I'll Be Yours for Christmas

He thought again of Abby’s shocked face when he’d said he was going to sell the winery. His parents weren’t thrilled, either, but they’d long ago accepted that both of their boys had other lives now. Still, Reece was bothered by the clear disapproval in Abby’s gorgeous brown eyes when he’d made the announcement.

“So, I can bring the Keller representative by tomorrow, if you like,” Charles said.

Charles Tyler was one of the premiere real estate agents in the area, and he was also a shark—if anyone could sell the place for the best price, it would be him.

“They’d be a last resort. I thought I made that clear.”

Charles sighed, smiling slightly at the pretty server who delivered their lunch. “Well, if you want it sold for the asking price and fast, they are the best bet. They’ll jump at a property as large as yours.”

Reece frowned. They’d also tear down the renovated farmhouse he grew up in, and they’d flatten the vineyards, rows of Riesling, Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes, paving them over with cul-de-sacs and driveways. He’d been away, but he kept in touch, and he’d seen the changes along the lake since he’d come back, few of them good.

“Some of those vines have been around longer than my parents have been alive, planted by my grandfather,” Reece murmured, not realizing he’d said it out loud.

“Well, you might be able to sell to another winery, but it won’t go for nearly as much, not in this economic climate,” Charles said with a sigh, no doubt disappointed that sentimentality could get in the way of a larger commission for him. “And it could take quite a bit longer.”

Reece nodded, thinking. “Keep Keller on the line, but let’s not move too fast. If they want it now, they’ll want it a month from now, but let’s see what comes up in the meanwhile,” he said, his eyes drifting back to Abby.

“Who’s the girl?” Charles asked, following Reece’s gaze.

“Abby Harper. An old friend, her family owns the winery next to ours, Maple Hills.”

“More than a friend?” Charles asked.

“No. Just a girl I knew in high school,” Reece said.

“Any chance she might be interested in selling, as well? I could get you a sweet deal if you two went in on a sale together—that could significantly up the price Keller would offer.”

“I doubt she would ever sell, and definitely not to Keller,” Reece said.

“They’re not the devil,” Charles said dryly. “They just build developments, nice ones, which tend to fill up very quickly.”

“I know what they do,” Reece said absently, his attention still on Abby.

Charles picked up the check and changed the subject, droning on about local real estate markets or some other big sale he had just completed, all of which Reece tuned out.

Abby was in close conversation with her friend, whom he only vaguely remembered from school. He and Abby hadn’t really belonged to the same crowd, even though they grew up next door to each other and shared a common interest between their families.

Her folks were always a little different than everyone else on the lake—more iconoclastic, with their organic methods and sustainable farming beliefs, the petting zoo and homespun lifestyle. Those things were all the rage now, of course. Maple Hills could ask twice for a bottle of wine what other noncertified organic vineyards could.

While they were still primarily a small family business, Maple Hills had broadened its distribution and marketing quite successfully in recent years, so his father said. Probably Abby’s doing. She had a good head for business and was growing it well.

She’d taken a lot of ribbing in school—she and her parents being called hippies and so forth—and quite a bit of that had been from him. He hadn’t meant any of it, not in a mean-spirited way, but even then, Abby had been fun to tease. He could never resist.

Her cheeks turned pink if he even looked at her, and he’s always thought it was cute. He’d never suspected she would be as hot and as daring as he had discovered that night at the lake party.

It was the last time he’d seen her until now. Though he’d kissed plenty of women in between—including a few A-list celebrities—the memory of Abby Harper pressed up against him and kissing him for all she was worth, her hands everywhere, was as clear to him as if it had happened five minutes ago.

He’d wanted to drag her back behind the hedge that night, and he’d regretted making light of it afterward. She’d bolted before he could ask her out. On a date. So they could do it right.

He wanted to make up for what he’d been too much of an immature idiot to do in high school. He’d always liked her, but when he was young, he was too worried about what his friends would think. Typical teenage boy stuff.

A few years later, on that night by the lake, he didn’t care what anyone thought, but Abby was clearly not interested as soon as she found out whom she’d been feeling up behind the bushes.

He’d known, in some corner of his mind, that she hadn’t been in real danger of choking at her table earlier, but seeing her had somehow led to the immediate need to touch her. He’d become semihard from the way her pretty backside pressed against him when he’d been trying to help her, his wrists just brushing the undersides of her full breasts when he’d wrapped his arms around her.

Sad, when emergency Heimlich was your excuse to get close to a woman, but Reece hadn’t had sex since before his accident and, apparently, his body was more than ready for some action. Despite lingering effects from his injuries, that part of his nervous system seemed to be in fine working order.

What if he decided to pursue that drink with Abby and see if they could pick up where they’d left off by the bushes? She hadn’t been interested back then, but he could swear he’d felt her respond to his touch today, and not just in a panic about choking.

It was fun to think about, and it might be worth seeing the look on her face if he asked. He couldn’t resist the idea of teasing Abby, even now, though the way he wanted to tease her had taken on a whole new dimension.

He chuckled to himself, feeling better than he had in weeks.

“Something funny about that?” Charles asked, obviously peeved, either because he knew Reece wasn’t listening, or because Reece had just laughed at something he shouldn’t have.

“Oh, no, sorry. I was just thinking about something else,” he said vaguely.

“Okay, well, I’ll start pushing the property and see what we can do to hold Keller off for a while, but unless you want to wait longer, they may be the best deal in town,” Charles repeated.

“I’ll talk to them, but I just want to see what other offers we get. I’ll be living at the house, so you can get me there. You have my numbers,” Reece said.

“I’ll do my best.” Charles stood and shook Reece’s hand firmly, an action that sent a buzz of numbness rushing up his arm, making him wince and reminding him all of the problems from his accident that still remained.

The short-lived nerve reaction ticked off a bit of desperation, nearly making him tell Charles to sell to Keller now. Reece had to get back to Europe, had to get better and had to race again. It was the only life he knew or wanted.

But Charles was on his way out, and Reece took a breath, calming down. It would be okay. He’d healed faster than anyone thought he would, and he’d be on the track again before next summer. Still, the sooner he could conclude his business here, the better, he thought with a small pang of regret as he took one more glimpse of Abby before leaving the café.

2

THE NEXT DAY, ABBY was busy from the moment she woke up, barely able to keep up with everything she had to get done, even though it was a weekend. Weekends—Saturdays, anyway—were busier than weekdays for her, and today was no exception.

She’d waited all morning only to be stood up by an electrician who was supposed to show up during the week, but had rescheduled and then stood her up again. Some overhead lights kept flickering intermittently in the main room of the winery, and she needed it fixed yesterday.

Today they’d had three tastings and tours offered at ten o’clock, noon and two, and in between that she was fielding online orders, wedding prep and Christmas decorating that should have been done two weeks ago. The guests were fewer than they had been over the summer, or on holidays like Valentine’s Day, when they did their wine-and-chocolate parties. Still, they’d had a respectable showing for each tour.

Right now she was in the middle of the last tasting, and while she was exhausted, her mind running in a million directions, she focused on smiling, explaining the type and origin of each wine and its story.

All of their wines had stories, background about how old the vines were, where they came from, who planted them and anything fun or anecdotal that happened while the wine was being made. It personalized the experience and made people aware that the wine they sipped wasn’t just any generic wine, but a drink with a specific history, made by real people.

“This peppery Baco Noir,” she said, finishing her presentation, “is called ‘Just the Beginning’ and it is one of our classic vintages. One summer night almost forty years ago, two lovers walked over the fields behind us, and the man asked the woman he was with to marry him. They didn’t have enough money for rings, but he handed her a small plant, the beginning of the Baco vines from which these grapes still grow. Those people were my parents and, yes, eventually he did buy her a ring,” Abby said warmly, smiling as she did every time she told the story.

A chorus of appreciative comments and chuckles about the ring followed. She discussed nuances, taught newcomers the basics of wine tasting and then moved to the desk where people purchased their wine and other goodies from the small gift display.

It was a good day, and she’d enjoyed her guests. By six, though, she was ready for bed. Her other employees were gone for the day, and they rarely had guests staying in their few upstairs rooms, used mostly for wedding parties in the winter. So, she closed up shop and thought of what needed to be done next.

She did need to get the trees decorated—three gorgeous Fraser firs that graced the tasting room, the entry to the winery and the first floor of the main house. Her home, a private residence, was built off the central rooms where they hosted tastings, receptions and sold their wines. In the back of the property, above the vineyards, were the animal barns and the building where they made and stored the wines. Their specialty was Baco Noir.

The trees were set up, the lights were on, but they needed ornaments, all of which had to be pulled out of storage at the house and carried over. She also needed to take care of her horses for the night.