“That’s so strange.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t you made the first move?”
She pauses to think about her answer. “I don’t know, he’s older than me.”
“So?” My eyebrows rise in question.
“So, I guess I’m a little bit old fashioned.” She squares off her shoulders and stands a little taller. “If he wanted to ask me out, he would have. I shouldn’t have to chase a guy to get him to show interest in me. It should be organic and mutual.”
“I agree with that, but there has to be more to it.”
“Or maybe it’s the opposite and there’s nothing, which is why he never made a move.”
I don’t understand how she could possibly think there is nothing there. It’s so clear to everyone around them, even Zach watches them. She pulls two bottles from the cooler and starts walking away.
“Michelle, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way he watches you, and after the way he behaved last night when he thought Jack was into you, I’m telling you, there’s something there.”
She stiffens and pauses as she thinks about what I’ve said. Quietly, she turns back to face me. “I could say the same to you.” Neither of us says anything, and then she shrugs as she moves back to the new customers to pour the next wine in the tasting flight.
I suppose she could.
Zach surprised me last night when he told me he was sorry. Then again, he surprises me every time I see him. He’s up, he’s down. He’s happy, he’s angry. He’s loud, he’s reserved . . . I have no idea what to expect, and it seems I need to add jealous to the list. Jealousy radiated off him each time he saw James talking to me, even after he kissed me senseless in my room. But he still left with the guys at the end of the night, only giving me a nod, a mumbled thanks for the dinner, and a promise to text me tomorrow about a time to meet. Which is why I’m here now, waiting for him.
Taking in a deep breath, I remind myself it’s only a few more days. Six to be exact, which is why I need to push all of these mixed emotions over a guy aside, a guy who I have no intention of seeing past this week, and focus on the assignment—and my future.
Feeling a motivated sense of focused purpose, I sit a little taller and take a sip of my delicious wine, and that’s when I notice the air at my back has heated. An earthy clean smell floats around me, and my eyelids drift shut as I soak it in. I really do love the way he smells.
Looking over my shoulder, I find Zach standing next to me with a wary expression on his face. Crossing my legs, I remind myself that I’m only here for six more days and twist on the chair to face him, wondering which version I’ll have tonight.
“How long have you been sitting here?” he asks me, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Not too long.” I eye him suspiciously. “How long have you been standing there?”
He chuckles. “Long enough.”
Moving to stand next to me and lean against the bar, the tension in his shoulders lightens as he takes his time to drink me in with those electric blue eyes of his. So much for my pep talk. Sixty seconds, that’s all it took for me to lose my sense of balance, while he remains completely calm and sure of himself. It’s as if he’s immune to the charged air between us. My heart rate picks up, butterflies have scattered, and I curse myself for having this crazy reaction to him.
Breaking the connection, I grab my glass, take a huge swallow of wine, and clear my throat. “I was ready and bored, so I came here a little early to hang out with Michelle.” I glance down the bar, she’s washing glasses, and still frowning. My heart frowns with her.
Zach makes a humming noise, pulling my eyes back to him. He looks at my glass and at the mostly empty bottle in front of me.
“Did you eat?” He sounds slightly irritated, and a giggle bursts out of me.
“Did you really just ask me that?” I shake my head at him. “Don’t you know that a chef never misses a meal?”
The muscles in his face relax and one side of his mouth tips into a grin.
“So, are we Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde today?” I ask him while leaning back in my seat, and smoothing my skirt down over my legs.
“What do you mean?” He crosses his arms over his chest, and the muscles bulge against the fabric, momentarily distracting me.
“Just want to be prepared for whatever kind of mood you’re in before we get started.”
He contemplates what I’ve said as a scowl drops into place. “It isn’t like that.”
“Oh, yes, it is.” I laugh back at him.
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. It’s then I realize his hair is styled . . . and so are his clothes. He has on a pair of navy dress slacks, a pale blue long-sleeve button down with the sleeves rolled up, and a camel-colored belt with matching shoes. He looks delectable and insanely irresistible.
“You look nice,” I say, trying to remain composed and keep the peace. His lips mash together and then his eyes sweep down over me again.
“You do, too. But you always do,” he says softly, numbing me with the sincerity and warmth in his eyes. I manage to keep the fact that the dress and shoes I’m wearing were chosen with his reaction in mind.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the sparked tension between us veering more toward that of a yearning.
Shifting in my chair, the strap on my left shoulder slips out of place, and his eyes follow it. Taking a step closer to me, putting him right in my personal space, he raises a hand and runs his finger up my arm—from my wrist to collarbone. I watch goose bumps chase after him, and he pushes the strap back in place. His hand lingers on my shoulder—searing me with the warmth of his touch.
Trailing my eyes up his chest, the top button on his shirt is undone, and I have the strongest urge to reach out and touch the bottom of his throat. He swallows and I continue my assent, admiring the tiny details that others wouldn’t notice—the scar right above his top lip, the bump on his nose where at one point it must have been broken, and the way his eyes crinkle in the corner when he laughs and smiles—I find it all incredibly tempting and sexy.
His hand tightens on my shoulder, and his thumb slips back under the strap and traces the edge as if he now wants to take it off. Without thinking, I lean in toward him, and he does the same, his eyes latching onto my mouth. The air thickens, heats . . . electrifies. This guy is my kryptonite, and when he looks at me as if he wants me, I feel completely at his mercy. If he were to kiss me right now, here in front of his employees and these people, I would let him.
Glass shatters behind us, and we jerk away from each other.
So much for keeping strong and focused on the assignment.
Zach lets out a deep sigh, regards me with uncertain eyes, and then moves behind the bar to put some distance between us. I don’t know if he does this for me, him, or because the photographer is sitting there watching us, but either way, I’m glad he does and I hate it all at the same time.
He lines three bottles in front of me. “So, here at Wolff, we bottle four sparkling wines. Our two signature sparklings are the Queen Bee, which is a sparkling lavender honey wine, and the Farkas, a sparkling brut wine. Our other two—a sparkling brut rosé wine, and a sparkling peach wine.” He places his hands on top of the rosé and peach. “So, which do you want to start with?” he asks, looking from me to the bottles.
“Let’s start with the rosé.” I scoot forward in my seat wanting to close some of the distance between us.
His blue eyes flash to mine. “You did tell me you preferred dry wines, so this is a good place to start, but I’ll save the best for last.” He smiles, and my heart clenches as he unwraps the foil from the first bottle.
“Are you going to pop the cork?” I bat my eyes at him, pretending as if that comment could have come across as something less than innocent.
A devious grin takes over and his eyes fall half-mast, almost hooded.
“No, Shelby, I’m not going to pop the cork, I prefer to ease it out to release that whisper of
smoke at the mouth of the bottle. I think it’s sexier . . . and less dangerous. Don’t you think?” He tilts his head, and his grin turns into a full-blown smile.
Oh my stars. My breath hitches, and I stare at him. “I guess so.”
“Most will tell you that sparkling wines should be kept between forty-one to forty-seven degrees, but I think a few degrees warmer is better. The colder the wine is, the more concealed the flavors are. The opposite goes for as it sits in your glass and warms, the flavors and aromas change.”
“I guess I’ve never really thought about temperature affecting flavor before. Either that, or I drink it faster than it warms.” He smiles, clearly amused.
Angling the bottle away from us, he wiggles the cork until it slides out with a hiss. The bottle smokes, and he was right, it is sexy. Still holding the cork, he twists to grab two glasses in the same hand between his free fingers, and he holds them as he pours the sparkling wine.
“Mousse is the foam on top, the bubbly.” A light pink layer of foam rises to the rim of the glass and stops. The perfect pour.
“I love the bubbles. I love when I can feel them against my lips.”
He chuckles, hands me mine, and watches my mouth as I lift the glass to take a sip.
“Mmm, it’s good.” I lick my lips, and he lets out a breath as he tears his eyes away and takes a sip from his own glass.
Holding the glass up to the light, he examines the color and then grabs a white towel behind the bar to use as a backdrop. He tilts the glass to the side, examines the bubbles, and then sets it back on the bar.
“Instead of using one grape, we actually blend a red and a white to get the pink color. The Farkas is made with the Champagne method, which means it is put through a second fermentation in the bottle where the bubbles are naturally produced until it is opened. The brut rosé and the lavender honey wine are made by the Charmat method, where the second fermentation is done in a tank, and the peach sparkling has the carbonation injected.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say, taking another sip.
He shrugs. “Not really. I would prefer them all to be done the traditional way, but time and production factors in.”
Traditional.
In many ways, this description fits him perfectly. I know there are a lot of newer techniques he could be experimenting with here on the farm, but the expression, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” seems to apply to him. From the fields to the cave, to the fermenting and the bottling, he sticks with what’s always worked, and I think that says a lot about the quality of his wines.
“I feel very girly drinking this.” I hold the glass out in front of me and twirl it, watching the bubbles race to the top.
“In general, mostly women do drink this one. It’s why it sells the best during the holidays and around Valentine’s. What do you think?” He folds his arms and lays them on the bar so he can lean toward me.
“My overall impression is that it’s dry but leaves a berry aftertaste. It isn’t super sweet, and it would pair very well with salty Southern snacks and spicy foods.”
“Salty Southern snacks?” He laughs. “Don’t you mean deep fried?” The sound of his laugh rolls over me and penetrates my skin.
“I was thinking canapés, but fried vegetables like okra sound delicious, too.” I grin back.
“I volunteer, just say when.” His expression is hopeful. Warmth that has nothing to do with alcohol floods through me.
“You haven’t tired of my food yet?” I tease.
“No,” he says very matter of fact.
“How about later this week then? I’ll invite Kyle and Michelle, too.”
If I hadn’t been watching him as closely as I was, I would have missed the flash of disappointment in his eyes at my suggestion. Then he drums his fingertips against the bar a few times while he ponders something, and then nods his head. “Okay, that sounds like a great idea.”
See. I knew I wasn’t crazy. He thinks there’s something between them as well. I glance over to Michelle, who’s laughing with the customers. Maybe my time here will be about more than just the article. I smile to myself.
Zach grabs the next bottle, and opens it quickly and efficiently as I swallow the rest of the rosé. I would drink this one again.
“Now try this one. It’s a sparkling peach muscadine.” He sets the glass in front of me and removes both rosé glasses.
I sniff it, finding it very aromatic. My mouth is flooded with peaches and mangos as I take my first sip. “Whoa, this one is sweet.” My face scrunches, and I shake my head in reaction to the taste.
“It is. It’s more of a dessert wine. We use the juice from the two fruits—grapes and peaches—and still add a little sugar.” Yeah, it’s way too sweet for me.
“This one probably makes a great sangria.” I push the glass back to him, and he moves it behind the bar. One sip is enough for me.
“It does. During tourist season over the summer, like the Fourth of July, we’ll make batches of sangria for the people wandering in during the afternoon hours. It adds to the whole ‘Georgia’ experience.”
“Well, I happen to like sangria, so I bet I’d be a fan of that. This by itself . . . not so much. Sorry.” I grimace again at the memory of the flavor.
“Why are you apologizing? I don’t expect you to like them all. If you did, I would wonder about the finesse of your palate.” I scowl at the bottle, he chuckles, and moves it behind the bar next to my glass.
“My palate is pretty accurate,” I remind him, leaning in a little closer to him. The strap on my dress slips again, he stops moving as he glances at it, and I slowly push it back in place, thoroughly enjoying the flashed heated look he gives me.
“So you’ve said,” he mumbles and reaches for the next bottle, which is the lavender honey. I have high expectations for this one. Again, he goes through the motions of opening the bottle, and I watch him, ignoring the little voice in my head that appreciates the deftness of his fingers. The flash that was there seconds ago has turned to a spark. A spark that, if given the opportunity, would burst into flames.
I swallow, and he lets out a sigh before reaching for two new glasses.
“I can’t believe you have a sparkling lavender honey wine. Not gonna lie, I’ve been waiting for days to try this.” When we tasted the whites, I looked over their tasting menu that had been lying on the bar and spotted this sparkling. It’s taken great restraint not to dive right in. I reach for the glass, but he pulls back at the last second to tease me. My eyes narrow at him, and he grins before handing it over.
“You kill me. You know you could have opened a bottle at any time,” he says, pouring his own glass.
“I know, but to keep with the spirit of the assignment, I stuck to the plan. So, is this a sparkling mead wine?” I examine the golden color of the drink.
“No, but we have produced mead wines before. This one is a cuvée, a blend of several different varietals, and we infuse the lavender honey just before we bottle it.”
“Is it sweet?” I raise the glass to look at the golden color.
“Not when it hits the palate, but you’ll be able to taste the honey notes on the back end.”
He tips his own glass toward mine, and we clink them together.
“Cheers,” he says. “Here’s to a wildly successful outcome from the magazine article.”
“Cheers to that!” I smile brightly at him. Whereas I’m certain he’s looking for a surge in sales, I’m adding another bullet point to my resume that hopefully pushes me more through the door of Food Network.
A flash from the photographer comes from my right. Zach didn’t notice, he’s too busy watching me over the rim of his glass.
Taking a sip, I’m rewarded with the perfect combination of a dry white wine and the distinct dash of honey. I really do love honey, and this sparkling wine excites me more than I can express.
“What do you think?” He’s still watching me.
“I think it’s delicious. I’ve never tasted
anything like it.” I’ve never tasted anything like you either.
He’s pleased at my response and as if he can read my mind, a lazy sensual smile graces his perfect lips.
“I’m glad you like it. I was hoping you would. When you leave in a few days, take a case with you.”
“I don’t need a whole case, but thank you.” I’m somewhat surprised by the generous offer, and a light blush warms my cheeks.
“Well, then, half and fill the other half with the sauvignon blanc. You seem to like that one, too.”
“I do.” He’s been paying attention.
Lowering my glass to the bar, my hands flatten over the base to hold it in place. Slowly, Zach reaches across and lays one of his hands on top of mine. His warm fingers slide between mine, linking us together as his thumb swipes back and forth.
His hand is so much larger than my own. The strength it possesses and the gentleness of the gesture blurs the lines I keep trying to draw between us.
Trailing my eyes from our hands to his face, I’m met with a heat that speaks to every cell in my body. His eyes show a complete contrast to the gentleness in his hands, and this is a need I understand . . . this need I want.
Reluctantly, I glance toward the photographer sitting off in the corner with his camera pointed right at us. Zach’s eyes follow, pause for a second, and then return to mine. When his brows drop with annoyance, I realize he’d forgotten that we have an audience.
“The last one we need is in the cellar. Walk down with me, and we’ll drink it there.” He gestures to the door, and I nod in agreement before moving to the door to watch him. He says something to Michelle, which makes her and the guests close enough to hear smile. If I had to guess, they’re all about to get some free drinks thanks to the open bottles sitting on the bar. Then he moves to the photographer, who’s sitting a few feet away from where I stand. “We’re all done, but feel free to stick around or take off, it’s up to you.”
His face lights up. “Really? That’s great. I think I’ll take off, so thanks.” He grabs his bag and starts packing his gear. Zach gives him a pat on the shoulder and then slips his hand into mine. Leading me through the right wing, we pass the library and head for the cellar stairs.
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 15
