Free Harvest Moon by Sharon Struth Page A

before. She wasn’t stupid enough to do it twice.
    * * * *
    Trent focused on the dance floor, pushed his empty plate closer to the busboy’s reach, then draped his arm over the back of Angie’s empty chair. One of the guys from RGI had asked her to dance, and Trent sent them off with a smile, truly relishing a moment alone at their table while the others seated there also mingled.
    His decent mood upon arrival had threatened to disappear with his father’s criticisms. Questions about Trent’s work on the vineyard came at him like machine gun fire, almost all followed up by the old man’s sarcasm-filled responses. Argh! Dad now sat at Duncan’s table, but even across the room, he still managed to crawl under Trent’s skin. He tried to tap into the more Zen-like philosophy of his martial arts training to gain focus, but with Dad in the room it wasn’t easy.
    Trent thought back to the stretch of time when his dad had softened toward him, encouraged him to attend law school, and begged him to carry on the family business. Favored son Duncan’s lack of interest in the field had left the old man empty-handed. Trent had taken the bait, like a starving fish. The price he’d paid turned out to be as valuable as water to a fish—his lost happiness. He’d hated the work, hated the long days with his father, whose demands grew. Ultimately, he’d hated getting up and going to work. To ease his days, he’d hopped on the path to further substance abuse. Eventually his father asked him to leave the firm.
    Thickness blocked his throat, shame from his actions still strong. In his constant state of soberness, he often found the memories embarrassing. Across the room, his parents talked to Sophie’s father. The couple stuck out compared to the other guests, like diamonds in a sea of costume jewelry. Old money always did. His father and Alan Moore were probably talking about fishing, because his mother seemed to have lost interest, now scanning the room. Trent’s heart swelled with fondness for her. At least she’d tried to make up for his father’s shortcomings. Still, there was a part of him that always believed he’d become another one of her charity cases, like the many she ran for the Junior League.
    His gaze drifted back to the dance floor. Beyond Angie and her partner, Veronica moved with her date to the slow number. Trent moistened his lower lip with his tongue, replaying the sensation of her soft mouth melting to his, her eager reaction still able to have an influence on him even now, making him shift in his seat. Sometimes a kiss was much more than a kiss.
    Her back to him, he took full advantage of the view, combing every inch of her tall, lean frame. Gentle curves graced her hips and her nicely rounded bottom. He inhaled, subconsciously recapturing the perfumed fragrance of her hair, catching instead a whiff of coffee being poured at the table next to his.
    He turned, hoping to flag the waiter. His gaze landed on a man with thinning gray hair and rounded nose sitting alone at the table next to him, arms crossed, covering the older man’s tartan plaid tie worn with a yellow dress shirt. Sophie had introduced the man earlier as her former boss at the newspaper, Cliff Rogers.
    “Hey.” Trent nodded. “Not one for the dance floor?”
    “Just taking in a quiet moment.” Cliff smiled with a gentle curl of his lips. “Quiet is underrated.”
    “I hear you, man.” Trent chuckled. “Now if only the rest of the world understood.”
    “You can say that again.” Cliff leaned forward and fished a business card from his shirt pocket. “Sorry to mix business and pleasure, but I meant to give you my card earlier. The paper wants to do a story on the vineyard.”
    “Cool. We need publicity.”
    “Sophie tells me you like baseball. Our high school made state last year. Maybe we can catch a game in the spring.”
    “Sounds good. I used to play on my team…many years ago.”
    Cliff chuckled. “Not as many as I