Page 33 of Gone With the Wine

I can’t look at her without noticing her mouth. Does she kiss with as much energy and passion as she shows about wine?

“Of course not,” she says. “You’re running a business.”

“Trying.”

“Aren’t we all.” She pauses. “What about the reds you want to bottle?”

“Right.” I slide off my stool. “Do you have time to check them?”

“Sure.”

I lead the way from the lab down to the cellar with its many barrels of wine. I love this place. The vineyards have a special atmosphere, but this place is unique—dark, quiet, mysterious.

Bianca makes a soft sound of pleasure as she looks around. She likes this, too.

“Do you have a wine thief?”

“Of course.” I know a few basic things. I fetch the long glass tube as well as a couple of glasses, and hand it to her.

She inserts the tube into a barrel through the bunghole, holds her thumb over the top, and pulls it out containing beautiful cabernet sauvignon. I hold out two glasses and she releases wine into each. “You’re tasting, too?”

“You bet. I’m learning.”

She nods, smiling, returning the rest of the wine to the barrel.

We both sip. I’m getting used to watching her search out various nuances. It’s sensuous. And sexy. Once again I can’t take my eyes off her.

We taste various barrels, and she offers up opinions and is firm that the wines are ready to be bottled.

“What about blending some of them?” I ask.

She pauses and tilts her head. “I have ideas.”

“Of course you do.”

She arches an eyebrow.

“I’ll pay you,” I say, desperation husking my voice. “I want to make good wines.”

She gazes at me for a long moment. “I have a job already. Not to mention, my own winery.”

“I know.” I scrub a hand over my mouth, my gut bunched in a knot. If she says no, I’ll be mortified. This is why I hate asking for help.Keep it casual.“I just need temporary help. I’m going to hire a winemaker, but we need to bottle right now.”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “You do.”

“You have your own winery to worry about, I know.”

“True. But we don’t have any wine. Unless…well, right now we don’t.”

My lungs are suddenly incapacitated. The silence in the cellar weighs dense and heavy around us as I wait for her response.

“Can I think about it?” she asks.

I nod, my throat feeling like I swallowed a whole grape.

“Okay. Well. It’s nearly seven! I should go.”

The back of my neck and shoulders tightens. I’m not ready for her to leave. “Stay for dinner.”

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