The Sweet Spot Read online

  Also by Heather Heyford

  An Oregon Wine Country Romance

  Kisses Sweeter Than Wine

  Intoxicating

  The Crush

  The Napa Wine Heiresses

  A Taste of Sake

  A Taste of Sauvignon

  A Taste of Merlot

  A Taste of Chardonnay

  The Sweet Spot

  A Willamette Valley Romance

  Heather Heyford

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Heather Heyford

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Teaser chapter

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Heather Heyford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Lyrical and the Lyrical logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-5161-0256-3

  First Electronic Edition: March 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0259-4

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0259-2

  This book is dedicated to Esi Sogah, with gratitude for your patience, faith, and wisdom.

  Chapter One

  Oregon’s wine country

  Hank Friestatt eased off the accelerator as his SUV bore down on a compact car traveling well below the posted speed limit. He skimmed his rearview mirror and then rechecked the straight stretch ahead, but theirs were the only two vehicles around. No cops with radar guns hid along side streets. No oncoming traffic barreled down in the opposite lane. So what was the holdup?

  He lowered the window and craned his neck out to look around the car ahead, only to pull up sharply when its brake lights blinked red. Inside the rear window heads turned and fingers pointed across miles of carefully tended vineyards toward a stunning, white-capped peak in the distance.

  The snow atop Mt. Hood was just another reminder of Hank’s past life . . . endless, carefree days spent on the ski slopes and dreaming of becoming a pilot, before he’d become tied to the family business the way a grapevine is tied to a trellis—secured with a double knot, allowing enough room to grow, but not enough to move out of place.

  The scene was so pastoral, so harmonious, it was easy to forget that Mt. Hood might erupt again at any moment, just as it had in 1865, the year Hank’s family immigrated to Oregon.

  He rubbed his aching temples. That’s what he got for staying too long at the White Horse last night. But it was well worth it to spend a few stolen hours with his few friends who had nothing to do with the wine business. They got his mind off work. Then again, none of them had to get up at five to mow, and then pay the mountains of monthly bills racked up by an established vineyard estate that included a working winery.

  Just as he’d thought. A rental, full of the season’s first tourists. His eyes flickered impatiently over the dashboard, rapidly recalculating his ETA to the airport.

  Most of the visitors to his family’s resort arrived on Sunday afternoons. When there were stragglers—people who didn’t care to rent a car, workaholics, type A’s who couldn’t manage even a complete week’s vacation—Nelson typically went for them. But Nelson was in an ankle cast after taking a tumble down the back steps of the inn last Friday night.

  It would be simple to swerve around those slowpokes and be on his way. But there was a double yellow line prohibiting passing. And in driving, as in life, Hank tended to follow the rules, even when odds were he wouldn’t get caught.

  He tossed his ball cap onto the passenger seat, turned on the radio, and slung his wrist over the steering wheel.

  “When I find your house, I’m gonna rip that door off its hinges . . .”

  There were love songs, and then there were scorchers that could knock a woman up all by themselves. He’d only heard this one a few times before and didn’t know all the lyrics yet, but those he did know poked at his insides, urging him to explore their meaning and conversely, warning him to leave well enough alone.

  He cranked it up and sang along, picking up a new line here and there. What else did he have to do, stuck here behind those rubberneckers?

  Grandma Ellie said what he needed was a good woman, as if that were the answer to his restless spirit. But no woman had ever incited that kind of passion in him. Then again, who felt like that in real life? It was just a stupid song.

  He jabbed the station button repeatedly, in search of something else. What, he didn’t know. He was going to be late. That’s all that was eating him. That, and the fact that right now he ought to be supervising the vine-thinning and shoot-repositioning instead of wasting time driving to Portland.

  Finally he turned into the Arrivals lane of Portland International Airport. Checking his watch yet again, he rolled to a stop at the Delta sign, slapped his cap back on, and jumped out, making sure to hit the lock-door button on his remote.

  * * *

  The first thing Jamie Martel was going to do when she got to the Sweet Spot was order a glass of wine. Not that she hadn’t already tasted the Sweet Spot’s brand of pinot. It might sound silly, but she was eager to see if her favorite wine tasted even better when she was standing on the sacred soil where the grapes were grown.

  Tapping her foot, she checked her cell phone. Where was the guy who was supposed to pick her up?

  She positioned herself smack-dab in the center of the Arrivals area and stood her ground despite the barely disguised annoyance of travelers detouring their rolling bags around her, her large checked bag, oversized tote, and guitar. No way could he miss her now.

  The sliding glass doors swooshed open and closed as passengers and their loved ones came and went, doling out greetings, hugs, and backslaps. It seemed everybody had somebody except her. Soon all the familiar faces on her incoming flight had gone, leaving her standing there alone like
a piece of unclaimed baggage.

  She’d been counting the days until this trip. Now that she was finally this far, she couldn’t wait to finish the last leg. She bit her lip as her eyes continued to scan the area. Maybe she’d been a little too impulsive, flying across the country all by herself to a place where she didn’t know anyone. Maybe I should have backed out of this trip when Kimmie did, she thought for the umpteenth time.

  Where was that driver?

  She dug again for her cell. “Excuse me,” she said when her tote bumped a full-bearded man with a sleeve tattoo. But before she could pull up the vineyard number, she heard the whooshing sound of the doors again, and striding toward her with the setting sun at his back came a broad-shouldered silhouette.

  The man grabbed the fraying brim of a ball cap with the words TEXTRON AVIATION emblazoned across the crown and swept it off to reveal bottomless brown eyes and a head full of thickly layered, brown hair. “Miz Martel? Hank Friestatt. Sorry I’m late.”

  She had a vague impression of faded jeans and a denim shirt, a twisted red neckerchief in a loose U around his neck. But his eyes, filled with contradictions, were what held her captive. Something about them was injured, yet yearning. Vulnerable, but guarded. They drew her in while warning her: Don’t get too close.

  The warm strength in his hand surrounding hers was an unexpected comfort after having spent the last seven hours with only a teenage boy immersed in his video games and an overworked flight attendant for company.

  “Just Jamie. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

  They stood motionless for a moment, while all around them the endless stream of people continued to ebb and flow.

  Then Jamie heard that glass of pinot calling her name again.

  “Would you mind giving me a hand with these bags?”

  Though the famous teal-blue carpeting of the PDX did a good job of muffling the footfalls of the passengers, he must not have heard her.

  “My bag?” She looked down pointedly at their lingering handclasp.

  “Right.” Swiftly, he divested her of not just one but both bags plus her guitar, leaving her empty-handed like some helpless, antebellum princess. “You play? Nice. I’m right outside. Let’s go.”

  He led her to a dusty SUV with its blinkers flashing. With an economy of motion he tossed her gear in the back and slid in next to her, shifting into drive.

  “Can’t remember the last time we had a pickup on a Wednesday,” he said, checking his rearview and pulling into traffic. “You joining a crew that’s already up at the vineyard?”

  “A friend of mine was supposed to be coming, too, but her plans changed.”

  He lifted a brow. “You came out here all by yourself?”

  “For two whole weeks.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s lots of folks already on board, lots of things to do. We have meals family style. You’ll meet people there. Hope you like wine.”

  “Do I! How else could I survive four hundred thirty-two precocious rappers-in-training?”

  He glanced over at her, his interest mildly piqued.

  “I teach music at an inner-city school for gifted kids.”

  At the mention of the city, he brightened. “Where’d you say you live?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  “I went to school in Denver. Loved everything about that area. The nightlife. Coors Field. Loved every minute of it until—” He bit his tongue. “Going back for a visit soon, as a matter of fact. Can’t wait.”

  “I’ve been living in Philly for a while now, but I grew up in Lancaster County and I’d do anything to go back there, even though some may not find it very exciting. There’s something about belonging to a place . . .” A familiar melancholy arose in her, but she shrugged it off, looking out at the sights of Portland as they headed away from the airport. “I’ve been dying to get out here to wine country.” Now that she was finally here, she refused to let the past intrude on the present.

  “Tried any of our pinot noir? Or maybe you prefer white. Our Riesling’s really coming along.”

  Talk of wine never failed to lift her spirits. “After music, Oregon pinot noir is my jam. Have you ever had a wine epiphany?” In her growing excitement, she shifted so that she was facing him, and tucked one foot under her bottom. “A moment when a certain wine rocks your world? Some people say it’s like being baptized into the wine religion.”

  “Wine religion?” Hank laughed out loud. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Heat crawled up her neck. She’d have thought that Henry Friestatt VIII, of all people, would understand. “I was skeptical, too, at first. Wine was just a way to bond with friends over a meal.”

  “And then you had this epiphany?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” She turned her face to the window so he wouldn’t see her cheeks in full bloom, remembering that chilly April evening with Kimmie and two other friends at a place called Entree in South Philly.

  “Well?” Hank laughed. “You can’t just leave me hanging.”

  “It was a 2015 Friestatt Sweet Spot pinot noir.” She had been all set to go on at length about the choir of angels singing and the confetti fluttering down from the ceiling, but if all he was going to do was laugh at her . . .

  “Good to know.”

  She’d just paid him a massive compliment. Was that all he had to say about it?

  Whatever.

  She sat back in her seat to the shush of tires on asphalt, thinking about the life she had left behind for a respite.

  Just before school let out, the head of the music department had resigned unexpectedly and Jamie was offered the position, starting next fall. It was the career opportunity of a lifetime, making her the school’s youngest-ever department head.

  Jamie had accepted right then and there, before the committee had a chance to change their minds.

  Her only misgiving was the look on the face of Aaron Beekman when he came up to her in the hallway the day after the announcement.

  Aaron was a studious introvert with wire-rims, a thin, blond comb-over, and an earring. He was principal oboist in an orchestra on Philadelphia’s Main Line. He was also Jamie’s teacher-mentor.

  Like all teachers, from Jamie’s first day she was given a full program and expected to hit the ground running. Aside from the official checklist of mentor duties consisting of things like orientation, co-teaching, and goal setting, Aaron went out of his way to make Jamie feel respected. When she had a problem, he listened. When she met a small goal, he celebrated with her—and then challenged her to set a new one.

  Most of all, he made her feel safe in coming to him when she made a mistake. That had made all the difference when she was still new and racked with nerves.

  Aaron had been teaching for ten years. When he heard about the chairmanship opening, he confided that he was going to apply.

  “You should apply, too,” he said.

  “Me?” replied Jamie. “They’re not going to choose me. I’ve only been teaching for three years.”

  “But look what you’ve done in the short time you’ve been here . . . the festival you started for district band, chorus, and orchestra. What do you have to lose? Going through the interview process will be good practice for later, when you’re really serious about advancement.”

  And so, like always, she had taken Aaron’s advice.

  When Jamie got the job, if he was hurt, he was far too professional—and generous—to ever let her see it.

  “Congratulations,” he’d said, taking both Jamie’s hands in his. “I’m looking forward to seeing all the exciting things you’re going to do for the department.”

  “Aaron, I—”

  “I won’t hear a word of it,” he said, putting his finger to her lips. “You got the job, fair and square. No hard feelings.”

  “You’re a wonderful teacher, Aaron,” she said. “I’m going to be so lucky to have you on my team.”

  One of the last things her superintendent had said to he
r was to make her last summer count. Starting next year, she’d be working admin hours; in other words, all year round.

  That’s when Jamie decided to come out West. She hadn’t taken a real vacation since eleventh grade, the year Mom passed away. Dad had been squarely behind her decision. Your mom would want you to, he’d said. If not for that, Jamie would already be working on plans for next school year. But Dad said she deserved a break. Someplace far from the hustle and bustle.

  Hank pointed out Portland’s iconic Big Pink and the Wells Fargo Center right before they dipped under a bypass. On the other side, it was as if they’d crossed the border into another country.

  “Ah. Look at this!” Jamie exclaimed. “Not a high-rise in sight. Those mountains look a lot like the blue hills where I’m from. Except for those spiky evergreens. They remind me of the way one of my students might draw a Christmas tree, pointy at the top with tiers that sweep outward, widening into the shape of a triangle.”

  She grinned at Hank, but he seemed strangely immune to the beauty of their surroundings. He kept his eyes on the road, leaning slightly forward as if that would help speed them to their destination.

  “Soon as we get to the inn I’ll hand you off to my grandmother. She’ll get you settled and tell you where to go.”

  She’d been dismissed—granted, in the nicest way possible, but still dismissed. But then, what was she to Hank Friestatt but one guest among countless others before and after her?

  She opened her window, leaned back and sniffed. Unlike the dense humidity of a Mid-Atlantic June, the air here in Oregon was bone dry. The clean scents of sage and pine were already having a relaxing effect, despite her driver being in such an obvious rush to be finished with her.

  * * *

  Hank snuck a sideways glance at Jamie Martel. She was pale. Too pale, like she’d been stuck inside too long. Well, that wouldn’t last. A little sun and exercise—to put the roses back in her cheeks, as Ellie liked to say—and by the time she was ready to go home again, she’d be almost pretty. Almost.