Page 31 of Gone With the Wine

I’m checking the time until it’s nearly three, then I go to the house to wash up. My face in the mirror is already tanned from being outside in the sun. I rub my stubbled jaw. Should I shave? Change my shirt? I’m kind of sweaty. Nah. What am I thinking?

I step back outside and see Bianca walking across the yard from the line of trees that separate our properties.

Once again, I feel like I just took a poke check to the gut.

Her smile as she turns her face to the late afternoon sun. Her glowing skin. Her sparkling eyes. I feel like I’m a hundred years old, tired, dirty, sweaty, and she’s striding across my yard with a spring in her step like one of those baby goats she gushed over last night.

Maybe I should get some goats.

Jesus. No.

I jog down the front steps to meet her.

“Hi.” Her smile is polite. She’s dressed in cut off shorts and a striped tank top that hugs her generous tits, with work boots and socks on her feet. A hot pink bra strap slides down one shoulder and straggly threads hang over smooth thighs, drawing my attention there.

My body is responding, and this is not good. I clear my throat and try to keep my expression neutral. “Hi.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Are you always grumpy?”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You sound grumpy.” She shrugs. “And you’re scowling at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

She levels me with an incisive look. “Okay.” She slides her gaze up and down over me. “Um. This is how you dress to work in the vineyard?”

I look down at my striped dress shirt, dark jeans, and brown leather shoes. “What’s wrong with this?”

She grins. “You look like you’re ready to go to a fancy club.”

I roll my eyes. “Guess I should cut off my jeans, eh.” I rake a glance back over her thighs.

She laughs. “Jorts is not a good look on guys. Maybe just get some boots. So. Should we have a look at your grapes?”

“Yeah. I see you brought help.” I gesture at the refractometer she’s carrying. “We checked some grapes earlier.”

“What was the Brix?”

I fill her in as we walk toward the vines. “And Antonio said some other testing could be done.”

“Yes. I’ll do that, too. We need to look at a few different areas, though. Just because grapes aren’t ready in one part doesn’t mean the whole vineyard isn’t ready. Some rows ripen more quickly if they have more sun exposure, or less if they’re exposed to a lot of wind.”

“That makes sense.”

We walk down a path between vines. It’s quiet here, peaceful and almost spiritual. The air is soft and fragrant with the scent of grapes and sun-warmed earth.

“Also some varieties take longer to get to optimal ripeness. Chardonnay and pinot noir are early ripeners. Cabernet sauvignon and syrah come later.” She leans in to inspect some of the plump, golden chardonnay grapes hanging on the vine. As she reaches out a hand, I notice dirt under her short fingernails. Is that a turnoff? Hell, no.

I think of all the manicures my ex-wife got, and her perfect white-tipped nails. I thought they looked nice. Classy. But this girl’s dirty nails are weirdly adorable.

“These are beautiful.” The reverence in her voice matches the hushed atmosphere. “I’m looking for any shriveling or desiccation.” She gently moves bunches of grapes and proceeds down the aisle, studying them. “Now we’ll taste.” She pops one in her mouth in a sensuous gesture that makes my groin tighten. She bites down, chews, and swallow. “I’m checking the way the skin pops when I bite into it, then tasting. It should be more…tropical than green. Green definitely has a taste. These are still green.”

“Okay.”

“But very close.”

I follow her as we move along and she scrutinizes grapes. Every movement of slender arms and graceful hands draws me in. When she cups clusters of heavy grapes, my balls tighten. I can’t look away.

---