Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I might be counting down the days.
When next Wineday—I mean Monday—rolls around, I leave my apartment, texting my friend Rachel in San Francisco as I take the subway uptown. She’s a wine lover, so I’m required to make her jealous.
Hazel: Guess where I’m off to…Hugo’s!
Rachel: I hate you. Also, steal me a bottle of his best cab.
Hazel: I’ll stuff it down my jeans.
Rachel: Don’t get me excited while I’m heading to work.
Hazel: Speaking of, how’s the new jewelry shop going?
Rachel: It’s day by day but I’m hopeful. I’m heading to Paris next month to check out some artists to possibly carry!
Hazel: Ooh, la la! (That’s, um, the extent of my French).
I’m almost at Hugo’s, so I wish her well then head into the fancy restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue, where I soak up the ins and outs of different grapes from the wine expert named owner.
The lumberjack of a man offers me a cab. “And this one is from my favorite region in California. The grapes are big and fierce,” Hugo says without a hint of snoot in his voice. He’s the wine everyman.
I lean in and draw a hearty inhale of the glass of red. Makes my senses tingle. “Mmm. Smells rich,” I say.
“The grapes were harvested at just the right time,” he says, patting the label on the bottle next to him like he’s praising the winemaker.
“Hugo, I have a very important question.”
“Ask me anything,” he says with a warm smile.
“Would you ever harvest grapes under a full moon?”
“Why?” It has five syllables.
“That’s exactly what I was wondering. Whyyyyy?”
I tell him the story of the full-moon wine. Hugo shakes his head the whole time, amusingly perturbed. “Everyone has a gimmick. Before you know it, someone will market sweet raccoon wine.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“Not really, but one of the ways you can tell grapes are ripe is when birds, raccoons, or bears show up. They like the grapes when they’re sweet,” he explains.
That just makes wine even more delightful. “I must find a way to put Sweet Raccoon Wine in my next book,” I say.
“I agree. You must,” he says.
When I leave a little later—without a bottle in my jeans, sorry Rachel—I’m dying to tell someone about the raccoon wine. As I hit the bustling sidewalk, I open my phone to text TJ, but annoyingly, my brain whispers someone else’s name.
Axel.
Tell Axel.
I scoff at myself. As if I’d tell Axel, I argue back.
But he was there for the full-moon wine harvest.
So what? TJ will still get it.
But you know you’re dying to tell Axel you dispelled the Tides of Wine theory with him.
Enough! Just enough!
As I weave through the afternoon crowds on a spring day, I write to my bestie. Once I hit send, my phone trills. The number is the main line at my publisher, Lancaster Abel.
“Oh,” I say to no one. A familiar mix of nerves and excitement pings through me. Usually it’s good news when the publisher calls, but you never know. What if someone canceled me online while I was visiting Hugo? Worse, what if my publisher is dropping me because I’ve been canceled? Have I done something to get canceled? I’m not a dick. I don’t say stupid things. But oh god, I hope I didn’t fuck up.
I swipe answer so fast.
“Hey there, it’s Hazel,” I say as I duck down Eighty-Second Street, where it’s a touch quieter than the avenue.
“We know it’s Hazel!” the twin voices of Aaron and Cady, Lancaster Abel’s publicists, chime in. “We called you!”
Like most good publicists, they speak in exclamation points.
“What are you doing?” Cady asks next. She’s the peppier of the two, which is saying something since Aaron ranks a ten out of ten on the cheer scale.
“Just leaving Hugo’s Wine Bar. Research for my new book,” I say, hoping to impress them, because I’m always hoping to impress everyone at Lancaster Abel since I need them to love me forever and ever and then some.
“Oh my god. So fun. I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Aaron says, then clucks his tongue. “Sooooo…”
I brace myself. Doom is coming. “Yes?”
“We had the best idea,” Cady tag-teams, just as a furniture truck rumbles down the block. She says something more about this best idea, but I can barely hear her.
“What did you say?” I ask, covering my other ear.
“Wait. Hugo’s. You’re at Hugo’s? Why didn’t you tell us? The office is five blocks away,” Aaron says.
Sure, I know that. But why would I tell them? I don’t want to be clingy. “I didn’t realize you’d want to see me,” I say, honestly.
“We always do,” Cady says. “Wait! New idea! Can you come by? It was someone’s birthday today. We have cake.”
“Oh my god, girl. Don’t offer her someone else’s cake,” Aaron says, mortified. “Hazel, hon. You deserve your own cake.”