Page 24 of The Spare

A marriage clause? In the twenty-first century?

I’m trying to understand what Pop was thinking. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that my grandfather loved me. As much, if not more, than his winery. He’d known my parents were reckless, financial parasites, and in his infinite wisdom, he’d tried to ensure I settled down with a solid partner before I could get my hands on the family fortune. That had to be it. But was this the only way?

“Maybe,” I admit to myself, taking another sip. I need to wipe this glum look off of my face and think positive.

Well, I’m positive this has to be better than the last three dates.

Lifting my glass, I give a silent toast to my matchmaker. She’d promised three pre-screened candidates chosen for the utmost in compatibility. I take a long swallow of my Sutter Creek Cabernet Franc and scowl at the memory of candidate number one, Tiffany. Or was it, Brittany? Lord, I can’t remember anything but the incessant giggling.

She was a breathy, platinum-blonde who spoke entirely in high-pitched cackling and took twelve selfies before the appetizers even hit the table. Sure, she was beautiful. Even staring at her impressive cleavage, I could barely make it through dinner because of the ridiculous chortling. That and her need to keep reaching for my hand.

Before today, I would’ve ended plenty of nights with a giggly, agreeable girl just like her. Someone who asked zero questions and demanded even less depth. But standing in a chapel putting a ring on her finger while my grandfather’s vineyard withered into dust? The thought made my stomach churn. Hell, she spent ten minutes complaining that the restaurant’s sparkling water wasn’t sparkly enough. By the time she asked if Sutter Creek had an Instagram wall for photo ops, I’d called for the check.

I reach for my wine when I see a statuesque brunette with her hair in a painfully tight bun, wearing a dark gray skirt and a matching, custom-fit jacket approach. She walks toward me in five-inch heels like she’s on a runway. Standing, I hold out my hand. “Hi. Victoria?”

“Yes,” she answers brusquely, her handshake firm. “Sam?”

“Hi. It’s nice to meet you. I hope this is okay.” I wave my hand out nervously to indicate the restaurant.

She glances over her shoulder for a hot second before sitting down beside me. “It’s fine.”

I frown. Jesus. Had Emmaleigh at the matchmaker service taken me ultra seriously when I said I wanted someone the polar opposite of the last date? If candidate number one was brainless, my first impression of candidate number two is a drill sergeant in a Chanel suit.

“I wasn’t sure what you might like. Didn’t want to order without you seeing the menu. The owner stocks my vineyard’s wine, so he brought a glass over while I was waiting. Would you like me to ask him to bring you one while you review the menu?”

She places her phone face up beside her. “No. I don’t enjoy wine. I’ll take a Scotch.” Hell, this is going downhill fast. Not sure marrying a woman who doesn’t like wine will be good for my winery. “I’ll just have whatever is fastest. The house salad will do.”

Making eye contact with Jason, he comes to my side, and I order a few small-plated appetizers we could share along with her salad and Scotch. Once my eyes return to her, I notice her meticulously adjusting her cutlery. She measures the precise two-inch gap between her salad fork and butter knife, lining up her wineglass with the edge of the placemat and cleaning her water goblet with a sanitizer wipe she pulled from her purse. Every movement appears calculated and clinical.

A cold chill travels down my spine. What the hell would sex be like with this woman?

She continues her efforts for probably three minutes. Maybe that’s why she wanted whatever was fastest. It takes too long to get ready to eat.

“So, Emmaleigh didn’t tell me much about you. What do you do, Victoria?”

With this question, her face lights up a little. And by a little, I mean, she no longer looks as if she’s going to crack her back molars with her jaw as tight as it was when she sat down. “I’m a corporate strategist.” Within ten minutes, she’s outlining her five-year plan for her company and her future spouse, complete with mandatory calendar syncs. The thought of it gives me the shivers. Nothing about this conversation appears to elicit joy. When she speaks, her lips barely part. It looks like it physically pains her to crack even the smallest smile.

“Wow. You have it all planned out.” Like every single moment of her day, I’m assuming. “I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy,” I add, knowing this will be the clincher. Dragging this date out is pointless. So I settle back in my chair and enjoy my wine, knowing it won’t be long before she’s done with this and makes her exit. From the minute she’d arrived, she’d approached this date like a hostile takeover.

And here I thought I’d prefer a woman like this. Too busy to get tangled in the entrapments of a real relationship. Instead, preferring a businesslike approach. Her space, my space. Her friends, my friends. Yet something tells me Victoria doesn’t have friends. Just professional colleagues. And as a spouse, I’d be working for her.

There is zero chance I could hide the real reason for needing a quick marriage from a woman like Victoria. She’d sniff out a financial scheme in ten seconds and have her legal team draft an ironclad prenup that seized half of Sutter Creek. Beyond that, living with this robot would be a special kind of hell. I’d be miserable before the ink on the marriage certificate dried.

As predicted, she places her napkin on the table before the food even arrives. “Well, this doesn’t appear to be a fruitful use of my time.” She stands, looking at me with what I suspect is a sneer, all judgy. But it could be Botox. “Good luck.”

I shake my head. Good luck is right.

It’s Friday night, and I’m physically and mentally exhausted. As if the back-breaking work on the vineyard with little to no staff isn’t bad enough, these awful dates are worse.

I told Emmaleigh that even though it was against her better judgment, I wanted to meet the last candidate out somewhere fun. I wasn’t going to let another bad date destroy my evening. If nothing else, maybe I could meet someone else organically before the night was over. Not sure that’s the best approach to giving this girl a fair shot. But I’m over this. I’d consider a mail order bride if Mom’s attorneys couldn’t locate a paper trail in no time flat.

Arriving at The Zone, I walk past the cordoned-off line of young people and head straight to the bouncer at the door. I’ve hired Jimmy to do some side jobs at the vineyard on occasion. He’s a nice guy with more than a few mouths to feed at home. He only does this gig part time because he’s built like a tank. I chuckle. It looks like the shirt he’s wearing is fighting for its life.

Jimmy slaps me on the shoulder as I approach. “Hey, Sam. Haven’t seen you in a while. You okay?”

Define okay.

“Yeah, just overwhelmed with getting the vineyard back up and on its feet.”