I think about who my people are, and although I have Lexi, it’s Meg who fits that role. She’s my family and I didn’t realize how lonely I was until the moment I met her.
“So, how do you know it’s lavender honey?” I glance back to the bee boxes.
“I just do. Bees will travel up to six miles for nectar, and if you look at the lavender bushes all around the property, they are healthy with honey bees.”
“Ha, yes, I did feel like I was competing with the bees for my clippings this morning.”
His grin stretches, tipping up one side of his mouth. “Another way to tell is the color. Wildflower honey is typically darker because the nectar is taken from a wide variety of flowers, and the color can change based on what’s blooming that year. Lavender honey is called a ‘single flower’ honey, it’s lighter, and year after year the color doesn’t really change.”
Zach steps from the golf cart and rounds to the back before grabbing a duffel bag that’s been sitting in the back. Unzipping the bag, he pulls out equipment needed to harvest honey, and understanding dawns on me what he’s about to do. Running his hand through his hair, he pushes it off his face, and then picks up a white bee jumpsuit that has an attached hood veil.
“Have you ever been stung?” I’m a little nervous for him. I get that he knows what he’s doing, but still . . . bees hurt.
He steps into it, slides his arms through the sleeves, and zips it up.
“Plenty of times.” He laughs. “The trick is to scrape off the stinger, if you try to grab it you’ll actually insert more venom into your body, and that is not good. Did you know that the venom has a banana like scent to it? Bees hate bananas, it’s like their cue for attack. In fact, if you plan to come out here, don’t eat a banana first, you’re asking for trouble.”
My face blanches. “Noted. No bananas.”
Pulling the veil over his head, he smiles at me as he slips on a pair of long gloves.
“Don’t they get angry when you take the honey?” I glance over, and suddenly, I don’t feel like there are hundreds of bees. I feel like there are thousands. My heart rate picks up in concern for him.
“Nah, these bees are nice. I’m going to smoke them first so I can get to the honey, but you still can’t be quick or jerky around them, you have to move slowly and calmly, otherwise you’ll excite them. In general, I’ve never seen them be aggressive. If anything, I think they are grateful for all of the lavender. Unlike other lavender farms, we don’t cut it all down for commercial use, we leave a lot wild just for them. Don’t get me wrong, as I kid I was terrified of them, but I would lay over there under those trees and watch my mom work with them.”
I look toward where he’s pointing and find several apple trees that have had their lower branches cut off.
“Hang tight, I’ll be, right back.” He grabs some equipment, turns to walk off, and then spins back around grinning at me. “Pun intended.”
I grin with him. Who is this funny guy and what happened to the scowling ass I met back at the Feeding America event?
Zach puffs the smoker and aims it at and around each beehive before setting it on the ground. I watch in fascination as he pulls the lid to the one closest to me and uses a large flat scraping device to cut me off a piece of the honeycomb and drop it into a bowl. After putting the lid back on, he grabs the smoker and starts walking toward me, smiling from ear to ear. If I hadn’t had been falling for him before, the moment he hands me the bowl of beautiful golden honey would have done it for me.
“See, not that hard, and not one sting.” He smiles as he strips off the gear.
“Well done, Mr. Wolff, and I have the perfect idea of snack to make with this, are you hungry?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he says climbing in next to me.
Turning on the golf cart, he zips us back through the trees and heads for the cottage.
“I can’t believe you just whipped this up,” Zach says before taking another bite of his salad topped with grilled prosciutto wrapped peaches and a honey mustard vinaigrette. Most of lunch, we sat in silence as he devoured the food on his plate. His face was one of contented bliss.
“It really wasn’t that hard, I only used one pan.” I tease him. Just like the night he came over for the red wine tasting, we’re back to sitting next to each other at the kitchen island.
“I know, but who thinks like this?” He looks at the grill pan behind me on the stove and then down to his salad.
“You should come to Charleston and taste the stuff Meg and I come up with. She’s brilliant when it comes to perfecting the recipes.” I tear off a piece of bread and smear some homemade honey butter on it.
His brows raise as his eyes collide with mine, and his chewing slows.
Cheese and crackers! I just invited him to Charleston!
I wasn’t even thinking. The conversation has been so easy with him today that I’m talking to him as I would one of my friends. Yes, we slept together. Yes, he apologized for being a jerk. Yes, we have had an amazing morning together. But friends at the end of this? I’m not so sure.
Feeling a bit awkward, I drop my eyes from his and move to reach for my glass, but his hand grabs mine. His thumb gently swipes across the inside of my arm, and I freeze, knowing he’s trying to get me to look at him, which I eventually do.
“Well, I happen to be a fan of your cooking.” He gives me a reassuring smile, and my heart clenches at his willingness to smooth the awkwardness I’d created.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
The compliment was heartfelt, but it doesn’t go unnoticed that he didn’t agree or disagree to visiting us in Charleston. Last night while we were sitting on the cliff edge, a part of me wondered if we would see each other after I went back to Charleston, if I even wanted us to, and well, I guess I got my answer. I know this is just an assignment and hook-ups happen all the time, but despite his split personalities, I do like him.
Hopping out of my chair, I scoop up the plates and then drop them into the sink. Zach moves over to the couch and settles in.
Brushing away the unwanted discomfiture, I change the conversation. “How did your winery get picked for this assignment?” I move to sit in the chair adjacent to the couch. He shifts and leans in my direction.
“I think there are several reasons. The main one being, one of the editors visited and loved our wines. Plus, we use only grapes that are grown here on the farm, a lot of wineries outsource, so that keeps us local and Southern for their special farm to table issue. Our property is beautiful, one of the larger ones in the area, and we keep it ‘visitor ready’ year-round. We also offer more in the way of private events, and open the manor and the cottage to overnight visitors.”
There’s pride in his voice as he talks about his winery. It’s easy to see that running this place isn’t something he does because it belonged to his family. He genuinely loves it.
“That makes sense to me. I love it here.” I look around the quaint cottage and then out the French doors. Rows of grapevines bump up against the porch garden, and it’s so pretty.
“And our wines are exceptional.” He grins, pointing to my glass.
“Yes, they are.” I raise it to him and then take a sip. His eyes fall to my mouth the same way they did two nights ago, and a heat swirls and burns from my chest through my legs.
“When do your parents get back?” I set the glass on the coffee table in front of us.
“August first. They will have officially been gone for one year.” He leans forward, picks up my glass, and takes a sip. Why do I love it so much when he does this?
“That’s a long time.” I know he grew up here and worked the vineyard since he was a kid, but it’s still kind of crazy to me that they just up and left right after he took over.
He puts the glass down, leans back, and props his right ankle on his left knee. “Went by quicker than you would think.”
“Okay, my turn. Since you took me out and shared something with me today, and it’s
kind of relevant, I have one for you. Growing up, my nickname was Bee.”
His brows raise. “Really?”
“Yep. Get it? Shel-bee. Not sure who first started calling me that, maybe my parents always planned for it to be my nickname, but I dropped it when my parents divorced.” My father was the one who called me Bee the most. Just thinking about him has my back straightening and my fingers curling into fists.
Zach tilts his head as he studies me. “Sorry to hear about your parents, but that’s a great nickname.” He gives me a lopsided smile, effectively melting away most of my tension.
“It happens.” I shrug.
“Still, divorce sucks.” He lets out a breath and then runs his hand over his face and through his hair.
“Yes, it does.” Or maybe it doesn’t. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that the actual divorce wasn’t so much a big deal—just two people breaking up—it was everything that went along with it. Those things don’t just happen, they ruin and destroy.
Out of nowhere, the brightness in his eyes dulls and shadows dip into his skin under his eyes. He drops his head forward and rubs the back of his neck.
“You just got a headache?” It comes across as a question, but I meant it more as a statement.
“Yeah, that’s how quick they can set in.” He lets out a sigh, stands and looks at me while shaking his head. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but I need to go.”
I stand with him.
“I understand.” I don’t think there was anything in the food that could have triggered it, maybe he is dehydrated after his run.
“Thank you for lunch, Shelby. It was delicious,” he says, pulling me against him before dropping his forehead into the crook of my neck. It’s the same position he put himself in when we were in Asheville. Only this time, I don’t feel awkward.
“Should I drive you back up?”
“No, thanks though. I’ll be fine with the golf cart. It’s only a few minutes.” His arms slide fully around me, and warmth and sage washes over me as he hugs me tight.
“Dinner tomorrow night?” I ask him, suddenly sad that I won’t see him until then.
“Yes, that sounds great. I’ll bring the wine,” he mumbles against my skin before shifting to brush his lips against to corner of mine. It’s silly how cherished that one little move makes me feel.
Returning his forehead to rest against mine, I feel him squeeze his eyes shut as the muscles in his face contract and there’s a slight shake to his head.
“All right, go. Get out of here,” I push him away playfully and toward the door, feeling the loss of him immediately. “Thank you for sharing the bees with me.”
He stops and turns to look at me. His eyes lock onto mine and an emotion passes through them. He blinks several times, nods his head, and then he’s gone.
Honey Apple Cider Vinaigrette
I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours catching up on work that I’ve put off over the last week and a half. My eyes are starting to blur and maybe I should take a break.
The intercom in my office buzzes, and I hit the button. “Yes, Michelle?”
She giggles at my tone. Between her and Kyle, I don’t know what I would do if one of them decided to move on. They are the best employees.
“Thought you’d like to know that Shelby just left.”
Out the window I find her heading toward the golf carts. Just the sight of her does something to me. The headaches, the article, our sales, my parents coming home, so much of it has been piling on, and ever since I decided to give in to this crazy attraction to her, all this work seems like not so much. It feels manageable, and I really like that feeling.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I jump out of my chair and head for the private exit off my office.
“Shelby!” I yell as I jog toward her. She hears me, turns around, and a smile lights up her beautiful face.
Damn, gut clenching.
“Hey.” In typical Shelby fashion, she has on little shorts and heels. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her feet wobble as she walks across the circular drive. This time, I find it endearing instead of annoying, and I drink in every inch of her sexy as hell legs.
“You’d think that you would’ve learned by now,” I say, pointing to her shoes.
“I know, but these are made of cork, and I couldn’t help myself.” She kicks one up to give me a closer look and smiles. Damn if she doesn’t take my breath away. “How’s the headache?” Her brow lowers and little wrinkles form as she studies my face.
Scrubbing my hand over my face and through my hair, my fingertips run over the usual suspects and there’s no trace of any tenderness. “Gone, which is a good thing. I had a ton of paperwork and e-mails to catch up on today.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.” Her face relaxes, and her smile returns. “I just invited Michelle to dinner, so she and Kyle will be there around six. Are you still coming?” She twists one foot back and forth in the dirt. She’s nervous, and I think she’s adorable.
“Of course. You’re cooking, so I wouldn’t miss it.”
Hell, I don’t even need the food. If she wants me there, just tell me when and where. At this point, I’m hanging on to every second I can get, because in a couple of days she’ll go back to her life and I’ll still be here in mine.
She blushes and lets out a pleased breath. “Good.”
A bee flies by and she jumps closer to me, squealing. With her eyes bright, she laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear. My lungs constrict at the sight.
Damn.
“Would you like to come in?” I blurt out, pointing over my shoulder.
She glances toward the west wing door and curiosity lights up her face. “Sure. I haven’t seen this side of the manor yet.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm as I reach for her hand and lace my fingers through hers.
“It’s nothing special, I promise. This wing is mostly offices, and upstairs is my apartment.”
“Your apartment?” She laughs. Stepping inside the hallway her eyes sweep over the photographs and articles framed on the walls. “You live in this giant, gorgeous castle/manor, and you call it an apartment.”
“Well, it is.” I give her hand a light squeeze. “You’ll see, it’s two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a laundry room. Everything you would expect from an apartment.”
“Hmm,” she mumbles as we walk into my office. “Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?” she asks as she passes by me and scans over every inch.
Looking around my office, I try to see what she’s seeing. It looks pretty standard to me. Cherry wood furniture, one wall lined with built-in bookshelves, a fireplace with a flat-screen television over it, and a sitting area. I hate disorganization so it’s kept clean.
Yep, this is me.
“Technically, I did. I lived off campus in college and then I had—well, have—a condo down in Tampa.” She turns and faces me as I grab a football off my desk and lean against it.
“Oh, right. I forgot about you playing.”
It’s interesting to hear her say this. There are very few people who know me just as, “the wine guy.” Everyone else associates me with football first and wine as a close second, even those in the wine industry. Given the status of our name associated with the winery, that I was a professional athlete in the public eye and who I kept company with, the media loved me. They followed me around for years reporting on every detail of my life, including my break up with Elaine, and had just started to ease up when that review posted last fall. Just thinking about that review makes me want to grit my teeth.
“What’s this?” Shelby asks. I turn to see her pointing to the whiteboard on the wall.
“It’s our homemade version of a seasonal tracker. We record daily starting and ending temperatures, weather patterns, rainfall inches, any problems that occur, et cetera. It helps us gauge how to the wines are growing from season to season, about when they’ll be the perfect ripeness for picking,
and what type of flavors we can expect to get.”
“Wow, that’s interesting. You don’t put this into a spreadsheet or something?” She looks at me questioningly, and I laugh.
“I do, but during the season this larger, in-your-face view is best for all of us.”
“Gotcha. Tell me more.” She walks closer to the board and examines what we’ve filled in.
“The most important part of the wine is knowing the exact moment to pick the grapes, and tracking the weather affords us a preview of the harvest. For example, the hotter the season, the more shriveled the grapes, which makes the flavors stronger. On the flip side, if there’s too much rain, the grapes will swell and the juice will be diluted.”
“Has this ever happened to you?” She turns to face me.
“Yes, both have and knowing these things also helps us decide which varietals to blend.”
She regards me silently and then picks up the board marker and draws a bee up in the corner.
“There, I’ve now contributed to the board.” She smiles proudly to herself while putting the marker back.
I’m never washing it off.
Continuing her perusal, she inspects everything before stopping to look at my favorite framed awards. Behind the bar, we keep a portfolio of all the articles we can find where our winery or wines are reviewed. I call it my brag book, but really, it’s a visual reminder to all of us that what we’re working toward here is something great. Our wines have touched people enough that they felt the need to write about them, and ultimately that’s what anyone who takes pride in their work wants. Recognition.
She stops again when she spots the magazine that is framed, propped up on a bookshelf, and has been my sole motivation for the last seven months.
“Tell me what happened for you to receive four wilted grapes. Your wines are so good I don’t understand.” She moves to sit in a chair in front of my desk, and I sit in the other next to her, stretching my legs out.
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 18
