Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Tears pricked the backs of Hallie’s eyelids. Didn’t Lorna realize she was being partially selfish? Not only did this place hold a million special memories for her, but . . . Hallie needed it to remain, this piece of her grandmother. The more Rebecca faded into the past, the more anxious and rudderless Hallie started to feel. This place, her routine, everything felt foreign without Rebecca’s stalwart presence. Like her life belonged to someone else.
“Will you at least bag me up a Pinot—” The bell over the entrance dinged, and Hallie’s heart leapt hopefully in her chest. “Oh! A customer . . .” Her excitement faded when she saw the man who entered. The tweed-suited, round-glassed manager from UNCORKED sporting a very brisk, very harried smile on his face. She recognized him from the afternoon she’d gone around town removing their grand opening flyers and he’d chased her half a block.
“Hello.” Just inside the door, he clasped his hands together at his waist and threw a pitying glance at the sparsely stocked shelves. “I’m from UNCORKED next door. And I hate to do this, but we have two bachelorette parties coming to the afternoon tasting and our supply delivery truck was delayed. We are low on wineglasses, if you can believe it. The party got a little out of control last night, and there was some unfortunate breakage. Would you happen to have a dozen or so we could borrow until tomorrow?”
Lorna was already rising from her seat, eager to help. “Of course. I’m sure I can spare a few.” She crouched down to survey her supplies behind the counter. Hallie hopped up to assist before Lorna could lift something too heavy, helping her settle a box of rattling glass onto the counter. “I have two dozen here. You’re welcome to half.”
The young man in tweed sauntered forward, peeling back the cardboard flaps and extracting one of the glasses, holding it up to the light. “These must be the emergency stash. Not exactly high quality, are they?”
Lorna wrung her hands. “Sorry about that.”
“No, no. Don’t apologize,” laughed Tweed Twit, the disingenuous nature of it causing acid to climb the walls of Hallie’s throat. “Well, I guess I have no choice. I’ll take whatever you can give me.” The manager wasn’t even looking at them. He was craning his neck to observe the line forming in front of UNCORKED. “Are you able to spare the full two dozen? It looks like we need the glasses a tad more than Corked,” he said absently.
“Oh. O-of course.” Hastily, Lorna slid the box across the counter. Hallie was too stunned by the sheer audacity of Tweed Twit to offer assistance. And she remained open-mouthed in shock as the manager lifted the glasses with a hurried thank-you and scurried back out the door.
Hallie’s entire body was racked by hot tingles and secondhand embarrassment. Her face was hotter than the sun’s surface, and her throat? Good Lord. Was she transforming into a werewolf or something?
“That . . .” She could barely speak around the cluster of sticks in her throat. “He cannot get away with that.”
“Hallie—”
“I’m going over there.”
“Oh dear.”
This was bad. She knew it the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk and cool air practically sizzled on her skin. This was not a disco-ball-sabotaging level of righteous indignation. It was far worse. This was Hulk-level irritation, and it needed an outlet. A dear, sweet old lady, an institution of the community, had been brazenly belittled to her face by Tweed Twit, and Hallie’s anger demanded satisfaction. What form would it take? She had no idea. Which should have been a signal to return to the safety of Lorna’s shop and regroup, but instead, she found herself ignoring the protests of people in line and yanking open the front door of UNCORKED, the scent of blue cheese and chocolate hitting her in the face.
“Why don’t you wine about it?” sang the robotic automatic door greeting.
“Shut up,” she said through her teeth, seeing UNCORKED for the first time from behind enemy lines. Unlike the soft, homey feel of Corked, this place was a study in bad lighting. Neon signs that said hello gorgeous and good vibes only cast a tacky glow on the endless rows of wine bottles that appeared to be purchased based on the aesthetic of their labels, rather than the quality of the contents. Unfortunately, there were cushy ottomans begging people to sit and lounge for an afternoon and polish off forty-dollar cheese plates. It was clean and new, and she hated it.
What exactly are you doing in here?
At the moment, she was kind of hovering between the door and the counter, the customers who’d made it inside staring at her curiously, along with the register person. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. She should go—