Free Christmas in Wine Country by Addison Westlake Page A

a chorus of cheerful “nos” and “try agains.”
                  “What do you think?” the pottery woman turned around to ask her. “It’s probably an island.”
                  “I’m not sure…maybe Malta?” Lila wondered. She’d represented the tiny country once at a model United Nations conference in high school. After discovering that she had neither Security Council voting rights nor a real voice in her political bloc, she and a friend had spent most of the time passing notes about international hotties: “Check out Latvia, three rows over on the right.”
                  “What about Malta?” the woman called out, to another round of “nopes.” Turning back to Lila, she added, “I would have given you the coffee.”
                  “Oh, that’s fine,” Lila laughed, caught up now. “Monaco!” she found herself calling out.
                  “Nice.” One of the construction guys gave her a nod.
                  “Good guess—but not it!” a woman behind the counter said.
                  “It’s the Vatican.” The voice came from behind her. Low, authoritative, it ended the game. The store fell silent.
                  “Yeah, that’s it,” the guy behind the counter confirmed. 
                  “Really?” the woman in front of her asked, disappointed. “I liked the island idea.”
                  Lila looked back to check out the source of everyone’s displeasure, the man who’d so carelessly and abruptly ended the fun. In a long, tall, black coat looking stern and un-amused stood Jake Endicott.
                  Turning with what she hoped was a softly whispered swear, acute embarrassment heated Lila’s cheeks to a rosy pink. It was the first day of her new job. Did she really need such a vivid reminder of how spectacularly she’d gone down in flames in her old job?
    What the heck was he doing there, anyway? Clearly, he lived close by with the whole vineyard and all, but why was he standing in line at a coffee shop? Didn’t he just have his minions at his Tuscan mansion do his bidding, bringing him his specially-prepared cappuccino, biscotti and five international newspapers on a silver tray? Actually, no one really read paper anymore, so what did rich guys do to demand ridiculous service these days? Maybe he had a Situation Room with a wall-sized monitor divided into quadrants so he could oversee the state of his business: grapes growing in one corner, investors in another. Drunk girls singing 80s karaoke right in the middle.
                  “What’re you having today?” Looking up into the expectant face of a barista, Lila realized the line had advanced.
                  “Yes, um…” She fought to regain a sense of what she wanted, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over her as she felt a cold stare to her right. “One of those…” she gestured indeterminately in the air.
                  “Latte?” the guy prompted, hopefully.
                  “With the…” What did they call it when you added chocolate? “Mocha!” She nearly yelled as she finally remembered. “A large non-fat mocha.” 
                  “All rightie then. And you, sir?” he asked, turning to Jake beside her. “Well, you’re getting your free coffee now aren’t you?”
                  “No,” Jake waved his hand, gloved in black leather, dismissively. “Double cappuccino. Medium.”
                  “You don’t want your free coffee?” The guy behind the counter sounded somewhat hurt. The woman working beside him stopped what she was doing and looked up.
                  “No,” Jake repeated, offering no explanation.
    What a huge buzzkill. First he ends all the fun, then he doesn’t even claim his prize. What was up with this guy? Lila wondered.