Page 80 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“And I don’t want to confuse either of us with… physical feelings.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and waited.
It wasn’t entirely unexpected. He’d gotten to her, and she was running scared, trying to put him back in a neat little box.
“Is that so,” he said, his voice calm, amused.
“Look, I just don’t want you developing real feelings for me when all of this is just a ruse—”
“What was last night? You didn’t have to go that far to convince the B.C.”
She sputtered and paced around him. “Last night was… a fluke. It won’t happen again.”
Her foundation was rocked. He could see it in those blue eyes. A hint of panic. She was grasping desperately at straws rather than face the fact that they had something real. Something elemental. Something that needed to be explored.
“A fluke, you say.” He rubbed a hand over the jaw he’d neglected to shave this morning.
She nodded briskly. “Fluke. Never again.”
“We’re still going for ice cream tonight,” he said, giving her no wiggle room to get out of their date.
“Well… I guess that’s okay,” she hesitated.
“We still have to convince everyone else that we’re in a relationship, don’t we?” he reminded her.
“That is the plan,” she said lamely.
“Good. There’s a town meeting tonight. I thought we could go to that together, too. You know, make an appearance. Lay it on thick.”
“I guess that’s a good idea.” Her eyes narrowed, as if she were trying to figure him out like a puzzle.
“Great. Have time for a tour?” he offered, checking his watch.
“Oh, I…” she looked around her as if for the first time. “I can spare a few minutes.”
“Welcome to Blue Moon Winery’s tank room,” he said, spreading his arms showman style. “These stainless steel tanks are where the magic happens.”
“I feel like I’m on an episode ofMTV Cribs,” Eden said with an eye roll.
Davis ignored her. “This is where the pressed, fermented juice is stored. We call it new wine. The sediment sinks to the bottom, we pump the wine into a new tank, and repeat the process. This is what makes the wine clean and smooth.”
“How long does that take?” Eden asked studying the tanks.
“About two months.”
Davis flexed his teaching muscles and explained the process as he led her into the next room where hundreds of oak barrels were stored and then into the bottling area. The dogs tagged along.
“I’m amazed at how much of the process is automated,” Eden said as Davis smoothly escorted her past the sun-filled tasting room where a handful of guests were bellied up to the bar being charmed by staff.
“We try to honor tradition while embracing innovation,” Davis told her, leading her up the stairs to his office.
“That sounds like a line of bullshit.”
He laughed. “That’s my father for you.” He pushed open the door, waved her inside.
The dogs shoved their way past her. Chewy settled down immediately in his plaid dog bed under the window. Vader sat on top of him. “Guess I’d better get another bed,” Davis observed.
Eden looked at her dogs in a pile and swallowed hard. “You don’t have to do that.” She was guarded again. He caught the direction of her gaze, and it wasn’t at him. It was at the three Blue Moon Business of the Year awards displayed on the shelf behind him.
