Unbreakable

by Harlow, Melanie

  I filled the second glass, sorry I’d opened my mouth, but at the same time thinking how nice it was to feel her touch. “She was just over it after a while. She got sick of hearing me talk about what I do.”

  “But you love what you do.”

  I exhaled as I straightened. “It was part of a bigger problem. Anyway, I’m happy to answer your questions. If you start to snore, I’ll stop talking.”

  She laughed. “That won’t happen.” Lifting up her glass, she looked at the riesling, which was pale yellow and slightly opaque. Her fingers were slender and graceful on the stem, her fingernails painted a soft pink. “Why do you have to keep it so cold?”

  “To prevent crystallization of the bitartrates—what we sometimes call ‘wine diamonds.’”

  “Wine diamonds.” Her plush lips curved into a smile. “That actually sounds beautiful.”

  I laughed. “Maybe, but you don’t want them in your glass. Next week we’ll filter this and get it ready for bottling.”

  “Got it.” She lowered the glass and peered into it. “So am I supposed to sniff this first?”

  “You can, sure.” I watched her stick her nose inside the rim and inhale. “What do you smell?”

  She picked up her chin and looked at me, her expression concerned, like she was figuring out a math problem. “I don’t know. Something fruity? I’m not good at this.”

  Smiling, I swirled the wine in the glass. “You’re not wrong.”

  “What do you smell?”

  “Orchard fruits like apple, peach, apricot. A little honey. Maybe a little petrol.”

  “Petrol!” She looked horrified.

  “It’s normal,” I assured her with a laugh.

  She sniffed again. “I don’t smell that at all, and how the heck do you pick out individual fruits like that?”

  “Training. Experience. I also happen to have a very sensitive nose. I’m good at picking up different scents. Now taste it.”

  She took a sip, and her eyebrows rose. “It’s actually so cold I can’t taste anything.”

  “Yeah, the cold numbs your taste buds. Try this—don’t swallow it right away. Keep the wine in your mouth for a few seconds. Let it warm up on your tongue.” I hadn’t intended for it to sound suggestive, but her cheeks grew a little pink.

  “Okay.”

  We sipped at the same time, giving the wine a moment to lose its chill in our mouths, and I found myself thinking about her tongue. If I kissed her right now, I know exactly how she’d taste.

  Ashamed, I pushed the thought from my head.

  “So what do you think?” I asked, stepping back from her slightly. “Can you detect any specific flavors?”

  She swallowed and waited a second. “Maybe citrus?”

  “Very good.”

  She beamed, lighting up the entire room. “Yay! I got one right!”

  Laughing, I sipped again. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it. And how cool that these grapes were grown right outside!” She pointed in the direction of the vineyard.

  “It is cool—at least, I think it is. What you’re tasting is totally unique to the soil here, to this vineyard, to the way we make wine. And what we’re tasting this year will be different than what we taste next year from the very same vines. Wines tell a different story with every vintage.”

  She looked surprised, then delighted. “I love that—the idea that wines tell a story.”

  “That’s how I look at it.” I couldn’t help feeling excited to have someone to talk to about what I did—someone who wanted to listen and learn. “And it’s a story you don’t just read—you need more than just sight to really understand and appreciate it. You need smell, taste, touch—the feel of the wine in your mouth is just as important to the story as its scent or flavor.”

  “Wow.” Sylvia blinked at me. “You’re really good at this. You make tasting wine sound very . . . um, sensual.”

  “It should be sensual. But sorry.” I laughed self-consciously, shrugging my shoulders. “I tend to get carried away.”

  “Don’t apologize, I love that you’re so passionate about what you do.” She lifted the wine to her lips again, finishing the glass. “This is really good. I can taste it better now that it’s warming up a little. And I’m sure I’ll need plenty of wine to get through all these Cloverleigh holiday parties. Can’t say I’m looking forward to all the questions about my ex.”

  I finished my glass too. “I hear you on that. I’m tempted to skip them altogether.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Her expression was outraged. “Don’t make me be the only freshly-divorced person there. We can hide out together if it gets bad.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “I don’t know. The attic. The basement. The roof! We’ll watch for Santa Claus.” She frowned with pursed lips. “Although I don’t know that he’s speaking to me these days. Pretty sure I’m on the naughty list.”

  “Why is that?” I could not imagine this woman being naughty in any way, shape, or form.

  Well, I could, but I was trying not to.

  She bit her bottom lip. “I got drunk at this event at our country club called Breakfast with Santa. I stole Santa’s microphone. I said ‘don’t be an asshole’ to everyone in a room full of kids.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”

  She sighed, looking into her empty glass like she hoped more wine would magically appear. “It was not my finest moment.”

  “Well, everyone has to let off steam now and again. Want a little more wine?”

  She grinned and nodded, rising up on her tiptoes. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  I refilled our glasses with a small pour and handed hers back.

  “What about you?” She took a little sip. “Throw any public tantrums lately?”

  I laughed. “Can’t say I’ve thrown any public tantrums, but every couple days I beat the hell out of the heavy bag at the gym. That seems to help.”

  “I get that. Punching things probably feels pretty good.”

  “I can confirm that it does.”

  “Do you feel like . . .” But then she shook her head. “Never mind. I should stop bothering you and go home.” She lifted her glass to her lips.

  “No. Go ahead.” I surprised myself by pressing the issue—talking about my feelings was my least favorite thing to do. Renee and I had talked them to death, on our own and with a counselor. But talking to Sylvia felt nice—I didn’t want her to leave. I surprised myself again by touching her shoulder. “What were you going to ask?”

  She stared into her glass as she twirled the stem. “I was just going to ask if you felt like your friends abandoned you after your wife left. If you felt like people didn’t care about what you were going through and you had nobody to talk to.”

  “Oh.” I thought for a second. “Not really, I guess. But . . . I’m more of a private person. I didn’t really want to talk about it. It was done, and there was nothing anyone could say to change that.”

  “I know, but . . .” She looked up at me, her expression serious. “Didn’t you ever feel so lonely you wanted to scream?”

  I felt a sudden compulsion to put my arms around her, and had to force myself not to. “That’s when I go punch things. You should try it sometime.”

  She tipped up her wine again, finishing it. I finished mine too and reached for her glass. “Here, I’ll take that.”

  She followed me to the sink at the back of the cellar. “I’ve actually never thrown a punch at anything in my entire life.”

  “What?” I pretended to be shocked as I washed our glasses. “You’ve never been in a bar fight?”

  She laughed, sticking her hands in her coat pockets. “Never.”

  “No sparring with your sisters when you were young? My brothers and I beat the hell out of each other.”

  “Nope. I think Meg and Chloe went at it a few times, and April and I definitely got into screaming matches over who stole whose lip gloss or hairbrush or jean jacket, but nothing physical.
”

  “Not even one playground brawl to brag about?” I teased, setting the glasses on the rack to dry and wiping my hands on the bottom of my shirt. That’s when I noticed the hole—fucking hell, did I have to be wearing a shirt with a hole in it the one time Sylvia Sawyer came in here to talk to me? I felt like I should apologize or something—she was always so well-dressed and perfectly put together. And there was no way she hadn’t noticed it—it was right fucking there on my chest. I put a hand over it, but she wasn’t looking at me.

  “You know, there was this bully who shoved me off the swings once in third grade, but I didn’t fight back,” she said distractedly.

  “Why not?”

  “I was scared. She was bigger than me.”

  “That’s why you need to learn to throw a punch,” I told her. “You should come to the gym sometime. There’s a great coach there who works with beginners, and she has a lot of female clients. I think there’s also a self-defense class too.”

  “Really?” She perked up a little. “That might be good. I’ll be living alone here and everything, and even though this town isn’t very dangerous, you never know.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I think it would be great to feel . . . stronger. More confident. To know that I can take care of myself no matter what. Chances are, I’m never going to have to throw that punch, but if I did . . .”

  “You’d know what to do.”

  “I’d know what to do.” She smiled at me, a gleam in her eye. “You know, I already saw the hole in your shirt.”

  “Can’t we pretend you didn’t?”

  Laughing, she tugged my hand off my chest. “I saw it, and it’s fine, Henry. You don’t have to feel bad for dressing comfortably at work. I crashed your space.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  Our eyes locked, and a moment passed during which I wondered what life might have been like if our timing had been different. Would I have kissed her on a night like tonight? Would we have been good together? Would we be home in bed by now, wrapped up warm and close beneath the covers?

  The thought made the crotch of my pants feel tight.

  It also made me feel like a jerk.

  Sure, she was lonely, just like I was. But she was also really fucking vulnerable, and she was in here with me—alone, at night—because she trusted me to keep my hands to myself. I was a family friend and an employee. Only a total asshole would take advantage of her in this situation. Not to mention that it would jeopardize my job, my relationship with her family, and my professional reputation.

  I took my hand from hers. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you back.”

  She pulled her mittens from her pockets and put them on. “You don’t have to walk me back. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re anxious to get home.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” I said firmly. “I’m going to walk you back now.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me as she tugged her hat on, but she smiled too. “Bully.”

  “So fight me.”

  She sort of slapped at my chest with her mittened hands, and I grinned as I backed toward the stairs. “That’s it? You really do need that class.”

  A few minutes later, we were walking along the path toward the house, snow falling softly around us.

  “Are you coming for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just family, isn’t it?”

  “You’re practically family, Henry. And I’m inviting you. I’m surprised my mom didn’t already.”

  “She did.”

  “There, see?” She nudged me with her elbow. “You’re coming. It’s settled.”

  “You know, April once mentioned you could be a bossy know-it-all. I didn’t believe her.”

  She put her nose in the air. “I’m the big sister. I get to be bossy sometimes.”

  “You’re not my big sister.”

  “True,” she said. “Although it is my house. That should count for something. Come on.”

  “I will think about your invitation,” I told her.

  “Oh, you’re one of those guys, huh?” she asked as we reached her parents’ front porch.

  I climbed the steps next to her. “What guys?”

  “One of those guys who can’t give in to a woman.” She faced me in front of the door and poked my chest, her expression playful.

  With my hands safely clenched inside my pockets, I looked down at her and fought every male instinct in my body, the ones that knew exactly what to do when you walked a pretty girl onto her front porch at night, and her face glowed faintly in the dark, her long, gossamer hair was dusted with snowflakes, and her warm, soft lips were right fucking there, so close all you’d have to do was lean forward and you’d know what they felt like on yours.

  “I can give in to a woman,” I said quietly.

  The smile slid off her face, and her mouth opened slightly.

  “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Quickly, before I could do something I’d regret, I hustled down the steps and started out on the path toward the winery again. I didn’t hear the Sawyers’ front door open or close, so I assumed she stood there for a bit, watching me walk through the snowy dark, but I didn’t turn around and look.

  Fuck yes, I could give in to a woman.

  What I couldn’t give in to was myself.

  * * *

  That night, I dreamt about her.

  We were tasting wine in the cellar, but she was naked, and she let me pour the cold wine over her skin and lick it off. At four A.M., I woke up with a massive erection that refused to go away. I tossed and turned for another hour, then I gave up and slid my hand down inside my boxer briefs. Maybe it would get her out of my head.

  As I stroked myself, I imagined my warm tongue running over her throat, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. I heard her sighs and moans echoing off the stone walls. I felt her fingers fisting in my hair, her legs wrapping around my head, her body going rigid with tension. I made her come just like that, the wine dripping off her body as she pulsed against my tongue, and I groaned as my own orgasm made my cock throb inside my fist.

  But I shouldn’t have done it. I felt terrible about it. Because now when I looked at her, all I’d be able to think about was her naked body on the stone floor.

  There was no way I was going to her family dinner tonight.

  To make sure I wouldn’t even be tempted, I wore my grubbiest jeans and my ugliest flannel shirt with the most holes to work, the one my ex had always begged me to throw out. I didn’t shave, and I threw a cap on my head rather than comb my hair.

  At the winery, I did grunt work and heavy lifting all day long, ensuring that I’d work up a sweat. I was by myself, since I’d given my assistant Mariela the week off, and the tasting room was closed for the week, so no one would care if I smelled bad.

  Around six o’clock, I was outside stacking new bins on the crush pad when I heard someone call my name. Surprised that anyone would be out here at this hour in the frigid dark, I walked around to the front of the winery.

  Sylvia stood near the tasting room door, shivering in the cold without a fucking coat on, arms wrapped around herself. “Hey!” she called, spotting me. “I was looking for you!”

  I jogged toward her, unzipping my jacket. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

  “Yes, but my God, it’s freezing!” She hopped back and forth from one foot to another.

  Quickly I took off my Carhartt and held it out for her to slip her arms in. “Put this on. Don’t argue.”

  She shrugged it on, and we hurried inside the tasting room with her swimming in my giant coat. After shutting the door behind us, I switched on every single light—I did not trust myself alone in the dark with her.

  “Sheesh!” Sylvia blew on her hands. “It’s even colder than last night! I can’t feel my face! What is it, like ten below?”

  “It’s actually about twenty-five, but it’s still too cold to be runnin
g around without a coat.” I set my hat and gloves on a high-top table and ran a hand through my matted hair. “What were you doing out there?”

  “Looking for you. We’re all at my parents’ for dinner and someone asked where you were. I volunteered to come get you.”

  “Without a coat?”

  “The house is roasting—I’ve been cooking all day and I was so hot. And don’t change the subject.” She fished a hand out of the sleeve of my jacket and scolded me with one finger. “You said you’d come to dinner.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I said I’d think about it.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes. But I can’t come.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “I’m working.”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes. “It’s Christmas, Henry! Take a break!”

  “It’s not Christmas yet.”

  “It is in our house. Starting today, the inn is officially closed to guests for a whole week, and that means Christmas vacation at Cloverleigh Farms starts right now.” She held up both hands, but they were lost in my sleeves. “I can appreciate that you want to wait for Jesus’s actual birthday to celebrate, but I feel certain he will not mind if you come have dinner with us tonight. In fact, he wants you to. He told me.”

  I laughed. “Jesus told you he wants me to come have dinner with you?”

  “Yes. He said you’ve been working too hard.”

  “I feel like Jesus has more important things to worry about.”

  She shook her head. “We can’t question, Jesus, Henry. Now let’s go. I bet you haven’t eaten yet, and I’ve had sweet and spicy party meatballs in the slow cooker all day.”

  My mouth watered. “Meatballs, huh?”

  She saw my weakness. “Yes. And that’s just an appetizer. There’s a ham in the oven, and honey-roasted butternut squash, crispy Brussels sprouts with bacon and pecans . . .”

  Real food.

  I groaned right along with my belly. “You’re killing me.”

  “Good. Come and eat.”

  “Look at me. I’m a mess, Sylvia.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, tonight is casual.”

  I was trying to think up another excuse when she moved closer. For a second, I was scared to breathe. Because whether she smelled like cookies or party meatballs or perfume, I was going to want some.