Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

3. Marisa

CHAPTER 3

Marisa

brAWNY PAPER TOWEL GUY

A ccording to the GPS, I’ll be in Red Mountain in about ten minutes. It’s music to my ears after driving for nearly four hours, clutching the wheel a little too tightly for most of the drive due to nervous jitters.

Most people don’t realize there’s more to Washington than evergreen trees and rainfall. While I do love the Twilight aesthetic, there are several different landscapes across the state. After crossing the Cascades and heading east, cheatgrass and tumbleweeds gradually replace the tree line. It’s like a dry desert on the eastern side of the mountains. Not nearly as pretty, in my opinion, as the western side of the state, but there is something kind of calming about the desert view. Must be all the beige.

I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up at any moment and this will all have been a nightmare. Unfortunately, it’s been five days and that still hasn’t happened. When I caved and finally called my dad, I didn’t expect him to be quite so welcoming. I was thinking something more along the lines of a small loan to keep me afloat, but I should’ve remembered Robert Stephan doesn’t do anything I’ve ever expected him to. Why start now? He was insistent that I come stay with him while I figure things out, and for the life of me, I couldn’t find one excuse good enough not to.

Our relationship hasn’t been the greatest, and apart from birthday and holiday texts, we haven’t spoken in almost two years. It’s been even longer than that since we’ve seen each other. I try not to think about it too much, because I grew up a daddy’s girl, and somewhere between my parents’ divorce and emerging into adulthood, our relationship fell apart.

A little over fouryears ago, my dad had, what I refer to as, his midlife crisis. He retired early from his cushy job at Rainer Publishing and bought a crumbling newspaper in Red Mountain. Things were already strained between us for several reasons, but his decision to move over two hundred miles away really hammered the nail into the coffin. I know he’s married because I received an invitation to the wedding, but I’ve never met his wife. I never intended to either. I guess that’s out the window now.

Unease twists and swirls in my stomach when the Welcome to Red Mountain sign comes into view. I can’t believe my life has come to this. At twenty-eight years old, I’m unemployed and running to my daddy with my tail between my legs—teenage me would be so disappointed.

Rolling hills of vineyards flank either side of the road as I approach the downtown area, further confirming I’m no longer in Seattle. My clammy hands grip the steering wheel while I take in the main stretch of town. The street is quaint, lined with various brick storefronts and old-fashioned lampposts. Rustic artisan shops display handcrafted goods in their windows, and flower boxes overflowing with colorful mums hang from the buildings. At the heart of Main Street stands a picturesque archway with a festive banner stretching across it announcing Winetober . Considering it’s Monday and Red Mountain is a small town, it’s fairly busy. Lots of people mill about, strolling in and out of tasting rooms and restaurants.

“In half a mile, turn left onto Bordeaux Lane,” the GPS tells me.

I thought the town appeared charming when I looked it up online, but seeing it up close, it’s like a picture-perfect Hollywood set. I have yet to see any big box stores or commercial businesses. No Starbucks, no McDonald’s, and sadly, no Target. Red Mountain may as well be another country, with everything appearing homegrown, mom and pop, and local. Even the sidewalks are cobblestone, like something you would see in Europe. From what I gathered during my internet deep dive, the town was a ramshackle of dilapidated buildings and farmland before the wine industry took off. Today, it’s considered the Napa of the Pacific Northwest.

“In two-hundred feet, turn left onto Bordeaux Lane.”

My heart rate increases. There’s a nagging feeling telling me to turn around and go right back, that I don’t need to do this. I ignore it, because the truth is, this is my last option. Whether I like it or not.

I take the left and drive down the narrow road, downtown disappearing in my rearview mirror. The further I drive, the rougher it gets. This can’t be right. There’s nothing but vineyards surrounding me. Not a house in sight.

“The destination is on your right,” the GPS claims.

I look to the right and then to the left, but see nothing indicating a house is nearby.

As I continue coasting further, the GPS announces, “You have arrived.”

Again, my eyes take in the expansive vineyards and desert terrain, looking for any sign of a house. Nothing.

I pull over to the side of the road, my car half on the shoulder, half on a mixture of loose dirt and sand. Off the shoulder, the road is walled in on both sides by large vineyards that seem to go on forever, taking up acres of land.

Re-reading my dad’s text, I confirm his street is Bordeaux Lane, and according to the app, I’m at the location. This is ridiculous. Only in a small town would the GPS send me on a wild goose chase. I can navigate Seattle rush hour traffic with my eyes closed, but send me to the middle of nowhere and I’m lost in what looks like the setting of The Hills Have Eyes . I give up on the accuracy of my phone’s directional abilities and call my dad. Of course he doesn’t answer. Well fine, I will figure it out myself. His house can’t be that hard to find in a town this small.

I put the car in drive, but when I try to pull back onto the road, instead of going forward, my car does the opposite and starts rolling backward. In a panic, I slam my foot down, flooring the gas. My little car practically screams as it tries to fight gravity, a cacophony of tires screeching and my engine revving roars loudly, yet the downward journey continues. I stomp my foot down on the brake and yank up on my e-brake, even though it hasn’t worked in years, but I’m too late. I can’t fight the momentum. Bracing myself for an impact to jolt me, I hunch my shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut. Blood rushes to my head, and my entire body tenses. This is it, this is how I die.

And then, like someone hit pause, everything stills, save for the small little thump that brings my uncontrollable car to a stop. With the car finally at a standstill, my body slumps, relief uncoiling my tensed nerves. As I come down from the panic of a potential accident, the blood pounding in my ears starts to ease. I put the car back in park, something I probably should’ve attempted when my car refused to stop, and a sudden bubble of laughter jumps out of me. The laughter seems to have opened a door that won’t close, and now I’m full on laughing. It’s a deranged kind of cackling, but it’s the first time I’ve laughed in days. The hilarity of the past month, the reality of where I am, and the fact that I’m lost both mentally and physically—it all hits me at once, harder than I’m prepared for. Thank goodness I’m alone, because this is by far the ugliest I’ve ever looked, bursting with a witch-like cackle, frothing at the mouth. I’m beside myself, spiraling into oblivion.

I’m not sure how long my spiral goes on for, but eventually, I’m spent. I pant and wipe the tears from my eyes. The episode seems to be behind me, and my sanity returns.

I make a few attempts to get up to the road, but each time I’m met with the same result; my car simply cannot handle the terrain.

As I start trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of this, a flash of black catches my attention, and I see a truck barreling down the traffic-free road. It comes to an abrupt stop near where I was originally pulled over, and a man jumps out. My first thought is he’s a Good Samaritan here to help me. There’s also a chance he’s a serial killer coming to murder me, but he doesn’t seem like the murdering type. I don’t think murderers look like the Brawny Paper Towel guy. The thought makes me want to laugh again, but I tamper it down. I truly am losing my ever-loving mind.

The man walks toward me with fast, determined steps. I start to unbuckle, but he’s fully ignoring me. His eyes don’t so much as acknowledge me. Instead, he bypasses my car completely and practically sprints out of sight.

What the hell?

I get out, not really sure what my intent is, but my car is stuck and I need help. On shaky legs, I round the corner and that’s when I see it.

That little thump I felt was my car bumper colliding with one of the many rows in the vineyard. I managed to take out a pretty big chunk.

Shit.

On a positive note, my bumper looks unmarred.

The man stands and stares at the damage. His fists clench at his sides, and his mouth draws into a thin, narrow line. I take back what I said earlier. He looks absolutely murderous.

“Is this your doing?” the man demands.

I practically jump at the deep timbre of his voice. Something about his smooth, authoritative tone awakens a little flutter in my stomach. I’m definitely losing it.

“I’m so, so sorry. It was an accident,” I squeak. “I pulled over, because my GPS led me astray, and then the sand swooped my car, sending it flying away. I’ve been meaning to get my brakes looked at, but I’m so bad at car stuff. This wasn’t intentional, I swear.”

My rambling seems to irritate him even more.

He pulls out a radio, dismissing me. “Go for David.”

“David here. Over.” A man’s static voice comes through.

“Yeah, David, this is Ethan. Can you come out to quadrant sixteen? There’s been some damage”—his eyes cut to me— “due to an accident . Over.”

“Ten-four.”

“Do you have insurance?”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking to me and not the radio. “Yes?”

He nods and looks me up and down, seeming to realize for the first time that I’m an actual person and not some giant inconvenience. His gaze lands on every one of my flaws: my messy bun with greasy roots, my bare face in the middle of a period breakout, and my outfit, consisting of a threadbare crewneck sweatshirt and worn leggings. I’m dressed for comfort, not style, and I don’t appreciate the judgment.

His features tighten, the scrutiny so obvious I feel naked under his stare. “Well? Are you going to get it?”

Heat creeps up my neck and fans out across my cheeks. This guy is such an asshole. Whatever remained of the drunken-like hysteria I was experiencing mere moments ago dissipates, and I’m stone-cold sober.

I stomp around to the passenger side, making a show of my irritation, and dig through the glove box until I find my insurance card. It’s so unlike me to act this way, to not be overly polite, even if he is being rude. Apparently, a long car drive and a shit streak of bad luck have dimmed my usual sunny disposition.

I thrust the card out to him roughly. That’ll show him .

Standing this close to him, I realize I’m at a disadvantage. Not only is he angry with me, he’s also a very large man. Taller than me—which isn’t saying much—at least six foot three, maybe even more. He’s lean but solid looking. His well-defined biceps bulge beneath his flannel. His rich, brown beard, while full, is neatly trimmed and groomed. Despite his darkened, fuming eyes, the mossy green swimming in a mosaic of browns adds an unexpected softness. He’s handsome, unfortunately—all the assholes are. I take notice of it purely for the purpose of describing him to authorities, if he is, in fact, a crazed killer.

As more of a suit girl—Hillary calls my type “tech bro”—it seems I’ve neglected to appreciate what a pair of well-fitting Wranglers can do for a man. Strong, thick legs fill out his snug jeans, and as he turns to pull out his cell phone, I definitely don’t look at his butt. Nope, not at all.

He takes a few pictures of the card with his phone and then hands it back to me, the tips of his calloused fingers brushing against my skin. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine. Not sure where that came from. Clearly, I’m exhausted. Flutters and shivers within minutes of each other, truly flu-like symptoms.

“Why do you need my insurance?” I ask, unable to help the attitude pouring out of me. I resist the feminine urge to place both my hands on my waist and pop a hip.

His face scrunches as he looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Your negligent driving destroyed my property. We’re in the middle of harvest, and there’s no telling how much this will set us back or eat at potential profits.”

Is he serious right now? Yes, I took out a few grape plants, but it’s nothing in comparison to what remains.

“So you’re going after my insurance? Does this mean I get your insurance information too? Only seems fair, don’t you think?”

His jaw works side to side. Wordlessly, he pulls out a pen and small notepad from his Carhartt vest and begins scribbling on one of the sheets. He tears it off and hands it to me. “That’s my name and number.”

I look down and see that his name is Ethan, just like he said into the radio, and the number looks legitimate, but it’s not as if I can confirm it at this very moment. He’s conveniently left off his last name, which is suspicious. And it’s not the insurance information I asked for, but something tells me this is the most I’ll get out of him.

“I’d rather not be contacted,” he continues. “If there’s any damage to your vehicle, which by the looks of it, there isn’t, who knows what you’ll be charged at the overpriced city shop you’ll no doubt take it to.”

I scoff. The audacity of this guy. “What makes you think I’d take it to some crappy city shop?”

His eyes drag over me again, slowly, deliberately. “Wild guess.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

Without another word, he turns and stalks back to his truck.

“Hey,” I yell.

He turns excruciatingly slow, his eyebrows raised.

“Little help here.” I lift my arms in frustration.

He walks back to me, his hands shoved in his pockets. “What now?”

“I’m kind of stuck.”

He looks between me and the car. “What’s the issue?”

“I can’t get out.” I wave my hands from my car, up to the shoulder of the road to demonstrate. “I can’t get up the slopey part.”

The corner of his mouth ticks upward, almost forming a quarter of a smile. Almost. He’s amused at my expense, yet some I can fix him part of me wants nothing more than to draw a genuine smile from his lips. Obviously, I need therapy.

“It’s called a drainage ditch.” He says it like I’m supposed to know what the heck that means.

He looks at my car again and then back to the road. “Crank your wheel all the way to the left and drive along that dirt pathway. Eventually, the grade will even out and you can pull back onto the main road. If that doesn’t work, call a tow company. Impractical German cars don’t do well in this desert sand.” This time he does smile, pleased with his dig at my girly vehicle.

I roll my eyes. Dick .

“Is that all?” He’s back to being irritated.

I flash him my fakest smile. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes widen, exasperation flickering in those hazel irises, and a sense of triumph fills me.

“Word of advice, stick to downtown,” he says, his voice low and condescending. “Tourists have no business driving on these back roads. Go on your little wine tour and then go back to where you came from.”

My mouth drops open. I’m completely stunned by his obvious contempt for me. Not to mention his completely inaccurate assumptions.

With a curt nod, he hops back in his truck and drives away without a second glance.

Annoyingly, his directions work perfectly, and I’m quickly back on the road. When I finally get back to Main Street, my dad returns my call.