Mr. Pink

by Tessa Layne

  Jason’s mouth quirks. We may not like each other, but we’re Cases. Unified in our dislike of the old man and the way he manipulates us. “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, get your ass out to the vineyard.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Jason’s eyes turn hard. “Like fuck I am.”

  “It’s a million degrees outside.”

  “Tough shit. You need to understand pruning.”

  “I understand it just fine. That’s what the internet is for.”

  “I don’t give a shit what the interwebz might have told you about pruning, you’re going to see it for yourself, now get your ass across the road in thirty minutes or you can go the fuck home.”

  “Fuck you, asshole,” I growl, all pretense of playing nice lost. Jason can kiss my fucking ass.

  “Thirty minutes,” he growls back, and turns on his heel. He has me over a fucking barrel and he knows it. But I’m not showing up a second before thirty minutes has passed, and maybe even a few minutes late, just to spite him. I’m going to have the last laugh though, when I walk out of here a free man.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I meet my brother at the edge of the vineyard. It’s not even ten a.m., and I’ve sweat through my shirt. Jason takes one look at my clothing and rolls his eyes. “Let’s get to work.” He turns and hikes down a row of vines, not bothering to see if I follow, which I don’t.

  “Did you expect overalls?” I call after him. Nobody told me I was supposed to bring farmer clothes with me. I don’t even own farmer clothes, but whatever. My Armani loafers are leather, just like the boots Jason now prefers. And my denim Givenchy jeans may caress my thighs like one of Macey’s kisses, but it’s still fucking denim. “Ninety days,” I mutter to myself. “I can stand on my fucking head for ninety days.” I’m going to be so fucking good at standing on my head, I should take up yoga. And nothing says I can’t look good doing it.

  I catch up with him, and he points to a vine, laden with fruit. “You said you studied up, hotshot? What’s wrong with this vine?”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. The fastest way to get him off my back is to play along. “Too much fruit.”

  “And what fruit do you cut away?”

  “Depends.” I swallow the stream of profanity I’d prefer to let out. One of the reasons I was nearly captain of the crew team was because I was always cool under pressure. It may be Jason pushing my buttons right now, and he does it better than most, but he’s not getting the upper hand. Not today, not ever.

  “On what?”

  I can hear in his voice he expects me to fuck this up, but I used my two days of waiting wisely. “On the size of the shoot for starters,” I say in a monotone. “How many clusters each shoot has, and whether or not the shoots and clusters are too close together.”

  He makes a noise in his throat. I’ve surprised him, at least. Maybe even impressed him. But he’s not done trying to trip me up. “What do you recommend here?”

  “You’re the winemaker, not me.”

  He glares at me, and the silence stretches between us. I’ve put him in a tight spot, and he knows it. If I give him an unsatisfactory answer, he’ll claim he’s the winemaker and he knows best. But if he suggests that I am, and I’m right, then he loses his leverage, and he knows it. After an uncomfortable moment, he clears his throat. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were the winemaker, what would you do?”

  “Not grow grapes here, for starters.”

  That earns me a darker glare. “Say you lived here,” he clips out.

  I smirk, and I know that makes me an asshole, but I can’t help it. “I’d eliminate any fruit on a short shoot. On shoots eighteen to twenty-five, maybe twenty-six inches, I’d allow one cluster, and only two on anything bigger. Unless the clusters are too close, then I’d go to one, and allow extra space between the clusters since it’s humid here.”

  He grunts and studies the ground, then hands me a pair of pruners. “Then get to work.” He stalks off without another word, his prosthetic scraping the dirt, the only sound.

  Again, I swallow a stream of profanity. It’s not worth fighting him now. We’ll have our reckoning when I have more leverage. Inside of an hour, I’m dripping and I’ve already popped a blister, but I’ll be damned if I reach for a pair of gloves. I pull off my shirt and hang it on the hedge. This is shit work, and I hate every second of it. And I can’t for the life of me fathom why my brother insists on doing this work himself. Craft beer is so much easier. So is distillation, for that matter. “No wonder Case Family Wines makes so much cougar juice,” I grumble. “The ROI is so much better.”

  “Better than what?” Macey’s husky voice calls out immediately behind me.

  I whirl, dropping my pruners. “Jesus Christ, woman. Didn’t anyone tell you not to sneak up on someone when they’re holding sharp objects?”

  Her laughter dies as she peruses my sweat slicked chest. I crick my neck and roll a shoulder, flexing my pecs. Only because my muscles are screaming at me. “I- I thought you might be thirsty,” she holds out a thermos. “It’s lemonade. With basil.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and she rushes on, using all her breath. “And I thought you could use some sunscreen. It can be brutal out here.”

  “You don’t say.” She’s wearing a sundress today, pale pink cotton the color of which makes me think indecent thoughts, and a flush begins just above her pert, round breasts and travels up across her collarbone, along the column of her neck, and into her cheeks. She looks as luscious and ripe as the first summer strawberry. And god help me, but I want a fucking taste. Fancy basil lemonade won’t begin to quench the thirst I have for her. “There are water stations at the end of each row, Gorgeous,” I drawl, pinning her with a stare. “Why are you really here?”

  Her eyes drift down to the bulge in my groin. Her face transforms from merely curious, to hungry, and I love the undisguised desire I see there.

  My voice drops an octave. “Careful, Gorgeous. Keep looking at me like that and I’ll bury myself so deep in that pretty little cunt of yours, you won’t know which way is up.”

  A slow smile cuts across the lines of her face, and she licks her lips, slow and hungry, as if she’s the one who’s going to be doing the devouring. “Really?” she asks, voice husky and eager.

  My cock strains against my jeans. It’s uncivilized, how much I want the woman before me. She brings out the primal caveman in me. I’m used to being in control, carefully orchestrating every interaction to my satisfaction, and more importantly, my quick exit. But this fiery redhead with the wide smile and the eyes that flash dark promise has me reeling, spinning out of orbit. It’s unsettling, but more than that, it’s deeply erotic. It calls to a part of me I didn’t know existed. A part of me that runs on pure instinct and a need to possess. Wholly.

  She steps forward, placing a hand along my length, and lets out an appreciative hum.

  “I mean it, Gorgeous,” I growl. “Ever heard the phrase don’t poke the bear?”

  She answers by giving me a squeeze. “What about the bear… poking?” Then she drags a finger down my sternum, not stopping until it rests on the button of my jeans.

  Fucking tease. Sent to torture me by some angry god I’ve displeased. I should send her away. I draw strength from some unknown source deep down. “Don’t you have a tasting room to run?”

  She gives me her Mona Lisa smile. “Only Thursday through Sunday.”

  “Your kid, where’s your kid?” I’m grasping at straws, but I know if I give in I’ll be lost, or worse, Jason will catch us in flagrante. And then I’ll be dead. Literally.

  “Sophie’s at day camp,” she pointedly uses her daughter’s name, but I have no intention of playing Uncle Austin while I’m stuck here. She hikes up her skirt, exposing a creamy, satiny length of thigh. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said in the tasting room.” She takes my hand and pulls it under her skirt. Fucking hell, she’s not wearing panties. And she’s shaved, or waxed, or something, because her puss
y is as smooth and soft as the finest silk satin.

  Fuck. Me.

  I’m a goner, and the cat-ate-the-canary expression on Macey’s face says she knows it, too. “Are you trying to kill me?” I grit. For once in my life, I really am trying to be a goddamned gentleman.

  She wiggles against my fingers. “I can’t sleep at night,” she breathes. “Because all I can think about is your mouth on me. Your cock inside me.”

  That’s it. I can’t fucking stand it another second. I clasp her sex, letting her arousal slick my palm while I fist my hand in her thick waves and pull down. I give her one breath to protest or change her mind and then I claim her. I devour her mouth with all the pent-up energy I’ve been storing for days, stroking her tongue into submission, bending her to my body. I’m breathing hard when I come up for air. “Is this what you want, Gorgeous? Is this what you’ve been dreaming of?”

  “Yes,” she answers on a moan, clutching the tops of my arms.

  I want her so badly, I’m nearly blind with it. But some primitive, danger-detecting part of my monkey brain sends a current of warning through me. The hair on my neck stands up, and I tear my mouth from hers, and push her back, letting her skirt fall back to her knees.

  “What in the-” the rest of her words are stifled, along with the glare I know she sent my direction.

  I bend, bracing my hands on my thighs, trying to re-order the contents of my brain, and catch my breath before my brother reaches us.

  “Everything okay?” he asks tersely, once he’s within earshot.

  “I… ah… I think he’s had a little too much sun.” Macey manages to sound mildly concerned, all trace of desire wiped from her voice.

  “Jesus, fuck,” grits Jason. “How much water have you had?”

  “Enough,” I spit out before I return to standing.

  He looks at me sharply. “You’re bright red.”

  He knows.

  An instant of stomach dropping terror overtakes me, but I make sure it passes. Everyone knows the best defense is a good offense. “No shit, Sherlock. It’s a million fucking degrees outside.”

  “This isn’t California, dumbass.”

  “Really?” I don’t even try to disguise my sarcasm. “A rash guard wasn’t on my packing list.”

  “Macey, can you help him get back to the lodge? He’s done enough.”

  “I hope my work was satisfactory,” I grumble. I can tell by his lack of comeback it was, and I know that irks him.

  “I want you back out here tomorrow at the ass-crack of dawn,” he calls after me. “And for fuck’s sake, go into town and buy some proper clothing.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cockblocked.

  Nothing says cockblocked quite like three-hundred-thirty-six hours of backbreaking labor and spontaneous check-ins by my keeper. Not that I’m counting. At first, I was convinced Jason had our number. Six times in the last two weeks he turned up completely unexpectedly, and while I may have been standing too close to one captivating redhead, my hands were in plain sight. The worst time was when he showed up with Sophie, making it very clear who the man in her life was. Not that I care. I don’t want to be anyone’s man. I just want to fucking release the agony coiled up in my balls. It’s so bad, I think my dick might fall off. And to be quite honest, I can’t go on like this. Something has to give.

  I have another ‘lesson’ today with Gorgeous. I’ve been alternating days in the vineyard with lessons about each of the grapes our family grows. And after everything I’ve learned, I want to fucking fire the board. Whose idea was it to diversify so profoundly? It’s bullshit and a waste of resources, and if I haven’t been kicked off the board by the time I get back to Napa, I’m going to have a thing or two to say about it. I’m burning to ask Jason a few questions on the subject, but hell if I’m going to let him think I might actually care about what’s going on with the business. I’d ruin my reputation as a dilettante if I did that.

  I step into the tasting room and let my eyes adjust, bracing myself for my body’s inevitable response to the woman I can’t seem to purge from my system. My blood feels heavy in my veins, pulsing a slow thrum of anticipation.

  She waits at the counter primly wrapped in white linen and cotton, like a librarian on summer vacation. And because I’m a dirty pervert, I immediately wonder what’s underneath her wide-legged pants, and whether or not her pussy will feel like silk when I touch it. My mouth turns to sawdust, but somehow I manage to rasp “Hello, Gorgeous.” I let the door swing shut behind me. She doesn’t even look up this time.

  This is the way it’s gone for two weeks now. First with cabernet sauvignon, then with cab franc and pinot noir, followed by syrah, merlot, and grenache. And we haven’t even started on the whites. I always make a point of poking the bear, and most times receive a glare in return. Next I try shameless flirting, which always induces a pretty stain on her cheeks, but never anything more. Once, I caught her staring at me with such naked desire, I nearly jizzed my shorts right there. Sadly, this is our dance. But now I’m sick of it.

  Six bottles of sangiovese stand ready to pour. She’s covered the labels, so I have no idea which one comes from our family’s holdings. “What can you tell me about Sangiovese?” she asks while scribbling notes onto a stack of three-by-fives.

  “Not even a hello, how are you?” I tease.

  She rolls her eyes and keeps writing.

  “What if I’d injured myself working in the vineyard yesterday?”

  She snorts.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sure Jason would have taken you to the clinic,” she says dryly.

  I brace myself on the counter. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

  She tries not to smile, but I see the twitch at the corner of her mouth. Damn if I don’t want to kiss the plump little dimple.

  “Sangiovese,” she repeats severely. “Now.”

  I’m sick of the quizzes, of the assumptions that still persist after two weeks of showing everyone here I know what I’m doing. I’ve studied. I’ve studied more than they realize. It didn’t take me long to figure out where we’re hemorrhaging money. They should let me have my trust fund for that realization alone. But no, I have to pretend I give a shit about the rest of the business. All it’s made me want to do is open a distillery. “Fine. Sangiovese is the most planted grape in Italy, grown primarily in Tuscany, but as far south as Sicily,” I rattle off with a bored tone. “It’s the primary component in Chianti, and also Brunello di Montalcino.”

  That earns me the look of approval I’ve been craving. “You’ve been studying,” she says, obviously impressed.

  I preen, standing taller, leaning closer. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  But she’s a hard nut to crack, and she turns back to her cards. “Flavor profiles.”

  “Medium-bodied, notes of cherry, strawberries, and pepper. It likes oak, and takes on notes of leather and tobacco when aged.” She raises her brows as she digests my recitation, but I’m not done. “It thrives in shitty soil and is prone to overgrowth in rich soil. It’s drought-tolerant and needs a longer growing season. It responds well to malolactic fermentation in new oak, taking on notes of vanilla.”

  The smile she gifts me with goes straight to my toes. Have words like malolactic, and tannins become a new form of foreplay? Does it make her wet when I say Montalcino? My fingers itch to discover. “You could be a somm, you know, if you weren’t so stubborn.”

  I ignore the needle. “I don’t give a fuck about wine, Bridge,” I say, quoting her favorite movie. “Tell me about kissing girls in boarding school.”

  She covers a laugh and shakes her head, but her eyes are sparkling. “What about when it’s grown in California?”

  I’ve been waiting for that question. She’s asked the same questions for each varietal. “Notes of cherry are present no matter where it’s grown. But it suffers in Napa’s rich soil, becoming flabby and flat.”

  “Where does your family grow Sangiovese?”r />
  I’m ready for that question too. “Dry Creek Valley. And the eastern Columbia River Valley.”

  And a small amount, so small I don’t even count it, in Napa. But I should have, because she pounces.

  “What about in Napa?”

  “That’s less than a hundred barrels.”

  “Still, it’s a vineyard your family owns.”

  “Pour the wine,” I growl. My next challenge will be to decide which wine is the one made by Case Family Wineries. If it’s anything like the previous tastings, the worst one will be from my family, something that irritates the shit out of me. And I’m starting to see her point about our wines having no nuance, and generally being too big, like the overweight asshole at Thanksgiving, or the middle manager at a company party that bloviates with a voice so loud it can be heard in the restroom.

  She pours into two glasses. She always tastes too, which I love, because it’s the only time I get to see the expression of pure appreciation on her face. It’s riveting, and I might wack off to it late at night when I can’t sleep. Someday, I’m going to put that expression on her face. Until then, I have to satisfy myself with glimpses of it when we taste.

  I swirl the first glass, then sniff, just like I was taught. Sangiovese isn’t very aromatic. Not compared to cab franc or cab sauvignon, but I do catch a hint of cherry, and a note of oak. I take a sip, shutting my eyes to fully concentrate on the flavors passing over my tongue. There’s fruit, and roundness, and leather. And I think of smoke fired pizza, roasted tomatoes and fresh mozzarella baked to a golden crisp. This has to be Italian. But all thoughts leave my brain when I open my eyes and I lock gazes with Gorgeous, who looks like she wants to eat me for dinner.

  And I want that, too.

  I try and reach for adjectives, descriptors I’ve rehearsed, but I’m hypnotized by her expression and the way her eyes narrow into glowing gems of promise. She’s a cobra and I’m her prey, and I’m powerless to stop the words that tumble out of my mouth. “I want to see you again, Macey.”