Free Christmas in Wine Country by Addison Westlake Page B

Pretending to look down into her oversized tote bag, Lila snuck a look to her right. Nondescript black dress shoes. Probably stitched by hand by child laborers. Dark gray trousers. He was likely on his way to a super-fancy business meeting, she guessed. Where they’d talk about how much better they were than everyone else—particularly lowly bookstore clerks and her fellow construction guys and potters, working for a living.
                  “Ahem.” Lila froze, staring straight ahead at the floor. Jake had just cleared his throat. What did it mean, though? Stop peeking at me? Pay attention, the line’s moving and you’re not? Lila took a step ahead. Maybe he had a sore throat; it was cold and flu season as her Gram had warned her on the phone yesterday. He couldn’t possibly recognize her and be trying to get her attention. The party had been over a month ago and he probably had, like, a hundred a month. Plus, she’d defiantly dyed her hair back to its natural brown and she had it down, loose, instead of shellacked up into an angry blonde tornado. She hadn’t been that memorable, had she? 
                  Up at the register, she distinctly felt him watching her as she fumbled around in her bag. Stylish it might be, but she had a hell of a time finding anything inside its voluminous pit. Pushing past her umbrella, scarf, lip balm—she was prepared for the elements on this first day of work—she finally located her wallet buried underneath her chunky, hand-knit green mittens. They looked perfect for a 12-year-old, which, essentially, they were; Gram had knit her a pair when she was back in middle school. Lila had loved them so much that Gram had continued to knit her replacement pairs throughout the years.
                  After paying, Lila tucked herself into the far back corner of the store to wait for her drink. Why hadn’t she ordered a drip coffee? She would have been out the door by now. 
    “I believe you dropped this.” Jake stood beside her, her mitten looking absurdly fat and green in his sleek, black, gloved hand.
    “Oh, mrmph,” Lila made a few incomprehensible sounds before managing, “Thanks.” Damn that oversized bag. Jake nodded and continued to stand, silent, next to her.
    What, were they harvesting the coffee beans by hand in the back room? Lila was sure she’d been waiting for at least two hours. 
    Finally hearing her name, followed almost immediately by Jake’s, Lila whisked away her coffee only to be confronted by a mass of people teeming around the sugar/milk/stirrer station which she was sorely tempted to skip but now that she’d gone this far she was damn well going to have her mocha just the way she liked it. He probably liked his coffee unsweetened, anyway. But there he stood next to her, again.
    “I’m trying to place where I know you.” He looked at her quizzically as if to silently add, “I’m not sure where but I know it’s not good.”
    “It’s the holiday party,” she mumbled, reluctantly. “At your vineyard.”
    “Ahh,” he nodded slowly with recognition, adding, “You wanted the tarp.”
    “Yes, well, I’m very safety conscious.” Lila hoisted the strap on her bag higher up on her shoulder, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and wondered if the woman in front of her could take any longer stirring the sugar into her coffee?
    “Were there any accidents that evening?” he asked in a wry tone. “Any falls?” The image of herself on YouTube came flashing, vividly, to mind. Up on stage, spectacular in her stilettos as she gave her karate-chop kick ‘hi-yah!’ She hoped that guy’s forehead had healed by now.
    “Nope. No. Not at all.” Thank god she finally was able to break into the mob at the station where she quickly put her mocha down to grab a stirrer, a napkin, and a packet of whatever sweetener was directly in front of her. She’d show these people how it was done, city-style. In and