Texting With the Enemy (Digital Dating #1) - Marika Ray Page 0,16

job home. I had visions of turning this place into the most successful boutique winery in Solano Creek. Scratch that. In all of Napa County.

I grabbed the dish rag and wiped down the bar, pretending to keep busy while I listened to their entire conversation. If they wanted privacy, they should have gone all the way outside, not just behind the sparkly pink swinging saloon doors.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Boston asked, sounding quite frantic, which made me feel marginally better. Maybe he was frantic because he didn’t want to lose a good accountant. He had offered me a raise to stay with West Wines.

“I do,” came Pam’s patient voice. “I hired a sales girl and just barely in time. We have the grand opening this weekend, boy. Now march your cute self in there and train her. I’m counting on you.”

A huge sigh from the back room had me back to feeling deflated. If I somehow managed to keep this job, I’d be working with Boston. The guy who thought a kindergartener could do sales better than me.

“Fine. We can talk about this later.”

The saloon doors swung open, and Pam came back through with a broad smile and the polo shirt extended toward me. “Put this on, my dear, and then Boston will get you all set up. I know I’m asking a lot of you with the opening this weekend, but I have a feeling between you and my son, you’ll be up to speed and ready to wine the pants off customers in no time.”

I shot her a smile, feeling the laser stare from Boston as he glared at me from the doorway. “I’ll try to keep all pants on, but wallets out.”

Pam laughed and walked right past Boston to the back room. “See what I mean? She’s perfect!”

The way Boston clenched his jaw, I wasn’t sure he agreed with his mom’s assessment. I wasn’t going to stick around for his commentary though. I knew from experience it could be brutal. “I’ll just go put this on.” I held the polo in my hand and hightailed it to the bathroom to change.

Pam might have been a good judge of character, but she was not a good judge of shirt size. While the polo mostly fit, my lady bits were testing the strength of the two tiny buttons. If I kept my breathing shallow, I thought the shirt might just hold up. I headed back into the tasting room to start my training, the butterflies in my stomach feeling more like fire breathing dragons.

“Ready for my training!” I said brightly, nearly passing out from not being able to take a deep breath for courage.

Boston looked up from his phone, his gaze immediately dropping to the stretched cotton, valiantly testing its stitch strength. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the long bar, the grayish toned wood matching the room perfectly. “Okay, we have a lot to cover. Let’s start with the various wines the Cunning Ham has available.”

A solid two hours later, I had a meager grasp on all the nuances of the wines I’d be serving. Begrudgingly, I had to admit Boston had been a good teacher; concise, thorough, and his gaze didn’t once drop to my chest. He had some serious self-control going on there. Far more than I did. I’d had to repeat everything he said twice in my head in order to stay focused on what he was teaching me and not on what his gorgeous blue eyes looked like up close. They had little flecks of brownish gold in them, by the way.

“Now let’s run through a mock tasting. Pretend I’m a customer who just walked in.” Boston strode toward the front door of the tasting room.

That sounded like an awful idea, but I couldn’t help how my gaze ate up the way he filled out those suit pants to perfection. Had he been a soccer player in another life? Maybe a weightlifter? A cyclist? Not sure that kind of leg muscle came from sitting behind a desk all day.

Boston walked toward me with an actual smile on his face and I lost my train of thought, not that the leg muscle thought train had been a good one in the first place. Boston had never smiled like that at me before. I didn’t even know his face could do that. It was disconcerting how much it made my insides feel like a scoop of ice cream on a