Page 53 of Rare Blend
“We’ll take abuggy. It’s quickerthan walking.”
“What’s abuggy? Is that like a horse-drawn carriage?”
A loud, boisterous sound comes out ofhim,and it takes me a second to realize it’s a laugh. He’s laughing. Full on, bent over, laughing.
A smile tugs at my lips. “Did I say something funny?”
He takes a few seconds, his breath catching in the cusps of dying from laughter. “I don’t think anybody has ever asked me that before. Caught me off guard.” He walks further into the parking lot along a sidewalk lined with golf carts. “Abuggyis a golf cart.”
“Why not call it a golf cart then?”
He shakes his head, the remanence of laughter pulling at the corner of his mouth. When he’s smiling and laughing so freely like this, he makes it hard to look at anything else but him. If he was like this all the time, I would be done for. “We just do, couldn’t tell you.”
I stare at the old-looking golf cart. “Is this thing safe?”
He’s already seated, the soft whirr of the motor sounding. “Are you scared or something? You’ll be fine, I can’t be any worse of a driver than you.”
Is that his second joke in less than a few minutes?
“Okay, if you say so.”
“Wait!” He jumps out of his seat and comes around to my side. “You’re going to get cold once we get moving.”
He takes the flannel-lined canvas jacket he grabbed from the backroom and drapes it around my shoulders, the size of it swallowing my slacks and silk blouse. I’m immediately engulfedin a smell I’m beginning to associate with Ethan—citrus and laundry and something unidentifiable, completely unique and distinct. I resist the urge to bury my nose in the fabric. I should protest and tell him that sixty-five degree weather isn’t what I would consider cold, but I find myself too entranced by the small gesture to care about getting overheated. Our eyes meet as he settles the jacket collar across my clavicle, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. The faintest brush of his thumb along the exposed skin near my shirt collar sends my stomach into a dip, and my breath hitches at the contact. He smiles, a small, subtle smile, but it feels like it’s just for me.
“There,” he murmurs softly. “All set.”
I nod as I try to steady my racing heart. “Thank you,” I manage to whisper, my voice barely audible over the air caught in my throat.
He steps back slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. For a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world. The air is thick, charged with something unspoken. Something neither of us is quite ready to acknowledge. Or maybe I’m imagining the electricity buzzing between us.
“Ready?” he asks, breaking the spell. His tone is hesitant, as if he, too, isn’t sure of what’s happening.
I break eye contact first, feeling like if I stared into his forest eyes much longer, I may get drunk off of them alone. “Yeah, let’s head out.” I take my seat and keep my attention focused on the surrounding landscape.
A squeal flies out of me when his foot hits the pedal and the cart jerks into motion. Soon we’re racing down acres of vineyards. The terrain is hilly and rough, but the sight is breathtaking. I feel like I’m being transported into some kind of dream sequence, where clouds sitlow in the autumn air and plump grapes hang from the vines. It’s too beautiful to be real.
CHAPTER 19
Ethan
IT HIDES YOUR PRETTY EYES
Marisa’s eyes are stuck on the view, and mine are stuck on her, biting her lip in concentration. It’s wildly distracting. It’s a miracle I didn’t crash, because I don’t think I looked at the road once the entire drive.
“We’re here,” I announce, even though it’s obvious since we came to a stop.
She sits back and sighs, wrapping my jacket tighter around her. “I actually did get a little cold.” Her eyes shift to mine, and she smiles softly. “Good call on the jacket.”
I nod, getting out, unsure if my voice will crack, so I don’t say anything. I like seeing her in my jacket way too much, as if I’ve staked some claim on her. A fleeting moment of possession.
She slips it off, leaving it on the seat, and joins me by the sorting tables. Alex and his crew are hand-picking the grapes nearby. This variety of grape is too delicate for mechanical harvesting and requires more of a careful selection. Miguel and his crew are at the sorting tables, meticulously inspecting each cluster to ensure only the best grapes make it into the final batch. They examine every grape, removing any that don’t meet the high standard necessary for the wine. Miguel removes his gloves and comes to greet us.
“We should be done in a couple of hours,” he tells me. He looks to Marisa, curious. “¿Y quién será esta hermosa señorita?” (And who might this beautiful young lady be?)
Marisa smiles brightly at him, shaking his hand. “Soy Marisa, mucho gusto.”(I’m Marisa, nice to meet you.)
He chuckles, delighted. “Así que hablas español, qué padre.” (And you speak Spanish, how wonderful.)
