by Jules Dixon
We stepped into the metal barn-like structure where the wine was created.
I loved the earthy smell of the fermentation process. Taking the pressed juices and making the simple flavors into complex and robust or delicate and refined wines was an art to me. One small deviation in the fermentation or process and the juice turned to vinegar, or worse spoiled to the point of no return and dumped down a drain. Granted, even vinegar could be useful, but wine was the best and desired end result.
“This is a small batch blend of Maréchal Foch and Petit Verdot.” A Beaujolais grape mixed with a Bordeaux grape surprised me.
“Beaujolais is one of my favorite easy drinking wines. Why did you blend the Maréchal Foch with…”
Janek’s eyebrows dipped as he tested the fermenting liquid.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Taste this…”
His long fingers slipped a cup into my hands. I sipped and my mouth tingled.
“Semi-dry?” I offered, knowing the syrupiness wasn’t a good thing.
“Not supposed to be.”
“What do you think happened?” I had my suspicions, but I wanted to see if I was right.
“Stuck fermentation.” Janek shook his head and his face reddened as he confirmed my thoughts. “Dammit. I told Jürgen not to pitch the yeast and he did it anyway. He’s always trying to rush the process. Impetuous and reckless.” He ran a hand through his hair and grabbed the glass from my hand, tossing the liquid into a sink and setting the glass down with a clank. “He didn’t wait the twenty-four hours after adding the tablets to destroy the wild bacteria and now we’re going to end up with a wine that tastes like grape juice instead of a select wine we’d test-market at an upscale price, like we’d talked about.”
His face almost matched the color of the wine by the time he was through with his explanation.
I grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be o—” The lights went out, cutting off my thoughts and speech.
“And now no warming of the vats so I can re-pitch yeast and start up the fermentation again. This is great. We’re done. We can’t come back after this.”
I moved closer and the clean sent of Janek’s body wash invaded my nose. Oak and lavender. Smooth and floral. Rich and soft. He was all of those things. In the dark, secrets and deep truths were confessed as heat and hunger that brushed across my face from his fast breaths.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know that? How can you possibly understand what this means? We’re already struggling, and I can’t—”
I grabbed the lapels of his pea coat and drew him to me. Even in the dark, my lips instinctively knew where his were. I moaned deep from my warming chest as we touched, and I cut off his rambling words laced with fear. There was little to fear at this moment, this was so right.
Soft and pliant, his lips caressed like the finest silk pressed onto my mouth. I opened to taste the remainder of the fermenting juice on his tongue. Sweet and full of dark fruits. Currant. Black raspberry. And sticky sugar. So fucking sweet that he tasted like a lollypop. His hands dropped low on my back, teasing to cup my ass and I wanted it to happen. Willed it to happen.
I slipped a hand into his unbuttoned winter coat and brushed over his chest. The muscles were like stone under his sweater, chiseled strength covered with pliant softness. I continued my exploration lower and brushed over his waistline. Lower and lower, until he gasped and pushed away.
“Fuck … no. I … I can’t…” Quick rolling breaths filled the cool air between us. He pulled his phone out and the flashlight illuminated the room. The beam turned to me and held on my face. I wouldn’t break the contact of our gaze. He’d have to be the first, but he didn’t. He stepped closer.
His chest rose and fell like the waves on Lake Ontario, the motion fascinating and taunting me. “What the hell was that, Matteo?”
My name rolled effortlessly from his mouth. I smiled. “Most people would call it a kiss.”
“That wasn’t a fucking kiss. That was…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “That was…”
Before I could even try to help him with his sentence, finishing the concept with fantastic, phenomenal, or incredible, his body pressed against me again.
“What the hell do you want, Mr. Bonacci?”
I slipped my hands under his jacket again, his body rocking with an earthquake of a shiver. “I want you, Janek.”
He cringed just the slightest.
I backed away. “But if you’re not feeling this, just say so, Janek, and I’ll go back to being only a guest.”
He recoiled a little more.
Something was off. Way off.
His gaze never returned to mine.
If he couldn’t walk away … I could.
Chapter 6- Janek
I held my breath as he passed into the shadows of the light. His admission of what he wanted froze me to the spot. Deep in my gut, I desired to respond, but right now, with the mess I’d made of my business and future, I didn’t deserve anything. The grapes picked, the wine ruined, the loan overdue. My life couldn’t get worse, and adding a person into the mix didn’t seem fair.
Timing was everything, as the vat of botched wine indicated. Enter Matteo Bonacci and his impeccably poor-timed kiss. The only thing that seemed right. Damn, so fucking right.
But I had to save this wine. This batch was one of my last hopes for holding onto the vineyard. The emergency generator for the building would provide enough power for a few lights to operate the warming jacket on the one tank full of the special blend. Hopefully. We’d never actually tested the system because normally my brother had his shit together, and typically, I took care of adding the yeast, but I’d been at the bank meeting and he’d been ready to leave on his anniversary trip.
What’s done is done.
I buttoned my jacket and pulled my gloves out of my pocket. We kept the generator in the garage that housed our vehicles. I wheeled the wobbling machine around the corner.
A door opened and closed on the house, and although I was curious, my efforts were concentrated on the wine.
“Need a hand?” Matteo’s voice cut through the cold air like a summer breeze. My heart rocked my chest.
“You don’t have to.”
His hand grabbed the other side of the handle. “I’d like to.”
I swallowed and nodded.
The soft snow would continue to accumulate, especially with the rising wind. We both slipped and lurched through the growing drifts on the way to the front of the fermenting building. The place we’d discussed as being acceptable, only to find a pile of snow that came up to my chest.
Matteo grabbed a shovel from its hook on the metal sheathing of the building and scooped off the landing pad by the door. “Your plan is to power the glycol warming system on the vat and raise the temp and then re-start fermentation?”
“That’s the plan.”
He reached for the handle on the generator and together we maneuvered the dishwasher-sized machine into place.
“Okay, extension cord? And is it gassed up?”
“I think so.” That was one thing I’d insisted Jürgen do before he left.
I reached inside the door and grabbed a commercial grade hundred-foot cord and Matteo pushed on the generator start. The machine sat silent. He examined a few parts and primed the engine with a couple pushes of a red button. For a guy in an expensive wool coat, he looked at home working on the generator. On his second turn of the key, the engine fired and a puff of gray hazed the air. He rubbed his hands together.
“Where are your gloves?”
“Inside. I saw you struggling with the generator, I forgot them.”
I grabbed his hands and rubbed them in mine. He stared at the connection.
“I’m sorry for kissing you like that, but Janek, I couldn’t help myself.”
I dropped his hands. “Let’s get this hooked up and then we can have some dinner and maybe talk.”
&nbs
p; His lips turned up and tempted me to make sure my brain remembered how they felt, but the wine. Focus on the wine.
I pushed the door open and he placed a block so that the door wouldn’t crush the cord. He squatted, and his muscular legs pressed against his dress pants.
Smart. And sexy. Fuck.
Plus, those pants couldn’t be warm. I’d bet he’s the same size as Jürgen. He’ll need pajamas. Or maybe not.
I plugged in the heating exchange and motioned for Matteo to flip the switch. The display lights came on and I pressed a button to heat the right vat.
My tense shoulders dropped, and a little anxiety fell away with motion.
“How warm does it have to get?” Matteo stepped next to me.
“We’ll take a temp in about three hours, but seventy to seventy-five degrees should restart fermentation and we might need to rouse the yeast with a stir, but we’ll see what happens.”
“I’d love to taste a couple of your wines.”
I seated the extension cord firmly in the socket so it wouldn’t unplug. “Okay, dinner and wine.”
“Wish I could take you somewhere nice.”
I chuckled. “Slow it down ‘Murica, you’re on Italian time now.”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
“Aren’t your ancestors known for taking it slow, enjoying life?” He nodded and smiled. “Let’s fill our stomachs and have a nice evening.” My pounding heart had slowed after the wine debacle.
Maybe things were falling into place.
* * *
“Can I help?” Matteo asked.
I pointed to the counter. “Open your choice.”
“And what are we having for dinner? Since you won’t let me help.” His voice had a little gruffness to it.
“I’m heating up my mother’s goulash and making spätzle to go along with.”
“Beef?”
I nodded while stirring the spätzle noodles in the boiling water.
Matteo examined the collection of wines. Some open, some still closed. He grabbed a full bottle and the opener and like a professional sommelier, he opened the bottle of Cab Franc in record time. After a small pour, he lifted the glass, swirled, and examined the wine’s color and coating of the glass. His caramel-colored eyes fondly assessed the visuals of the wine as he allowed the flavors to mingle on his palate.
“That one is better if decanted for a few minutes.” I poured the spätzle into the colander to drain.
“And have to wait? Not happening. Plus it’s delicious. That’s really intense. Lavender?” He obviously had a passion for wine, which made me wonder why he was in investments. A person could have multiple passions, I wasn’t denying that, but he had a great palate. Most people picked up the hints of herbs, first.
“And roasted red pepper, oregano, and sage.”
“That end note…” He tasted again.
“Shortbread?” I offered.
“Vanilla shortbread,” he clarified with a smirk.
“Nice addition.” I glanced over my shoulder at him and stirred the pan of goulash. Thank God, my mother had insisted on a gas stove. I’d started a fire in the fireplace in my office and one in the living room when we returned from the fermentation house. The house was still warm from the lingering remnants of the heating system, but soon the air would have a chill.
I spooned the egg noodles into bowls and covered them with the goulash. I took a step back and met a warm body behind me. My grip on the bowls slackened, but I regained my composure. His hand reached around and took one of the bowls from me.
“I got it.” His warm breath heated my neck, tickling and trailing nerves down my spine. “I’ll grab the bottle and my wine.”
“I’ll get the bread and my glass.”
His body brushed against my back. I swallowed to keep from trembling or moaning. How long had it been? Years? I was acting like a teenager in the throes of puberty at this point. But with no one in the house, and he was making moves that drove me crazy, plus, we had no business relationship. The reasons for this happening were outweighing the reasons for it not to, and it was time to let go of my problems for a night. He’d be gone in the next couple days. Long forgotten, and I’d go on with my life.
I glanced out the back door where the generator buzzed along. For its size, it didn’t make as much noise as I’d imagined. It droned a low dull hum, like a bee buzzing, with the bass rumble of a truck downshifting underneath.
I finagled all three items into my arms and headed into the living room, but he wasn’t there. I walked the hallway and found him in the den.
He glanced over his shoulder when he sat on the sofa. “Hope you don’t mind. I like the feeling of this room.”
I didn’t mind at all. I spent hours in this room. The living room was my mother’s space, and my brother lived with his husband in town. This was my place to unwind and relax. I stoked the fireplace and threw on another log. He’d draped a blanket over his lap and settled into the sofa as if he’d done the same time and time again.
I stared, allowing my backside to be warmed by the fire while my eyes enjoyed the heat of his gaze.
“Janek…”
I tried to stop my involuntary response at his mispronunciation, but my gaze slipped from his. Maybe I wanted him to say it right, so I could feel it deep in my bones, now it stopped at my ears and rang with frustration.
“Why do you do that when I say your name?” He settled his glass of wine on the table.
“It’s just that…” I ran a hand through my hair. Embarrassing him wasn’t worth it. “It’s no big deal. Nothing.” It wasn’t worth ruining the connection we had going. “Have you tried the goulash?”
“Not yet, it’s pretty hot. I’m a wimp when it comes to hot things in my mouth.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s a bummer to hear.”
Matteo laughed deeper, his eyes sparkling in the dancing fireplace light. “Didn’t mean it that way, but good to know where your head is at.”
I wasn’t one for blushing, but this man’s searing gaze released a burst of heat in me that made the fire seem unneeded.
He drank a long swig of his wine. “You keep looking at me like that and we’re never going to eat this food.” His tongue swept a drop of red treasure on his lip into his mouth.
I rocked on my heels and grabbed my wine glass off the mantle before sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. I took a big spoonful of the meal and downed it. Unlike him, I liked hot things in my mouth. I smirked to myself.
“You have a great smile.”
I chuckled. “And when you’re not being a jerk, you’re rather amusing, Mr. Bonacci.”
“Amusing? That’s not something in my job description.”
“Are you only your job?”
His eyes dropped to his dinner. “Sometimes I wonder.”
Chapter 7- Matteo
I took a small bite. “Your mother is an angel.”
His smile was better than the food, and the food was phenomenal.
“So, do you like what you do? I mean, the investments and venture capital stuff.” Janek consumed his goulash like a starving man.
“It’s a family business. I’m expected to do this. I don’t hate it.”
“Wow, if I felt like that, I’d be long gone from here. Expectations like that can make a person miserable.”
“Wouldn’t say miserable. I’m the understudy of my father’s position. I’ve never known anything else in my life, but yeah, sometimes I feel like I’m acting a part.”
“I love making wine. My father had a vineyard back in Germany. He had friends in every country in Europe and they all called him when they had issues. I wish I’d had more time to learn from him.”
I’d looked at all the family pictures and not a one had an older man in it. “He died?”
“Heart attack at forty-four years old. I was sixteen and my brother eighteen. My mother didn’t deal with the loss well. I wonder if being back in Germany is good for her and maybe she should
stay there.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Janek.”
He slowed his bites. “I wish he was here. He had a green hand—not just thumb.”
“From what I’ve seen you do pretty well yourself.”
“I’m good with the vineyard and creating the wine, but the marketing and finances and … all that…” He sighed and sat his bowl on the table. “I’m not great at that.”
“Like?”
He stared into his almost empty bowl and his face dropped of emotion. “You’re no longer here for any of that. Let’s enjoy the evening.”
He had pain and I wanted to take it away, but I didn’t know how.
I savored the cooled goulash. “God, this is so good. What wine did she use in it?”
“Not sure, probably a Malbec or maybe a blend, or hell, knowing her she just put the odds and ends of whatever was on the counter to use it up. She’s a pretty thrifty lady. After hearing horror stories of her parents during World War II and how they sustained themselves and many other people in their village, I can understand why she thinks that the ends of bread should be saved and she uses coffee grinds two days in a row.” He chuckled. “Although Jürgen will change them out at night and not tell her. She always wonders why the coffee’s going so fast.”
“Your brother sounds like a cool guy.”
“He is, when he does his job right.” Janek’s spoon clanked into the bowl. The weight of the mistake landed firmly on him, but he didn’t need to take the blame.
Slipping his empty bowl from his lap and setting it next to mine, I moved closer to him. “Vineyards have bad seasons all the time and accidents happen, time to bounce back.”
His eyes stay focused on the fire. “We can’t afford any more problems. We’re drowning.” The colors of the fire danced orange in his blue eyes. “Most days I feel like I’m drowning, too.”
