Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“What shape?”
“Down there.” She points at the ground.
I shake my head. “I’m not following you.”
“The fork.”
“The fork?”
“Yeah. Don’t you see it? It’s made from the rocks.”
I follow her line of sight, studying the way worn yellow stones pop against the otherwise gray pavement. The design could use another edit or five, but I make out three sharp peaks stemming from a large stick. If that’s a fork, the Eiffel Tower is a cottage.
“A fork?” I repeat, wondering if she has her head screwed on straight.
Probably not. Yet another reason you should turn around and leave.
“You don’t see it?”
Maybe I would’ve, but her lower lip juts out, and suddenly, I can’t see anything else.
“A fork designed for a sadist, perhaps.” I tap where the stone forms a jagged spike with the tip of my toe. “It’s a trident. Or it’s trying to be one, at least.”
“A trident?”
“Yes.”
She frowns. “I liked it better when it was a fork.”
“It was never a fork.” Oddly, I don’t feel good about bursting her bubble. Still, I double down. “It’s a trident. Poseidon’s trident.”
A sudden smile sweeps up her cheeks, wiping away her frown. “Poseidon’s trident,” she repeats with a nod, as if the idea satisfies her.
I expect her to say more, but instead, she finishes her journey around the trident and jets off in the opposite direction.
I follow.
Of course I do.
“Now, where are you going?” I ask, growing more curious by the second and hating it.
“The vines look lonely.” She doesn’t bother looking back at me, stampeding forward at her signature clipped pace. “Duh.”
It’s quirky, odd, and exactly something she’d say, I’m starting to realize.
It should annoy me that she knows I’d follow.
I didn’t even know I’d follow.
At this moment, she feels bigger than the moon above us. Than the Earth we’re standing on. Like she has a gravity of her own, and I’m lucky to be in her orbit.
I take a look around. Even with the moon and stars, it’s dark out here. Not exactly the best time of day to see the vineyard.
“So, you decided that this is the right time?”
“Tomorrow, I can’t.” I wonder what causes the sadness to her voice.
“And why not?” I press, not giving a fuck if I sound nosy. I am.
“Tomorrow, I report for duty.”
“Duty?” I ask, feeling like I’m going to have to drag this information out of her.
“Yes, my job. But we can’t talk about that, right?”
We had agreed not to discuss such things, but I really do want to throw that rule out, just to know a little bit more about her.
I shouldn’t care.
I should just turn around and go.
“Yeah. That’s right. No talk about our jobs.”
She takes a few more steps and then stops. I just about run right into her back. “Found them,” she says.
“Found what?”
She looks over her shoulder at me. Under the moonlight, her features are barely visible, but it doesn’t stop her from looking ethereal.
Like a goddess sent down from heaven to test my patience and tempt me to sin.
“The vines, silly.” A laugh bubbles up from her throat.
“Silly? That’s not something I’m called often.”
She shrugs but doesn’t elaborate.
I take a step closer, making my way to the space beside her.
Now, this close, I can see what she’s holding is a wine bottle, an already opened one.
“Think the grapes are ripe yet?”
I purse my lips, knowing the answer to that question. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Everyone around here knows grapes are harvested at the end of summer, early fall. I don’t think they’re even edible yet.”
“Only one way to find out.” She takes a step forward, her free hand extended.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Even in the dark, I can see her smile. Her lips tip up into a mischievous smirk.
“You’re a hellfire. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Hellfire? No. Trouble? Yep.”
I narrow my eyes, not that she can see. “Who says you’re trouble?”
“My mom and she would know.” She groans. “But again . . . we can’t talk about that.” She looks up at me and smirks. “On that note.” She reaches forward and picks a grape right off the vine.
“I don’t thi—”
“That’s your problem, grump. You think too much.”
Before I can say anything else, she pops the grape into her mouth. A second later, she’s spitting it out.
I smother my grin, watching as her face twists up at the bitterness. “Not what you expected?”
“Not even a little. That was gross. It’s like . . .” Her shoulders shiver, and she raises her hand, putting the open bottle to her mouth to wash out the taste. She makes a sound, smacking her lips together. “Better. Want some?”
I take a deep breath, knowing I should pass, turn around, and head home. But that’s not what I do.
“Might as well.”
I raise my arm and grab the bottle, taking a swig of the wine. The smooth liquid travels down my throat, pooling in my belly. It’s not exactly what I wanted, but it still does the trick.