“Of course! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do . . . well, unless Mr. Hottie Ex-Football Player again decides to push you—”
“Stop! Stop right there.”
She laughs and that longing evaporates. So, I do what any best friend would do, I hang up on her.
Zach is standing on the other side of the door. My entire body seizes with an unwanted attraction as I watch him through the crack in the curtain as he runs his hand over his face and around to the back of his neck. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him do this, and it isn’t the first time I thought it was hot. He’s hot. Unfairly so. People shouldn’t look as pretty as he does.
While I debate whether I should open the door or pretend I’m not here, he takes a step closer to the door and knocks again. Not expecting it to be so loud, I jump.
“What do you want?” I call through the door. I’m not in the mood to deal with this guy today. We saw each other yesterday—can’t we be done for a while?
“I thought I’d take you around and show you the property.” He pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket, looks at something, and then shoves it back in. He’s fidgeting.
“Why?” I ask, taking the opportunity to look him over. He didn’t shave today and there’s a scruff across his face that takes him from being just a hot guy to a hot guy with an edge. He’s wearing a baseball hat low on his forehead and a light blue T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms perfectly. I have a thing for guy’s arms, and his are well defined and rock solid. If he were anyone else, I’d be trying to touch them.
“Because you’re going to be here for two weeks and should probably know your way around,” he answers.
“Can’t Michelle show me?”
“No, she can’t. She has to work today. Do you have a problem with me showing you?” He steps to the right and pulls a stem of lavender off the bush next to the front door. He brings it to his nose, sniffs it, and then rubs the purple petals through his fingers, sending each petal fluttering to the ground. I hate that he broke the stem, but I love that he thought enough of the plant to stop and smell it. I love the smell of lavender.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask him.
He tosses the stem off to the side and leans against the frame of the door. “Stop being a pain in the ass and let’s go.” His voice rises and the irritation becomes more evident.
“Me?” I throw open the door and glare at him. “I’m not the one here who’s the ass.” He’s standing so much closer than I thought, and the smell of sage with a hint of lavender floats my way.
He jerks upright and his features smooth as his eyes run over the length of me. He does this every time he sees me, and once again, I hate it and I love it.
“Shelby.” His voice is thick as his blue eyes, which always leave me a little bit breathless, climb back to mine. Damn him.
“Zach,” I answer, returning his stare. Neither one of us moves, and I’m certainly not going to be the one who falters first.
Letting out a sigh, his shoulders relax and he presses his lips together into a straight line. Pulling off his baseball hat, he runs his fingers through his hair, and then shoves it back on his head. A myriad of emotions passes over his face. It’s as if he can’t decide which one he wants to throw at me, and this flusters me.
In the end, he clears his throat and looks around at the outside of the building instead of looking at me. “Did Michelle explain the history of the cottage?”
“She did.” I keep my answer short and lean against the opposite side of the doorframe, frowning at him. Every warning flag I have is raised and flying. What is he really doing here? What’s his angle? He’s out of character this morning.
“Good.” He nods his head and then moves past me—without an invitation—and walks straight toward the kitchen, taking in all of my things that I have lying around.
“I actually prefer the cottage over the main house.” He runs his hand along the back of the loveseat as he makes his way to the breakfast bar. “If it weren’t such a great source of revenue for us, I’d move into it.”
Visions of sharing the space with him suddenly make the cozy cottage feel about half as big as it is, and it isn’t lost on me that this is the first thing he’s told me about himself since I arrived.
“I love this cottage.” Since he’s making an attempt at civility, I smile and add, “And I can’t thank you again for putting me in it.”
My eyes move around the room, and I smile to myself at all the little touches that make it so inviting, especially the vintage bee decorations.
“Well, better here than the manor,” he says dryly, matter-of-factly.
My eyes snap to his. I’m insulted by that comment, but I can’t argue with it. Here in the cottage is definitely better. He watches me as I move to stand across the kitchen island from him, putting a barrier between us.
“What’s this for?” His eyes flick to the pie dish in front of him.
“The other night when I drank the chardonnay, I was brainstorming ideas to go with it. Everyone knows that white wines and fish go well together, but chardonnays are full-bodied and go great with summer vegetables as well. I improvised and made a vegetable frittata this morning with what I found in the refrigerator and out back in the porch garden. Frittatas are great for brunch and pair well with a salad.”
“Hmm. Always working, aren’t you?” His eyes narrow briefly at me as he takes the knife lying in the dish, cuts himself a sliver, and drops it into his mouth. I wait as he chews, expecting some snide remark, but his eyes light up and find mine. “It’s good . . . really good.”
His approval makes me smile, and instantly, I wish I could take it back. I shouldn’t care what he thinks, but unfortunately, I do. He’s the other half of the assignment, and I bloom inside at the compliment.
“Yes, I am always working, because I love what I do. And thank you. I love frittatas. As a kid, it was one of the first things I learned to cook. They’re crustless, can be cheeseless, and filled with pretty much whatever vegetables or meats are in the refrigerator.”
His brows raise. “You made this as a kid? How old?”
“Thirteen.” My age when my parents divorced and I became a latch key kid. Instead of watching dumb Disney shows, I watched cooking shows hoping that if I made things for my mother she would smile.
“Hmm,” he responds, part due to skepticism and the other part awe. “You should use this recipe. I like it.” He gives me a closed mouthed smile. This is also the first time he’s attempted to smile at me, even if it’s forced.
“Okay, I will.” I agree with him. It’s obvious he’s extending some kind of olive branch, and I want whatever truce he’s offering. It will make the two weeks go by much faster.
He picks up my water glass on the counter and takes a sip. His ease at sharing my things is a little unnerving, and suddenly, I’m anxious. This Zach is calmer and nicer, and I don’t know what to think of this new side of him.
Stepping to the left, he looks around the island and down my legs to my feet, which are bare, and then back up. “Leave the heels, we’ll be doing some walking.” He cuts off another bite and eats it while staring at me.
He’s noticed I wear heels? I look at his feet, and he’s wearing a pair of Brooks tennis shoes, but I don’t comment. I also don’t mention that I didn’t actually agree to go anywhere with him, but anything is better than hanging out here staring at the ceiling. So, I walk to the front door and slip on the rubber boots I brought. They’re a lot cuter than tennis shoes, and I don’t mind getting these dirty.
“What are those?” he asks, finishing the glass of water as I grab a sun hat. His eyes are trained on my boots.
“What do you mean?” I look at my feet and then back at him.
His eyebrows furrow into a scowl. “Nothing. Let’s go,” he says while walking past me and out the door.
I follow him, and that’s when I spot the truck. “You drive a white truck?” This strikes me funny, and I giggle. White is supposed
to be for the good guys, black for the assholes.
“Yeah, why?” He’s curt and his tone once again annoys me.
“No reason . . . just seems like black would be more your color.” I shrug.
He shoots me a disapproving glare but doesn’t rebut my comment. Instead, he pulls a pair of aviator sunglasses out of a pocket in the driver’s side door and slips them on.
“We’ll take the golf cart,” he grumbles through his teeth as he storms off.
Maybe that olive branch resembles more of a short twig, and now I’m second-guessing whether I should go with him today.
“Stop overthinking this, Shelby. You’re gonna like what I have to show you.” He seems a little subdued and his mood shift confuses me. He pats the seat next to him and gestures for me to climb in.
I sit as far away from him as possible. He notices the move and his hands grip onto the steering wheel. “Hang on,” he grumbles, and without looking at me, he puts the cart in drive.
We begin to weave our way up and down the rows of vines. With one hand holding onto my hat, I let my fingers brush against the vine leaves as we fly past. I don’t think he’s ignoring me, I have to admit it’s nice he hasn’t yelled at me, but I don’t get it.
“What’s wrong with you today?” I blurt out.
“What do you mean?” he glances at me.
“Seriously? All right, fine. You’ve all but told me you hated me, so why the change of heart? Why are you being nice? It goes against your character.”
The golf cart comes to a stop, and he angles his body to face me. “I am a nice person.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, and he lets out a sigh.
“Look, I’ll admit that I haven’t been the most hospitable, but that’s on me—not you. I know the last few days have been a bit uncomfortable, so, for lack of a better expression, how about we start over?”
Start over?
“I don’t understand.” I blink at him, wishing I could see his eyes through his dark sunglasses.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Shelby. I want you to enjoy your time here, and not only because of the project but also because this winery is my most favorite place on the earth.”
His words stretch between us, and while I love what he said, I still don’t understand why he disliked me so much from the moment he met me. I guess I could ask him, but what good would it do? Plus, I don’t really care as long as he can be civil for the next eleven days.
Letting out a strained breath, he tears his gaze from mine, and eases down on the gas pedal. The cart slowly begins to roll forward and then takes off.
Well at least he’s finally admitted he’s the problem here. I guess that’s as good of an apology as I’m going to get, so I’ll take it.
“Okay.” My voice comes out slightly uneasy.
“Okay?” His eyebrows rise above the sunglasses and push near the brim of his hat.
I nod my head and leave it at that as we continue to ride away from the cottage.
Sweeping left, he takes us to the bottom of the hill and pauses so I can look up over the vineyard.
“My great, great grandfather was a Hungarian immigrant. He was brought over to the States around the turn of the century to help establish a large vineyard in northern Georgia and to make wine. During prohibition, most of the wineries were abandoned by their owners, including this one. They told him if he stayed, the land was his. Having nowhere to go, his friends decided to join him and farm the land for fresh peaches and pecans since they had nowhere else to go. Within a few years, they became one of the largest distributers up the East Coast. Secretly, they still made the wine, maturing the soil and the vines through the generations, and by the seventies, commercial wine production was back in business, and so were we.”
“Wow, your family’s been here a long time.” I peer out and admire the beautiful layout of the farm. Rows and rows of manicured vines sweep and roll with the rise and fall of the hillside, surrounded by peach, apple, and pecan trees. With the manor up at the top of the hill, and a large barn off to the right, the vision before me is postcard worthy. It’s breathtaking.
“We have.” His voice is a little softer, and the love and respect he feels for not only his family but also the farm is evident.
“So, you’re Hungarian?” I honestly have no idea what a Hungarian looks like, but looking at him with his muscular build, trim waist, and long legs, I might become a fan.
“Not really.” There goes that thought. “I would say I’m more of an American mutt—a little bit of everything.” He grins at me.
Oh, look who’s being funny. “Me, too.”
He starts the cart again, and we’re off.
“How big is the farm?” I think about the wineries from Napa as he starts down the trail again. Some of them are huge and have additional crops in other appellations.
“Wolff owns roughly one hundred and twelve acres, but not all of it is cultivated. The vines cover about eighty-five.”
“How many wines do you make here?” It occurs to me I should already know this, but I don’t.
“Current is eleven: four red, three white, and four sparkling, but usually it’s nine. It really depends on the production of the crops, how long some have been aging in the cave, and different blends we want to experiment with.”
“You have a cave?” When I looked up the winery online and scanned over the pages, it didn’t mention a cave.
“I do, and we’re headed that way.” He points toward the east side of his property.
“To make these wines, how many different kinds of grapes do you grow?”
“It really depends on our goals for that year, or the few after. We’ve had as many as sixteen varietals growing at one time. Some are for our current blends, some are to mature the vines for later use, and some are experimental. Look there at the bottom of the row, each row is labeled, and back up at the manor I have a log of all the vines, where they came from, when they were planted, harvest quantity, and so on.”
“They look so beautiful and healthy.” The leaves blow around from the wind of the cart as we pass by. “It’s really amazing.”
His head turns. I can feel him looking at me, but I pretend I don’t notice and just enjoy the ride.
Zach parks the golf cart under another tree and climbs out before gesturing for me to follow him.
Together, we wind down a path to an entrance that’s built into the side of the hill. The cave. On the left, there’s a wooden door, and on the right, wooden garage doors with a wide path that wraps down around the hill. He leads me inside and down a short, dark hallway that opens up into a long, wide tunnel. Zach flips a switch and wall sconces light up the cave.
When my eyes adjust, I’m stunned speechless. “Zach, this is seriously cool.” I feel his eyes on me, but mine trail along the walls, which are covered with white stones similar to the manor, and over the curved archway entrances to the two rooms in front of us.
“Yeah, the cave stays around fifty-eight degrees.” Zach smirks and then walks toward the room on the right. The left room is full of stacked barrels.
“I didn’t mean the temperature, ass, but it is pleasant. I meant the cave in general. I’ve never been in a wine cave and didn’t know they really existed like this.”
“A lot of wineries have moved to building caves. It’s more energy efficient, and it’s easier to maintain a cooler temperature without having to run a cooling unit. Also, the hills trap in the humidity needed.”
Zach moves through the room and checks the gauges of several tanks.
“How long has the cave been here?” I ask, watching him do his thing and trying hard not to watch how nicely his shirt pulls across the back of his shoulders.
“As far as we know, the caves were here when they started the vineyard.”
“Wow. I’m thoroughly awed right now.” Who knew that all of this was sitting under the hillside.
“Thanks. My father had each room in the cave widened in the eighties after the
wines took off, and then he had them modernized twenty years later. When I was a kid, I hated coming down here. It smelled weird, the machines were loud, and it was dark.”
He’s right, the pungent smell of fermenting grapes lingers thick and sweet in the air. We pass large vertical steel tanks full of grapes that are slowly turning into wine. My fingers drift across the barrels, and I’m humbled by this age-old process. On the other side of the room, it’s stacked with thousands of bottles of sparkling wine.
“Who helps you with all of this?” I ask, taking it all in.
“I have a crew of four that helps me with anything and everything wine related, especially the bottling. Our operation here is too large for hand picking, so during the harvest, the machines do most of the work. Besides those four, we probably have a dozen other employees that work with Michelle behind the tasting bar, in the manor, or around the grounds.”
“The bottling, where’s that done at?” I turn and look around the cave for another door.
“We passed it on the way here, the large barn.” He moves to lean against the tank next to me.
“What? You bottle in a barn?”
He chuckles at my confusion. “It looks like a barn, but is built more like a warehouse. There isn’t enough space down here, and during any given vintage, we can crate between five thousand and six thousand cases of wine.”
“Holy moly, that’s a lot of wine.”
“It is and it isn’t. But, down here, we want this as undisturbed as possible. Opening the door, bringing in groups of people, it would just be intrusive and mess with the overall temperature. So, very rarely do we show it off. Mostly, the tour includes the cellar, they can watch the bottling, and wander around the public rooms of the manor while tasting the wine.”
“Well, thank you for bringing me down here.” I look up at the huge ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “This is seriously one of the neatest things I’ve ever seen.”
Zach purses his lips together and gives me a nod.
“Here, come try this.” He walks out of the room, grabs two glasses off a long wall table, and then stops in front of a barrel. I’m fascinated as he turns the spout, fills the two glasses, and then hands me one. I watch as he sniffs, swirls the wine, and then sips it.
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 7
