’t hesitate to cut him off at the knees, so what was this? Pity? She’d chosen this moment? This moment, when he needed to walk out of here with some semblance of pride, to go easy on him?

Nah. Not having it.

He didn’t need this spoiled, trust-fund brat to pull her punches. He’d seen shit during combat that people on this well-manicured lawn couldn’t even fathom in their wildest dreams. He’d jumped out of planes into pitch-black skies. Existed on pure stubbornness for weeks on end in the desert. Suffered losses that still felt as though they’d happened yesterday.

And yet you couldn’t even make decent wine.

He’d failed Sam.

Again.

A fact that hurt a damn sight more than this rich girl judging him harshly in front of these people he’d probably never see again after today. In fact, he needed Natalie to just drop the hammer already, so he could show her how little he cared about her opinion. It was his friend’s dream never being realized that should hurt. Not her verdict.

August propped his hands on the judging table and leaned forward, seeing nothing but the beautiful, black-haired dream haunter and watching her golden eyes go wide at his audacity. “You’re not waiting for a bribe, are you? Not with a last name like Vos.” He winked at her and leaned down until only Natalie could hear the way he dropped his voice. “Unless you’re hoping for a different kind of bribe, princess, because that can be arranged.”

She threw wine in his face.

For the second time.

Honestly, he couldn’t even blame her.

He was lashing out over his failure and Natalie was a convenient target. But he wasn’t going to apologize. What good would it do? She already hated him and he’d just found a way to strengthen that feeling. The best thing he could do to make up for the insult to Natalie was to leave town—and that’s exactly what he planned to do. He’d been given no choice.

With wine dripping from his five-o’clock shadow, August pushed off the table, swiped a sleeve over his damp face, and stormed across the lawn to the parking lot, failure like a thorn stuck dead in the center of his chest. He was almost to his truck when a familiar voice called out behind him. Natalie. Was she actually following him after the shit he’d said?

“Wait!”

Fully expecting to turn around and find a twelve-gauge shotgun leveled at his head, August turned on a booted heel and watched warily as the gorgeous witch approached. Why did he have the ridiculous urge to move in a fast clip back in her direction and catch her up in a kiss? She’d break his fucking jaw if he tried, but God help him, his dick/gut insisted it was the right thing to do. “Yeah? You got something else you want to throw in my face?”

“My fist. Among other, sharper objects. But . . .” She jerked a shoulder, appearing to search for the right words. “Look, we’re not friends, August. I get that. I insulted your wine the night we were going to hook up and you’ve resented me ever since, but what you said back there? Implying my last name makes me superior? You’re wrong.” She took a step closer, her heels leaving the grass and finding the asphalt of the parking lot. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He chuckled. “Go ahead, tell me all about your pain and suffering, rich girl.”

She threw him a withering sigh. “I didn’t say I’ve suffered. But I haven’t exactly coasted along on my last name, as you seem to believe. I’ve been back in St. Helena for only a few months. The last name Vos means nothing in New York.”

August leaned against the hood of his truck and crossed his arms. “I bet the money that comes with it does.”

She gave August a look. One that suggested he was truly in the dark—and he didn’t like that. Didn’t like the possibility that he was wrong about this woman. Mainly because it was too late to change his actions now. He’d always have to wonder what the hell he could have done differently with Natalie Vos. But at least he could walk away from this phase of his life knowing he’d done his best for Sam. That’s all he had.

“Did you ever want to get to know me? Or was it just . . .” Her attention dropped fleetingly to his zipper, then away, but it was enough to make him feel like he was back in that middle school pep rally trying not to get excited. “Just about sex?”

What the hell was he supposed to say?

That he’d seen her across the room at that stupid Wine Down Napa event and felt like he’d had an arrow shot into his chest by a flying baby? That his palms had sweat because of a woman for the first time ever that night? He’d already been in that Viennese countryside holding a picnic basket in one hand and an acoustic guitar in the other. God, she was so beautiful and interesting and fucking hilarious. Where had she been all his life?

Oh, but then somehow it all went to shit. He’d let his pride get in the way of . . . what? What would have happened if he’d just taken her verbal disapproval of his wine on the chin and moved forward? What if he hadn’t equated it to disapproval of his best friend’s aspirations? Was there any use wondering about any of this shit now?

No.

He’d run out of capital. The winery was an unmitigated disaster. He was the laughingstock of St. Helena, and he’d dragged his best friend’s name with him into the mud.

Time to go, man.

“Oh, Natalie.” He slapped a hand over his chest. “Obviously I wanted to twirl you around on a mountaintop in Vienna while our children frolicked and harmonized in curtain clothes. Didn’t you know?”

She blinked a few times and her expression flattened as she stepped back into the grass. August had to fist his hands to prevent himself from reaching for her.

“Well,” she said, her voice sounding a little rusty. Dammit. “Have a lovely evening at home with your Sound of Music references and cozy nest of wine rats. I hope you’re paying them a living wage.”

“It won’t be my home much longer.” He threw a hand toward the event that was still in full swing behind them, the judges taking pictures with the audience members, more wine being served on silver trays. “This contest was it for me. I’m moving on.”

She laughed as if he was joking, sobering slightly when he just stared back. “Wow. You really can’t take a little constructive criticism, can you?”

August scoffed. “Is that what it was? Constructive?”

“I thought SEALs were supposed to be tough. You’re letting winemaking take you down?”

“I don’t have a bottomless bank account like some people in this town. In case it wasn’t clear, I’m talking about you.”

For some reason, that made her laugh. A beat of silence passed, then she said, “You’ve got me all figured out, August. Congratulations.” She turned on the toe of her high heel and breezed away, moving that leather skirt side to side in the world’s cruelest parting shot. “My sincere condolences to the town where you end up next,” she called back over her shoulder. “Especially to the women.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you dropped the disgusted act and came home with me.” For some reason, every step she took in the opposite direction made his stomach lurch with more and more severity. “It’s not too late, Natalie.”

She stopped walking and he held his breath, not fully aware until this very moment how badly he actually wanted her. Maybe even needed. The continued flow of his blood seemed to hinge on her response. “You’re right, it’s not too late,” she said, turning, chewing her lip, eyes vulnerable in a manner that stuck a swallow in his throat. I’ll never be mean to her again. “It’s way too late,” she concluded with a pinkie wave, her expression going from defenseless to venomous. “Go to hell, August Cates.”

His stomach bottomed out, leaving him almost too winded for a reply. “Hell, huh? Your old stomping grounds, right?”

“Yup!” She didn’t even bother turning around. “That’s where I met your mom. She said she’d rather live in hell than drink your wine.”

A crank turned in his rib cage as she moved out of earshot. Too far to hear him over the event music that had started up. Definitely too far to touch, so why were his fingers itching for her skin? His chances with Natalie were subzero now. Just like his chance at succeeding as a vintner. With a final long look at the one who got away, August cursed, climbed into his truck, and tore out of the parking lot, ignoring the strong sense of leaving something undone.