The Great Grape Heist

Last year it was arson. The year before, a phony health inspector.

This year it's our turn.

We infiltrate the tasting with no issues - a hundred and one people all dressed to the nines; the Howdens won't notice a couple of extra staff. Their uniforms are cheap polyester, itchy and hot. I tug at my tie.

Carl is bragging about the fruits of their labour to anyone who will listen. I clench my clipboard so hard it almost snaps.

"Of course it's all thanks to our patented growing procedure." He puffs his chest out like a stuffed turkey. I gag.

Jake trips, sending carefully curated glasses of red and white flying. The delicate white tablecloths are stained with the blood of a thousand grapes and I slip away unnoticed.

The Howdens' safe is upstairs. We got their passcode months ago; idiots never changed it from their anniversary. The office is quiet and dark, insulated from the cacophony outside.

The photo of their wedding still sits on the desk, though myself and Jake have been cropped out.

The safe opens with a satisfying click.

I stuff the patent into my shirt and slip out undetected.

They'll never suspect a thing.