Chapter 7
Bianca
S hould I be going to a surly stranger’s home with him?
“I’ve been here before,” I tell Jansen as we approach his ranch-style house. “It was years ago, though, when Rosa and Jake were dating.”
I’m trusting my gut on this one. For one thing, he’s friends with Millie and Ana and the guys. For another…he knew I was nervous on the Ferris wheel and tried to distract me. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t parked near me when we left the fair; he just made sure I got to my car safely.
He might be a little brusque on the outside, and he definitely looks tough, but my instincts are telling me he’s got a soft interior. Soft-ish.
“I bet it hasn’t changed since then.” He jogs up the front steps and opens the front door. “It probably hasn’t changed since the seventies.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Probably. Maybe the eighties. I’m not really up on home décor. All I know is it’s ugly.”
We’re greeted by unexpected barking, then whining. As I step inside the house, a brown and white dog charges at Jansen with excited yips and spins.
Jansen crouches down to pet the dog. “Hey buddy, yeah, I’m home. You don’t need to make such a fuss, I wasn’t gone that long.”
I smile. “Who’s this?”
“I call him Jack. I found him in the woods about a week ago, all skinny and matted and filthy. I took him to the vet and we’ve been trying to find his owner, but no luck.”
“Ah. Poor guy.” I crouch down, too, and Jack approaches me with bright eyes and sniffs. I hold out my hand palm down for him to check out. “He looks pretty handsome now, though.” Although he’s missing half an ear. Poor baby.
“Yeah, we cleaned him up. I don’t know why I kept him here. I should have taken him to a shelter. I don’t even like dogs.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I look around at a bunch of dog toys strewn across the living room and a cozy dog bed near the fireplace. “Hmm. Well. That was nice of you.”
Oh yeah. Definitely a soft interior.
“You like dogs,” he states.
“Yeah. We had a dog when I was a kid. Rocky went with Nonna to live with Uncle Geno, and he died a couple of years after that. I was in college, but I still cried.” My bottom lip pushes out.
“What kind of dog was Rocky?” Jansen asks gruffly.
“He was a golden retriever.”
“Ah. I know what that is.”
“He was a good boy.’ I smile, determined to be upbeat. “I’m sure Jack is, too.”
He grimaces. “I’ve never had a dog. He’s a lot of work.”
“Aw. Are you?” I rub his head again. “That’s okay. He needs you.”
“I don’t need a dog.”
“Everyone needs a dog. Dogs are unconditional love. All you have to do is feed and water them, play with them a bit, and be kind, and they’ll love you no matter what.”
We both stand and walk farther into the house, Jack prancing behind us. I’m not even sure why I’m here. I’d planned to go see Uncle Geno at Belmonte today, but when faced with a choice of looking at beautiful grapes with a handsome man or giving my uncle shit…I chose this.
Well, there was also business. I wanted to see his amazing lab. Because I already know my answer to his plea for help.
As I step down into the sunken living room, I look around. Eek. I do remember it from my teenage years, and he’s right, it hasn’t changed much. I catch my bottom lip between my teeth as I take in the orange and brown patterned carpet covering the floor. The massive stone fireplace fills one wall, and another wall is paneled with wood. “I see what you mean. That carpet is hideous. It has a great mid-century modern vibe, though. This house probably was probably built in the sixties. You could totally take advantage of that and have a really cool look.”
“I don’t know what mid-century modern is.”
“Oh. Check out some pictures online. That teak paneling is amazing.” I point at the living room wall. “The fireplace is a little…overwhelming. But I love the vaulted ceiling and the big windows…” I stop myself. “Sorry.” I’m babbling. Now that I’m out of my element—the lab, the cellar—I’m freaking out.
This man unnerves me. He followed me around, watching me intently, making my skin hot and sensitive. I could focus on grapes and pH levels and tannins in the vineyard, and in the lab. But now, I’m in his house and I’m flustered, and how the hell is this man so fascinating? So appealing.
“The first thing I’m renovating is the kitchen,” he says. “Come on.”
I follow him into the kitchen. Jack’s little nails click over the floor as he comes along with us. “I see what you mean.” I drag my fingertips over the chipped green laminate counter and study the wood cabinets. “At least your appliances aren’t avocado green.”
His lips twitch.
“But there’s lots of space to make it a dream kitchen. You could reconfigure it and have a big island and…” I stop again. “I probably watch too much HGTV.”
He gives a little huff that might be amusement as he pauses in front of a wine rack and pulls out a bottle. He holds it up for my inspection.
I nod.
As he cuts off the foil and works the cork out of the bottle, I spy glasses on a shelf and I move to pick up two of them. “These are gorgeous glasses.”
“Thanks. I don’t know that much about wine, but I like drinking it out of nice glasses.”
“Oh, me too! I love a nicely shaped glass. And a delicate stem.” I trace my fingers over the glass, aware of his gaze following my motions. Which makes me aware that my nails are dirty. Shit. But when I look up at him, his eyes are hot. And so am I. “Are you still using corks?” I blurt.
“No.” He clears his throat. “We’ve moved to screw caps.”
I nod. “I approve.”
“I was afraid you were going to give me shit for that.” He pours the wine into the glasses.
I laugh. “Nah. I get the appeal of corks. The tradition. They’re a renewable resource. But we have to be practical, too.”
“Screw caps are much more affordable.”
“Exactly.”
He hands me a glass and picks up his own. Our eyes meet.
His attention dips to my mouth and lingers. My belly swoops and my thighs quiver. “To…perfectly ripened grapes,” I say softly, lifting my glass.
He touches the rim of his glass to mine with a delicate ping. Again he watches me as I swirl and sniff. “Oh yeah. Black fruit and violet. The age gives it notes of cedar and eucalyptus.”
A notch forms between his eyebrows. “I’m not sure if that sounds tasty.”
I smile. “That’s the nose.” I take a sip. And savor it. Then I make a noise of delight. “Ohhhh. I think I just had a winegasm.”
He grins. “A what now?”
Wow. That full on smile is…hot.
I give him a cheeky grin. “A winegasm. That little thrill you feel when you take your first sip of a really good wine.”
His smile expands and he shakes his head.
I sip again. “Wow. Full-bodied. Vibrant acidity and smooth tannin.”
Now he takes a sip, his eyes never leaving my face. “Black cherry.”
I smile.
“Oak. Of course.” He sips again. “Silky? That’s not a taste.”
“Mouth feel. That’s a thing. And you’re right, it is silky.”
“There’s something…” He sips again. “Is it cloves?”
I grin. “Yes, I taste that, too.” I toast him, then drink more. “This is exceptional. Thank you for sharing it.”
“Wine is better when it’s shared.”
I can’t stop smiling. “Like a hockey game.”
“Yeah.”
A moment of shared recall stretches out.
“Taste is unique to everybody,” I say. “What really matters is if you like it.”
“Okay. Tell me how to make wine that everyone likes.”
I laugh. “I went to university for four years to learn that, and it doesn’t always work. I’ve had critics pan my best efforts.”
“Well, fuck those idiots.” He frowns.
I laugh again. “I make what I like. I can’t try to please everybody.”
“That makes sense.” He drags his gaze away from me and looks around the kitchen. “I promised you dinner.”
“Don’t worry?—”
“No, it’s fine. I picked up some stuff at the farmers’ market yesterday.”
I lean against the counter. “Are you a good cook?”
“Mmm. I like what I cook. I don’t know if that means it’s good.”
“Fair.”
He goes to the fridge and starts pulling things out. “My plan is a sheet pan ratatouille with sausage.” He pauses. “You’re not vegetarian, are you?”
“I ate a corn dog last night.”
“Right.” He sets a package of sausages on the counter. “These looked really good. Handcrafted in Petaluma.”
“Yum. What can I do?”
“Let’s chop up the veg.” He turns on the oven, then pulls out a couple of plastic cutting sheets.
I move to the sink and wash my hands. “My nails are filthy,” I mutter.
“Here. A nail brush. And you can wash the eggplant and zucchini while you’re there.” He also hands over a yellow squash and a basket of cherry tomatoes, unbothered by my nasty nails. Occupational hazard. If I’m not dirty from the vineyard, I’m stained purple from grape juice.
It’s easy to slice up all the veggies and the sausages. He tosses them with olive oil, salt, garlic, and fresh herbs, and slides the pan into the oven. “That’ll take a while,” he says. “I also bought polenta.”
“I’m impressed.”
“This couldn’t be much easier.”
His modesty turns my heart into a big swollen marshmallow. “You could serve me hot dogs,” I say lightly. “And I wouldn’t turn it down.”
Not if I get to eat it with him.
He picks up the bottle of wine and refills our glasses. “We can go sit down while that cooks.”
I trail him back into the living room. Obviously, the furniture is new. I curl up at one end of a massive charcoal sectional, shifting a cushion to a more comfortable position.
Jansen takes a seat on the other side of the sectional. Jack picks up a toy and brings it to Jansen. He absently grabs it and tugs. They get into a little back and forth, Jack growling ferociously.
“He’s so cute.” I smile at the pup.
“He needs a better name. I just called him Jack because he looks like he’s part Jack Russell.”
“Hmm. How about…Lucky? Because he’s lucky you found him.”
“Hmm.”
“You could name him after a wine. Merlot. Zinny. Pinot.”
“No.”
I grin against the edge of my wine glass. “You come up with something then.”
“Champ. Scout.”
“Ugh. Who’s your favorite hockey player?”
“Besides myself?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
“Mark Messier.”
“Okay, name him Mark.”
“Or Mess.”
I push my lips out. “That seems unfair.”
“Moose. That was Messier’s nickname.”
“I love it!” I sit up straight. “Moose it is!” I look over at the dog, who in no way resembles a moose.
“I like it, too.”
“Do you think pets have names for us, too?”
“Uh…”
I grin at his bewildered expression and lift my shoulders. “I think of weird stuff sometimes.”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “I’m sure they do have names for us. But…do we want to know them?”
I laugh again.
“Thank you for all your help, today. I appreciate it.”
“I’m happy to help.” I purse my lips. “To be honest, it’s nice to be listened to.”
His thick eyebrows launch up. “What does that mean? Nobody at your job listens to you?”
“Not at my job. Here at home.” I smile and shrug. “There are some old-fashioned attitudes in my family. Plus, I was the middle kid. The one nobody noticed because Rosa was perfect and Allegra was always in trouble over something.”
“Uh. You totalled your teacher’s shed.”
I press my fingertips to my smile. “That incident involving Mrs. Gerstenmayer was my one attempt to act out and get attention. I discovered I didn’t like that kind of attention. Anyway, it was frustrating that I had all these ideas and dreams about making wine and nobody wanted to listen. So…that’s why today was nice. Actually, Jake was listening to me earlier, too. He knows a lot but at least he didn’t disregard my opinions. You know, I was kind of mad at him and I didn’t like the idea that he’s back and he and Rosa are together again, but he’s really smart, and he loves her, and…” I stop. “Sorry. Sometimes I talk a lot.”
One corner of his mouth jumps. “Why were you mad at him?”
“He deserted her! After graduation, he disappeared. I had to deal with a heartbroken Rosa, which was very disconcerting to me at age sixteen because she’s always so unflappable. But she was flapped.” I frown. “That doesn’t work, does it.”
One corner of his mouth hikes up. “I get what you mean. What about all those rumors people kept telling you about? About your winery.”
“Wow, that was wild, wasn’t it? I wonder if Uncle Geno started them? Or people are just making shit up. That happens in a small town. It’s like that game of telephone—you know? Where the message gets repeated over and over until it’s not even recognizable. We don’t know how those started.” I wave a hand but my stomach tightens in anticipation of confronting Uncle Geno about that. “Tell me more about what brings you here. You’re not married, I take it? No kids?”
“No. No kids.” He drops his gaze to his glass. “I’m divorced.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Shit happens. I retired from hockey and didn’t know what to do with myself. Stephanie—my ex—still had her job. She owns a clothing boutique in Manhattan Beach, with one of her friends. She had all this other stuff going on, too—fitness classes, going to the spa, out for drinks with friends.”
“You’re young to be retired.”
“Not in the hockey world. I’m thirty-six.” He pauses, eying me as if he expects me to gasp with horror. I don’t. I know how old he is after googling him late last night and watching videos of him playing hockey on YouTube. He won championships and medals and awards. Watching him play hockey was stupidly hot. Who knew?
“Anyway, I was trying to figure things out.” He pauses. “Hockey pretty much consumed my life.”
“I’m sure.” I watch him over the rim of my glass as I sip.
“I still wanted to play,” he says with a shrug that’s trying for nonchalant. “It was hard to give it up. But it was time. All the injuries take a toll, and I wasn’t producing like I used to.”
Again, I feel like there’s a lot going on beneath that careless shrug. After a moment of silence, I say, “Retirement can be hard.”
“Eh.” He drags up a smile. “I’m okay. And so far, I like it here. I feel like an outsider, but people are mostly friendly, and I enjoy a challenge.”
“This is definitely a challenge. For anybody , never mind someone just starting out. But I give you credit for being open to advice and help from people who’ve been around.”
An expression crosses his fast so fast, I almost miss it. Almost a flinch. “Yeah. I need to remember that I can’t do it all myself.”
“For sure. Wineries are run by a team.” I grin. “You’re a hockey player, so you know about teamwork.”
He dips his chin, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah.”
To be honest, I’m dying to help him. The wines I tasted today are miraculously lovely—clean, balanced, multi-dimensional. Most producers make blends that are cabernet sauvignon-dominant, and I could definitely see doing that. But I’m also imagining a blend reminiscent of wines I drank in Argentina, combining merlot, cabernet, syrah, and cabernet franc. Jansen has a magnificent syrah in his cellar that astonished me.
Blending is the craft of winemaking, and it excites me.
“Are you going to change the name of the vineyard?” I ask.
“Yeah. I want to. I haven’t come up with anything, though.”
The timer on the oven sounds.
We look at each other.
“You can help me brainstorm ideas over dinner.” Jansen rises and heads back to the kitchen. “Since you helped so much with Jack. I mean, Moose.”
I follow to see if I can help, with Moose again clicking along the floor behind me. Jansen asks me to set the table in the dining room off the kitchen, and I poke around and find plates and cutlery and set two places while he prepares the polenta to serve with the ratatouille.
With the last of the wine in our glasses, we sit down to eat. Moose sits quietly but hopefully beside Jansen’s chair.
“This is fabulous,” I say after a couple of bites.
“Like I said, really simple.”
“You know, it’s the fresh ingredients that make it so good. The local veggies, the craft sausage—it doesn’t have to be fancy to be amazing.” I fork up another chunk of eggplant.
“It is good,” he agrees. “I like food.”
I grin. “Me, too.”
“I have to get back to healthy habits. I kind of got off track when I retired.”
“You look great.” I close my eyes briefly. Sure, Bee, just admit you’ve checked him out. Repeatedly.
That coaxes a smile from him. “Thanks. I feel better and I’m healthy, and that’s what matters.”
“Absolutely. Well, this is a healthy meal. I like food, but I do try to eat well. I mean, I love junk food, too. Burgers and fries? Yum. What’s your biggest food weakness?”
“Potato chips. I’m not into sweets.”
I nod. “Same! Although a little bit of really good chocolate is worth the calories.”
Stop. Just shut up. Babbling about calories. That is not interesting dinner conversation. “Oh yeah! The new name for the winery.”
“Right.” He forks up a piece of sausage. “I’m not creative enough to come up with something good.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know if I am, either. Lots of names are already taken. Oak Creek, Redwoods, Olive Grove…” I heave a sigh. “What about something hockey themed? I know nothing about hockey, though.”
“Hmmm. Five hole? That doesn’t sound appealing. Hat Trick? Maybe. Top Shelf…”
“Taken.”
“Of course.” He purses his lips. “Body Check? Nope. Offside? Icing. Nah.”
“What position did you play?”
“Right wing.”
We look at each other. At the same time, we say, “Nope.”
I laugh and his lips curve up into a half-smile.
Heat shimmies up my thighs and my heart flips.
Oh, sweet salty Jesus. I am in so much trouble.
“I know!” I bounce with excitement. “Bottle Jock!”
He stares at me blankly. “Huh?”
“Bottle Jock! Like the movie…”
More blankness.
“Bottle Shock,” I say. “It’s a true story about a California winery that thought their Chardonnay was ruined—bottle shock.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s when wine has a temporary loss of flavor from absorbing too much oxygen from excessive movement during transit. They thought their wine was ruined, but discovered it was just temporary and they went on to win a big award in France, beating out French wines.”
“Uh huh.”
“But Bottle Jock instead of Shock because…you’re a jock.” I gesture at him.
His expression is so vacant I start laughing. “Okay, I guess that’s not going to work.”
He shakes his head. “I mean…it’s funny…if you know what it’s about…”
“Never mind.” I make a face. “It was really just a joke.”
After a moment of silence, he says, “What about Bar Down?”
I cock my head. “Okay, now it’s my turn to be lost. What does it mean?”
“It’s a goal that hits the crossbar and goes down into the net.”
“Hmmm. I like it!”
“Really?”
“Yes!” I lean forward. “You should totally make your brand about your hockey background.”
“That’s what the marketing woman I hired said. But hockey has nothing to do with wine. Although Wayne Gretzky’s done it.”
“There you go. Even I know who Wayne Gretzky is.”
“There’s hope for you.”
“Wait.” I eye him suspiciously. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Well, you’re not laughing.”
“Okay, it wasn’t a laugh out loud joke. It was more like…teasing.”
Our gazes lock. And hold.
“I may have been teasing you,” he says, his voice low and sandpapery.
I swallow. “I may have liked it.”
The air heats and swells around us, pressing on my skin.
His eyelids grow heavy, his focus drifting to my mouth, the pulse fluttering at my throat, my breasts. He wets his lips.
“I’m sorry I don’t have dessert to offer you,” he says about a year later.
“That’s okay.” I could imagine a different kind of dessert…
No. What am I thinking? This is not what I came home for.
But wow. He’s tempting.