Chapter 12
Jansen
I meet Miles at Oak Creek Park as the sun is coming up. There’s fog in lower areas and it’s a nice temperature for running, though I do have a ball cap on. We’ve run together a few times now and it’s been pretty good. The first run wasn’t my best, but I kept up with Miles, and I feel better every time.
“Our dispatcher got a great call the other day,” he says as we run along the path.
“Yeah?” He always has good stories from the sheriff’s department.
“It was a lady. She said her friend is getting married and they’re throwing her a bachelorette party.”
I slide him a glance, grinning and waiting expectantly.
“And she asked if we could send out a couple of cops to the party to dance for them.”
I bark out a laugh.
“And so Poppy says, I’m sorry, ma’am, police officers don’t do that. And the woman said, yes, they do, haven’t you seen them in movies? And Poppy says, ma’am, those aren’t real police officers, they’re strippers.”
I’m chuckling as he talks.
“So the woman said, Really? Okay, fine, what about firefighters? Will they come dance for us?”
“Jesus.” I bellow more laughter. “Maybe you guys should go dance at bachelorette parties. You could raise some extra cash for the department.”
Miles guffaws. “Yeah, right.”
The view here is spectacular. We’re on an elevation overlooking a vineyard with mountains in the background. Beside the path, Spanish moss drips from live oak trees.
It’s not the ocean, but it’s growing on me.
We pass by a man in a straw hat and a young kid walking and give them waves. I huff out, “Morning.”
As we approach a bench, Miles says, “Need a rest, old man?”
I snort. “Let’s sprint.” And I pick up my pace and leave him behind.
He laughs and catches up.
Then I skid to a halt. “Aaaaah!”
Miles stops dead, too, behind me, and peers over my shoulder.
“That’s a snake,” I say, unnecessarily, pointing at it.
“You are correct. It’s a King snake.”
We watch the black and white reptile wriggle its way across the path and disappear into the dry, ochre-colored grass.
I swipe at my forehead. “Jesus. And I was just thinking it’s not so bad running here.”
Miles laughs. “King snakes are harmless.”
“No.”
“Yes, they are. Nonvenomous.”
“Do they have teeth? Yes? Then they can still bite.”
He laughs again. “Okay, yeah.”
Now I’m busy watching the path for snakes as I run.
We run alongside Oak Creek for a bit. Boulders line the edge of the creek and water burbles as it flows over and around them. Sunlight glints silver on the water where it filters through tree branches. This is the only shady point of the route and it’s noticeably cooler here, although the sun isn’t yet high in the sky.
I tell Miles that Bianca is going to help me with the harvest, with the things we need a winemaker for, and our deal that I’ll let her use my lab for things she needs to do at Caparelli.
“Sounds like win-win,” he says.
“Yeah.” With the extra win that I’ll get to see her again.
“Are you looking for a full-time winemaker?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t had much interest. Maybe after harvest there’ll be more people looking for new jobs. Or maybe nobody wants to work for a guy who knows nothing about making wine. I don’t really know.”
“Hey, you’re learning. Have you met Bianca’s uncle?”
“Yeah.” My jaw clenches. “He showed up at Rosa’s place when we were all there celebrating that they made it through that hailstorm. It was quite the scene. He kinda lost his shit because of Jake and Rosa being together.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty wild that they were actually married all that time. Geno’s a hot head. When his mom was still alive, she used to keep him in line.”
“Bianca’s pretty sad about her grandma passing.”
“No doubt. Maria was the polestar of that family.”
I’ve never heard that term, but I get the meaning.
“Bianca takes after her,” Miles continues. “Well, all three sisters do to a certain extent. But Bianca’s got that winemaker talent that Maria had. Only Maria never got to really develop it. And to be honest, Bianca wasn’t going to get that chance either, if she’d stayed here.”
“Yeah, she alluded to that.” I thought maybe that was just her perception of her family, but I guess not. And having met Geno, I can see how dominant and single-minded he is.
Which only makes it understandable that she’d want to go back to her life in Argentina.
I’m fucking dead.
We’ve been picking grapes all day. After I ran just over four miles with Miles this morning. I have machines that are doing mechanical harvesting, but a bunch of us picked grapes manually as well. This is physical labor but, unlike working out in the gym, it’s a lot more rewarding knowing that we’re creating something magical.
And despite my bone-deep exhaustion, here I am, in the shower, jerking off thinking about Bianca.
Bianca is teaching me how to pick grapes while she’s running back and forth between here and her place, directing the harvest and also supervising the crush pad. It was hot, sweaty, and sticky, with drunk bees buzzing around the crush pad, but I was completely drunk on Bianca. On her shiny dark hair sliding out of its ponytail, on sunburned cheeks and nose, on her long bare legs and slender arms. Mostly on her expertise—her knowledge, her efficiency, the easy way she directs everyone.
My fantasies involve her here in the shower with me so I can slide my hands through that silky hair, clean dirt and sweat and grape juice from her skin, taking my time on certain areas—her tits, between her legs, stroking her there until she comes in a shuddering orgasm that makes her feel so good. She deserves to feel so good.
That night at the Golden Cougar I lost my mind. That dipshit grabbed her. By the throat . He deserved to die. Or at least get punched in the face. I wanted to do that so fucking bad I could taste it, like when I used to inhale the acrid scent of smelling salts on the bench.
No one should ever do that to her.
On some level, I recognize that my reaction was over the top. Also, I don’t care. I’d do it again to any asshole who touches her without her permission.
She’s beautiful and smart and passionate. She deserves to feel good.
“Such a good girl,” I groan as my hand moves faster on my shaft. “You should feel good. You should come on my fingers. My cock. Christ.” My hand pumps harder, tension coiling up from the base of my spine, pleasure bursting, spreading through me. I let out a harsh shout, bracing myself against the shower wall with my other hand, gasping as the water pours down over me.
“Fuck.” I drop my head forward. I’m tired, spent, and yet I’m still thinking of her. I’m still thinking of her as I dry off and stumble naked into my bed.
The alarm goes off early. I drag my ass down to the kitchen. While my coffee brews, I feed Moose and give him fresh water. It’s still dark and when I step outside onto the deck, the morning air cloaks me, damp and chilly. I’m sipping my coffee when Bianca arrives, wearing another pair of short shorts with knee-high rubber boots and a thick sweatshirt with the hood tugged up over her head. I want to smile at the vision this creates—so far from sexy, but so goddamn charming.
Moose greets her with great excitement. She fusses over him with pets and compliments. Then she straightens and looks at me. “Morning.”
“Have you had coffee?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you some. Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“Jesus. You have to eat.”
“I know. When I get all caught up in work, sometimes I forget about it.”
“I was about to make myself some eggs. Sit. I’ll make you some, too.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know, but I don’t want you to collapse from hunger in my vineyard.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She follows me into the kitchen. She’s got her iPad and a bunch of samples from Caparelli. “I told Diego I’d meet him at six-thirty in the vineyard. We’ll get the crew picking again. Make sure they’re picking the right section, not picking any second crop, and leaving out other crap.”
“Other crap?” I hand her a mug, then open the fridge.
“Leaves. Bugs. Snakes. Lizards.”
“Jesus.”
She grins then sips her coffee.
“They probably know what they’re doing.”
“Probably. But I don’t know them and I’m a micromanager.”
“Ah.” My lips twist into a smile at the interior of the fridge. I grab the egg carton.
“And we’ll get samples to get the numbers.”
Now I know what “numbers” she’s talking about—the pH, Brix, and TA.
I whisk together eggs and melt butter in a pan.
“Then we can walk the rows and discuss what to pick next,” she continues. “The forecast is for warm and sunny weather all week, so I expect things to keep ripening. But I think what we can do here is alternate days processing fruit and bottling. We can get busy bottling last year’s wines.”
“Okay, that sounds good.” I can’t help but watch her mouth as she talks. I could do that all day. Except I’d want to kiss that mouth.
“Have you cleaned out the old barrels?”
“Yeah.”
“And you have new barrels?”
“Yep. And more on order.”
“Great.”
Her approval has warmth swelling in my chest. I remember my shower last night and my dick thickens in my briefs. I cough.
“I’m jealous,” she continues. “Rosa won’t let me order new barrels.” She sighs.
“Why not?”
She holds up a hand a rubs thumb and forefingers together.
“Ah. Money.”
“Unlike rich hockey players, we don’t have a big bank account to get our winery going.”
“My bank account is shrinking rapidly,” I say dryly. “Don’t tell my mom.”
She smiles. “Why not?”
“She’s afraid I’m blowing my entire savings on this crazy plan and won’t be able to support myself.”
Her eyebrows slide up. “Hmm.”
“You think the same.”
Her lips twist as she tries not to grin. “I may have thought that. But I’m learning more about you. Also, you have me .”
“Haha. Yes.”
You have me.
Fuck, I wish.
“I’d like to try blending some wines from different locations,” she moves on. “The grapes on the hillsides often have a different feel—tannins that are tart and more rustic.”
“Just growing them in a different location affects the taste.” I do know that, but I’m interested to learn more.
“Yes. The soil type contributes to the grapes’ flavors—whether it’s clay or gravel or volcanic ground. Also the amount of sun exposure. They get less fog when they’re higher up and more UV light gives the grapes thicker skins.”
“It’s pretty amazing.”
She smiles and her eyes sparkle. “It is, isn’t it? That’s why I love it.”
My eyes move over her face, my breath tightening in my chest. I nod. “I get it.” I return my attention to the eggs in the pan. “Can you make some toast?”
“Sure.” She moves to the counter where the bread sits. “You’re okay with that?”
“With what?”
“The blending?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I want to tell her to do whatever she wants. But it is my winery. “Are you talking about the Chardonnay grapes?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Yeah.” I nod.
We eat our scrambled eggs and toast, then head out to the vineyard where the crew is assembled along with Diego, who’s already got some samples to test. Bianca takes them to the lab to work on them, along with the ones she brought from Caparelli.
I start helping again, sore muscles protesting as I squat. Goddammit. I’d planned to find a gym in the area but there’s no time right now. My runs with Miles are good, but I need some strength work. I’m a goddamn athlete, I’m not supposed to get sore from picking grapes.
Plus my bum shoulder is aching. Both shoulders have some arthritis in them, but my right one is worse and I’m feeling it this morning. I try not to take too much medication for them because that stuff can eat away your gut, but this might be a day I need some.
This isn’t what I envisioned when I thought of owning a winery. I’m not na?ve or stupid; I knew there’d be work involved. But I kind of pictured myself walking the paths and sitting on a terrace drinking wine. I suppose I could just do that—I don’t have to pick grapes. But I want to.
This place is mine. Its success depends on me. And I have to be successful.
I may feel old and cranky and horny, but I’m also determined. I can ignore a few sore muscles and a sexy winemaker and focus on grapes.
By eleven, I’m starving. Time for a lunch break. There’s a shady spot in the yard with picnic tables the crew moves to with their lunch, which I assume is why that spot is there. I start past them, but Antonio waves at me. “Hey, boss! Come join us for lunch.”
I halt. They want me to have lunch with them? “Um, okay, sure. I just have to check in with Bianca at the lab.”
I find Antonio there but no Bianca.
“She went back to Caparelli,” he tells me. “She said she’ll check back later. I think they’re a little short handed over there.”
Right. Shit. She’s probably working harder than I am.
Another thing to admire about her—she’s definitely not lazy.
I go slap a handful of shaved ham between two slices of bread, add a little mustard, then carry it and a bottle of water back to the picnic tables. Antonio moves over to give me room to sit and I listen to the crew chat about all kinds of things—their kids, spouses, truck that needs a new muffler. Their camaraderie surprises me. I even answer some of their questions about hockey and my previous life.
After lunch, I have a brief huddle with Carol about delivery of the new barrels, then head back out to the crush pad. Trucks are dumping grapes from huge bins and we start the process of de-stemming and crushing the grapes to get white juice. It’ll settle to reduce solids before we move it to tanks or barrels to ferment. Bianca has prepared yeast to inoculate the must—the unfermented juice—to start the fermentation process.
Bianca’s back, waving away bees, sloshing around in rubber boots that are loose around her calves. When I catch sight of her face, my heart bumps. I corner her and frown. “What’s wrong?”