Holding My Breath

I used to have a crush on Justin Timberlake. Well, to be honest, if he showed up on my doorstep and asked me out, I’d still have a hard time saying no. Cassie was more of a JC Chasez fan. All through middle school and the first half of high school, we had their posters covering every inch of wall space in our bedrooms and spent hours fantasizing about what it would be like if we could just meet them, and what we would say.

That’s why I didn’t understand why Cassie was so upset when she found out I’d decided to start working at the vineyard early this year. I told her it was to help out my dad, which, of course, was true. But she knew my real intentions. She of all people should get what it was like to dream about a guy she could never have. I promised her we’d still spend as much time together as we always did, but she was still short with me when she left my house that day.

That was two weeks ago. Sam and I had been working together every weekday since then from noon to five, and it turned out we worked really well together. Once I categorized him into the Justin Timberlake section of my brain, it made being around him much easier. Giving him celebrity status made him the un-gettable get, which took a lot of the pressure off. If there was no chance of ever getting him, I didn’t have to worry about impressing him anymore. Mostly.

Sam and I actually had a smooth way of communicating with each other, and his need for organization clicked perfectly with my love of office supplies. Most days I could anticipate what he needed before he had to ask, and he made sure I had complete information about every marketing project we were working on so I could answer phone calls and emails without having to ask. I’d always loved working at the vineyard, but working for him made it more enjoyable. Cassie had to at least understand that.

“Where’s Jackson?” Sam asked, glancing around the hallway outside the conference room. The other marketers huddled closely near the door, ready to enter the room for the meeting we’d all prepared relentlessly for: the presentation of our new wine to Whole Foods.

“I haven’t seen him since I got here,” I said. My stomach clenched. Jackson had disappeared a lot more frequently since Sam had started, when the productivity levels of the marketing department reached an all time high and Jackson’s motivation hit an all time low. Which, according to my dad, was hard to do. When he wasn’t around, Sam joked that Jackson was allergic to work. I hoped he hadn’t finally succumbed to his illness right when we needed him most.

“Where is he?” Sam asked again, more to himself than to us. The other four marketers mumbled and shrugged. “Shit,” he said under his breath and rubbed his hand across his hairline, obviously trying to control his breathing. I pushed forward to get in close to him. No matter how many times I stood next to him, and—celebrity status or not—every time I caught the scent of his cologne, the pace of my heart quickened.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We can do it without him. What do you need?”

“The wine,” he said with a frantic laugh. His eyes met mine and I saw every ounce of his anxiety in them. This meeting meant everything to him. It was his first pitch and possibly meant the difference between staying at Hidden Chateau Vineyard and leaving. And we’d all worked so hard. I wasn’t going to let Jackson, of all people, screw it up.

“Get started. I’ll take care of it,” I said.

His eyes drilled into mine, trying to decide if he could trust me to pull it together in time. Apparently he decided he could, because he nodded and opened the door to allow the other marketers to file in. When the door closed behind him, I took a deep breath then broke into a sprint.

I went to Jackson’s office first, just down the hall, but even at first glance, I knew it wasn’t there. His desk was empty of the three bottles we planned to present. He must have never picked them up from the printing room.

We printed the mock up labels on the second floor. I hiked up my slacks and tried not to trip as I fumbled down the stairs in my riding boots, avoiding other people on the stairs. I flung open the door and there, sitting on a table across the room, stood the bottles. I dashed over and began to wrap my arms around them before I realized something. There were no labels on them.