When Kiera applies for a job at a winery, the tension between her and the owner turns the interview into something more. Rating: PG-13

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I’ve decided how today will end: either I get the job and move five hours away from home, or I don’t get the job and find another way to move five hours away from home.

God, I hope it’s the first one.

I park my Prius in the winery’s gravel lot, heart thumping so hard it’s like it’s trying to escape my chest.

My parents are upset, but they can’t be surprised. I’m twenty-three and it’s time to move out. A new life and some distance will give me a chance to figure out some things—like how to get over the woman I thought I would propose to.

Beyond my windshield, the main building could be a refurbished old barn or a brand new structure designed to look rustic. It’s charming and reminds me of visiting my grandpa’s ranch growing up. Wine barrels flank the entrance and the wooden sign overhead says Dubois Estate in cursive. Behind it, the vineyard dips and curves with the landscape, a blip of paradise on the dry Washington hillside.

As I get out of the car, the searing August heat beats down on me and I rush to the entrance. I’ve already got a nervous sweat threatening to show on my white blouse; I don’t need the sun to speed up the process.

When I walk in, the aroma of wood and wine mingle in my nose. The room is spacious under a vaulted ceiling, with wine and merchandise arranged neatly along the walls. The air conditioning makes my skin tingle.

A middle-aged guy greets me from behind the bar on the other side of the vast room.

“I’m here for an interview?” I say, the words coming out like a question. Like I’m half expecting him to respond “no.”

“You must be Kiera. Just a minute.”

He leaves me standing in the hollow silence, listening to my shallow breaths. I smooth my hair, frame the dark locks around my face, and adjust the white blouse and gray suit that I bought for the occasion.

Why do interviews have to be so stressful? Is it because we’ve connected them to survival? Get the job, earn money, acquire food and shelter. Fail the interview, be unemployed, starve and die.

Great, this is helping.

“Stop it,” I whisper. “There are plenty of job opportunities.”

And that’s the moment the guy returns with someone.

Please tell me they didn’t hear me talking to myself.

My gaze locks onto my interviewer, and my heart skips a beat. I’ve met her before.

What was her name?

She’s a few years older than me, tall, slim, an image of elegance. Her sleek brunette hair is combed back, leaving me to linger on her hazel eyes and the sharp angles of her face. Her black suit, red heels, and ruby lipstick pop against her pale skin.

“Marie Dubois,” she says with a French accent, shaking my hand.

Marie.

Her accent sparks something inside me. When we met at the music festival five years ago, the low purr of her voice tipped my attraction over the edge, making me take her hand and dance my heart out to an indie band that was mediocre at best. Her captivating eyes, her confidence, and her carefree laugh made me dream of her for months afterwards. She’d been bold, forward, seductive. I was figuring out my sexuality at the time, and oh, did she ever help me learn what I wanted.

Wait, did she say her last name is Dubois? The Dubois?

“Y-you’re the owner?” I stammer.

Ugh, this is doing nothing for my nerves. I expected to interview with an employee, not the owner of the entire winery.

Her gaze traces over me in a way that makes my stomach flutter. Her ruby lips curve in the slightest smile, and she motions for me to follow her into the back room.

I don’t think she remembers me. Maybe that’s for the best. The fact that we grinded on each other in bikinis five years ago isn’t exactly professional.

She leads me to an office and shuts the door. The furniture is simple, the desk and chairs made of reclaimed wood, an abstract painting that might be a mountain range on the opposite wall.

I sit in a chair and she perches on the desk in front of me. I don’t know if it’s a power move or if she’s trying to seem casual, but the closeness makes my pulse accelerate. She’s towering over me, our knees almost touching, and I can smell her sweet perfume.

“My grandparents started this business before I was born,” she purrs. “I inherited it and have taken it to the status we’re at today. More awards, more revenue, more influential visitors than ever. My staff has to be dedicated to my vision. Are you up to the challenge?”

“Yes ma’am.” God, this woman has the confidence of someone who’s been doing this for decades, but she’s only in her twenties.

She smiles, and the look is so beautiful on her that it takes the breath from my lungs. “Don’t call me ma’am.” Her gaze sweeps over me again. “You’re very pretty, Kiera. I think you would be a nice face behind the bar. Why do you want this job?”

“I have a passion for wine,” I say, my answer coming automatically after so much time rehearsing this question. “My customer service background—”

“No. Why do you really want it? Your resume says you’re from Seattle. Why would a city girl want to move all the way out here?”

I open and close my mouth, caught off-guard. How am I supposed to answer this without spilling my personal life about getting cheated on? Do I tell her I want to get away from everyone I’ve ever known and start a new life?

No. That is not a job interview conversation.

“I’ve… found myself in a position where I can build my life anywhere I want. I want to move away from the city and start an interesting career. Something that speaks to me. Something I’d be good at.”

She bites her lip while her gaze traces over me. “I don’t know why anyone would want to move away from the city.”

This seems like a strange thing to say. “Why not?”

“This vineyard is beautiful, yes. I have dogs and horses, yes. But where do I go to make friends, try fancy restaurants, meet a new lover?”

Heat rises in my face. I shift on the hard wooden seat. “There must be bars and clubs—”

“There is one bar,” she says, raising a manicured finger. Her hands are smooth and delicate. “Tell me, do you want to move to a town where there is one bar and it is full of old men who want to cheat on their wives with you?”

Maybe it’s the mention of cheating, but her words ignite something spiteful in my chest. “I don’t want to be with any men, never mind cheating ones,” I say sharply.

She leans back, raising her eyebrows a fraction. “We met before. Remind me where.”

My mouth goes dry. So she does recognize me. “Music festival. Seattle. Five years ago.”

Her eyes light up, and for a moment, she’s the girl who was wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and a pink bikini. We danced in the sun, sweaty bodies grinding, noses brushing, the air between us thick with something new and exciting. If I let my mind wander there, I can still smell her coconut sunscreen. We never kissed, but god, I wanted to feel her lips on mine.

Part 2 coming tomorrow! Read the full story right now on “Sweet & Spicy Sapphic Stories” at patreon.com/tianawarner. Plus you’ll get early access to next week’s story.