Page 19 of Gone With the Wine

I smile brightly. “How’s yours?” He chose a different one.

He takes a sip. “I’d say…dark.”

I nod. “Fair.”

“Blackberry. Cherry.” His forehead wrinkles. “Mocha?”

Interesting.

“Want to try it?”

“I do.” I reach eagerly for his glass. I’d taste everyone’s if I could.

“Mmm. This one’s different. I think it’s a blend of several varietals. I’d say cab sauv plus syrah and malbec, for sure. And yes, dark. Deep. Voluptuous.”

Jansen does a slow blink.

Heat slides over my skin at the way he’s looking at me. I kind of sounded like I was talking about sex. Ha.

I hand back his wine and he takes it, eyes fastened on my face.

Damn, he’s attractive.

Yes, I resented him. Not only for being the new owner of Take Flight, which I know logically isn’t his fault, but for being another rich celebrity who thinks he can just buy a winery and become a winemaker. I was kind of a bitch to him even though he was nice enough to come on the Ferris wheel with me.

But even though I had a grudge against him, I felt a tug of attraction.

He has a strong presence, making me feel like the world has shrunk to this tent, this table. His gaze on me is weighty, substantial. Intense. This is not a man who goes through the motions; he’s focused, purposeful, engaged.

Up there on the Ferris wheel, his strength reassured me, though. He knew I was nervous and tried to distract me from it and I felt safer because of it and maybe a teensy bit grateful.

My gaze wanders from his intent eyes down to his right shoulder, which he’s rolling apparently subconsciously. His left hand holds the plastic cup of wine. No ring. His fingers are long and lean, dusted with dark hair. His hands are attractive. His thick eyebrows are attractive. Even his voice—gah. It’s rich and smooth, like red wine. Like expensive sheets. Like slow sex.

I’ve been reliving the embarrassment of that night when I accidentally asked him if I’d look sexy in that slip, but I couldn’t figure out why. Sure, it was a little embarrassing, but I’ve done that in the grocery store and didn’t brood about it for days. It wasn’t the embarrassment, though. It was him.

With his towering height and unmistakeable strength, he has a very physical presence. He’s not a lean man, but he’s not fat, with broad shoulders, a muscle-packed chest, and thick thighs. He’s solid. And tall. He’s hot.

I suck air into my lungs and gulp down wine. And choke.

Oh God.

I cough into my hand, heat enveloping me, my chest burning.

“Are you okay?” Ana asks, seated next to me.

I nod. “Fine. I was trying to breathe and drink at the same time.” I was abusing that poor glass of red. Serves me right. “Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.”

I cough a few more times, dab at my mouth with a paper napkin, then pick up my corn dog, all the while trying to ignore Jansen watching me from across the table.

“Tell me about the blends,” Jansen says.

“Right.” I focus on wine. “Well, cabernet sauvignon is king in Napa Valley. That’s what most of the grapes grown here are. It used to be that everyone wanted single-vineyard wines. Wines made just from the grapes grown in one vineyard. Or even one block.” Like the Carleo Belmonte still produces. From Caparelli grapes. Ugh. I wave a hand. “I can explain that some other time. Or maybe you already know. Anyway. People used to turn their noses up at blends, but I’m intrigued by them. I think bringing different varietals together can be like creating an orchestra.”

“Okay, yeah.” He nods.

“Are you getting winemaking lessons?” Ana asks Jansen with a smile. “I told you Bianca could help you.”

I give her a look. “This isn’t exactly lessons.”

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