by HELEN HARDT
Dale Steel.
Dale Steel, who tastes of bourbon and spice and wine and the moon.
A groan.
A groan from his throat.
Just the groan, but still it’s his voice, and the wine color washes over me and through me and around me.
All around me, encasing us both in a colorful cloak.
I’m so ready for this experience. This kiss—
But it’s over before it begins.
Our tongues barely touch, and he pulls back.
Damn.
“I apologize,” he says.
“For what?”
“For…that. I don’t do things like that.”
“You don’t kiss women?”
“I don’t kiss women I barely know.”
“Why did you kiss me, then?”
Silence.
I’m getting used to his silence. Now that he knows how his voice affects me, he may never speak again.
He turns back onto the road.
“Seriously, Dale,” I say. “You told me not to get personal. Then you kissed me. What’s more personal than that?”
Easy answer. There’s a lot more personal than that—places I’d love to experience with this gorgeous man who’s the biggest conundrum I’ve ever come across.
I bet he has a huge-ass cock, and I bet he knows exactly what to do with it.
Damn, damn, damn.
“I apologize,” he says again.
“I don’t want your apology, Dale. I want another kiss.”
His lips tighten.
Did I go too far?
I’m not used to holding back with a man I want. I go after what I want, and I usually get it. I know, though, that Dale will go no further with me. At least not tonight.
Perhaps not ever.
And that thought saddens me. Big time.
“Do you know how to drive a stick?” he asks out of the blue.
“Yeah, why?”
“You may need to drive my truck back to the house tonight.”
“Uh…why might that be?”
“It’s a gorgeous night. I think I’ll stay in the vineyards.”
“All night?”
“Yeah. I love spending the night out there. It’s so…”
“So…?”
He shakes his head. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“Ashley, I don’t talk about these things to the people closest to me in the world, so why would I talk about them with you?”
Wow. Boulder to my gut. Big boulder.
I barely know this guy and already he gets to me like no man ever has before. Men aren’t usually rude to me, but on the occasion that one is, I simply tell him to fuck off and then I walk away. I walk away with no regrets.
I can’t walk away from Dale Steel. I’m bound to him for the next three months.
Bigger issue?
I don’t want to walk away from Dale Steel. Already he’s more interesting than any man I’ve ever met.
And more attractive.
No one can deny his physical beauty or the rich depth of his voice.
He’s so much more than all of that, though. Already I know this, and I haven’t even scratched the surface. Diana says he’s brilliant at his craft. That his wines are something truly special. From what I’ve tasted so far, she’s telling the unadulterated truth. Sure, wine tasting is subjective, but even the most noted critics in the world wouldn’t be able to find fault with Dale’s simple table wine, which is anything but simple.
Yet its complexity is simple, which of course doesn’t make any sense at all. Somehow, he made its complexity accessible.
Yeah, I can learn a lot from this man—this man whose knowledge doesn’t come from books but from experience and sheer creativity.
What I want to learn at this moment, though, is what his lips feel like on mine for longer than three seconds.
What his dick feels like inside me.
My mind is so muddled, and even though he hasn’t spoken in a few minutes, still I see the color of his voice. It still surrounds us with its dark-red beauty.
We continue in silence until he pulls into a dirt driveway.
He clears his throat. “We’re here. This is where I park. We have to walk a bit to the vines.”
God, that voice.
“Okay,” I reply.
He gets out of the truck, and I reach for the handle, but he’s there, opening the passenger door for me. A gentleman. Which of course makes him even sexier.
He could be covered in green goo and still be sexy.
How am I—a woman who loves men and loves sex—supposed to resist Dale Steel?
To the west, the sun is setting in a pink-and-orange haze. Oddly, I don’t associate a sound with the colors.
When Dale is near, he seems to block out my synesthesia. It’s oddly comforting to be able to concentrate on one sense at a time. Other than the sound and color of his voice, that is, which still drowns everything else out.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I turn to him. He’s watching the sunset, and the look on his gorgeous face is…serene contemplation. He’s happy here.
“It is,” I say.
“Colorado sunsets are amazing,” he says, “but wait until you see a Colorado sunrise. When the sun comes over those mountains, it bathes the vineyards in orange and blue rays. It’s something else.”
“So that’s why you like to sleep out here.”
He cocks his head. “It’s gorgeous, but I don’t have to sleep out here to see a sunrise. All I have to do is get out here early.”
“Then why do you—”
“I just do.”
Okay, then.
Dale is obviously not bothered by silence. I’m a huge extrovert, especially where men are concerned, so dealing with him will take a lot of getting used to.
I think he’s worth it, though.
I really think he’s worth it.
Chapter Ten
Dale
Kissing Ashley was a stupid mistake.
I don’t do things like that.
Ever.
I can’t deny my attraction to her, even though she’s not my type. She’s beautiful in a California-girl kind of way.
Actually, she’s just beautiful in every way. Most women I meet don’t have that California look, so this is new to me, but she’s as beautiful as any woman I’ve ever come across.
It wasn’t her beauty that ensnared me, though.
It was her confession about my voice.
How is a man supposed to react to that? Hey, your voice is like a drug to me.
Any man would respond.
Wouldn’t he?
Of course, I’ve never been any man.
Funny. Turns out I’m just as captivated by an interesting woman as the next guy.
Ashley rubs at her arms.
“Where’s your jacket?” I ask.
“I guess I left it in the truck.”
I click open the door locks. “Go get it. You’ll need it, obviously.”
She nods and grabs it out of the truck. I click the doors locked once more while she drapes the jacket over her shoulders.
It’s not cold, though it’s not exactly warm either. It’s an early autumn evening in Colorado, and it’s perfect.
“This way,” I say.
She walks beside me, and I’m ever aware of her presence, the subtle warmth of her body close to mine, even though we’re not touching in any way.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been affected this way by a woman. A long, long time. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been affected in quite this way before. Sure, I’ve been attracted to women, but not so quickly or in such an all-consuming manner.
I want to sit down with Ashley White. I want to rip her clothes off and fuck her.
Yeah, I do. I really do.
But what’s more surprising is that after that, I want to talk to her. I want to learn everything about her.
A
nd…here’s what truly scares me.
I want her to learn everything about me.
Things I’ve never shared with anyone—not even my dad or Aunt Mel.
Secrets that have hidden inside me for so long, I’m not sure I can even bring them to the surface anymore.
But Ashley White makes me want to confront those mysteries of my past. Confront them and banish them forever, which isn’t possible.
Yes, truly frightening. A shiver actually crawls up my spine.
And what’s the most frightening?
I don’t even know the woman. We’ve been in each other’s presence for all of a few hours.
The only logical thing to do is to tamp down these desires. It won’t be the first time I’ve repressed a desire, and it probably won’t be the last.
It will be the most difficult, though. Count on it.
A feeling of utter peace settles over me as we approach the vineyards. I brought her to these vines on purpose. The Syrah. My favorite.
Already, I’m regretting it.
The Syrah vines are special to me. In the darkness of the grapes and their flavor, I find myself. More than anywhere else on the ranch—on the planet—I’m truly myself here.
The part of myself that I don’t share with others.
So why have I brought Ashley here?
“Wow,” she says. “These vines are incredible. Look at all the fruit!”
The sun has completed its set, and the harvest moon above us reflects light on the clusters of black grapes.
“Syrah. It ripens best in dry climates, which is why it does so well here in Colorado.”
“How did you know?” she asks.
I cock my head. “Because I’m good at what I do. I know terroir and I know grapes.”
“Oh, no.” She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What exactly did you mean, then?”
“How did you know Syrah is my favorite grape?”
I keep myself from jolting out of my skin. I hope I’ve suppressed the look of surprise that wants to cover my face.
Syrah is Ashley’s favorite?
Ashley’s favorite is my favorite?
No big deal. It means nothing. Syrah is a wonderful grape and is the favorite of many people. Doesn’t mean a thing. I’m detached.
Except I’m not detached. She’s here, interfering with my peace. Yet I want her here. I just don’t want to want her here.
“I didn’t,” I say. “It’s my favorite, like I said at dinner.”
“Well, it’s my favorite too. I adore Syrah. I love it in blends, but I especially love it alone. It’s so dark and lusty.”
I resist raising my eyebrows at the word lusty.
She’s not wrong. Wine made from the Syrah grape is often described as lusty, but I don’t use the word myself. It’s too subjective. What does lusty mean, anyway? It can mean different things to different people. What I consider lusty may not be what Ashley considers lusty. It’s too easy, and I’m not going to let her—the wine doctor—get away with too easy.
“I’ll give you dark,” I say, “but what do you mean by lusty?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Lusty is one of those words that doesn’t really tell a consumer anything.”
“Sure it does. It means the wine is earthy.”
“Ah. But does it? Lusty can mean hearty or robust. Earthy in that way. But earthy also means the aroma and flavors of cultivated soil, edible mushrooms, forest floor. None of that seems particularly lusty to me.”
“It’s a common term used for wine,” she says.
“I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m simply saying it’s not a term I use. I find it too broad and vague.”
She twists her lips for a minute. Then, “I hate to admit this, but you’re right, Dale.”
I can’t help it. A smile edges onto my lips. Damn it! A smile! She wormed a smile out of me when I need to keep her distant.
“It’s taking the easy way out,” she continues. “But tell me. Is it any different than using the terms hearty and robust, as you just did?”
Oh, she’s smart. Maybe that doctor of wine thing is paying off. “It’s no different. Good for you for catching that. I try to be more specific when I describe the nose and palate of my wines.”
“I see I have a lot to learn.”
“If you want to be a sommelier, customers will rely on your wine picks. The more specific you are with your tasting notes, the more satisfied the customer will be.”
“You’re right,” she says again. “Absolutely.”
Funny. I didn’t expect her to agree with me so readily. I get the feeling Ashley White doesn’t always come around so quickly. Perhaps she’s truly serious about learning here at Steel Vineyards.
In which case, I have a job to do. To educate her.
Apparently her doctor of wine professors haven’t done an adequate job. Fucking ridiculous. Fine. I’ll do what Uncle Ryan asks. I’ll teach her everything we do here at Steel Vineyards. The only problem?
I’ll have to continually fight my attraction to her.
Chapter Eleven
Ashley
I’ll never use the word lusty—or hearty or robust—to describe wine again. Dale’s right. It’s a cop-out. I need to get better at wine tasting. I may be almost a doctor of oenology, but I still have a lot to learn.
A lot this man can teach me.
This man, who, according to Diana, only made it through one semester of college.
He’s so interesting. Such a riddle—a riddle I want desperately to solve.
The problem? I’m not used to working hard with men. I’ve been known to sleep with a man only hours after meeting him. I’m never looking for a serious relationship, and neither are most of the men I meet.
I doubt Dale Steel is either, but there’s the issue of my attraction and desire for him. I’m usually able to seduce a guy quickly.
Not so here.
Yeah, it’s going to take some work. Work I’m not used to doing.
I’m pretty sure it’ll be enjoyable, though. Either that or extremely frustrating.
Whatever. Dale is worth it. Already I know that much.
Dale reaches toward one of the grape clusters and pulls off a few pieces of fruit. He hands one to me. “Taste.”
I pop it into my mouth. The tannins from the thick skin settle on my tongue, but as I chew, they give way to the sweet flesh of the grape.
“Interesting,” I say. “No seeds.”
“You got lucky,” he says. “Most of them have one or two.”
“I gather.” I let the pulp linger on my tongue for a few more moments before I swallow.
“What do you think?”
“It’s Syrah, all right. Sweet.”
“Can you tell it’s Syrah just from the flavor?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t.” Am I supposed to be able to? Sommeliers can tell the grape when they taste wines, but not the grapes alone. They usually taste quite similar in fruit form. I wait for Dale to berate me over it, but he doesn’t.
“This is a great crop,” he says. “These vines were planted over seventy-five years ago, if you can believe it. Their roots are strong and deep.”
“How often do you irrigate?”
“Only when necessary. Colorado is mostly a desert climate, so we do need to water, but we prefer to dry farm as much as possible, something my uncle began when he took over. It really makes a difference in the kind of wine we can produce. Less sugar, for one.”
“Doesn’t that reduce the alcohol content?”
“It does, but great wine isn’t about the alcohol. It’s about the nose and the palate. Plus, drink enough of any wine, and you’ll get drunk, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Some of those old-vine Zins out of California are so high in alcohol. Our wines are naturally lower in alcohol. We’ve been a hundred percent biod
ynamic for the last ten years. We care for the soil, and the soil cares for us.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Since we’re a small operation with some big-name wines, we can afford to be.”
“What about outsourcing grapes?”
“We won’t have to this year because the crop is so perfect. But in the past, we only source fruit grown on certified biodynamic farms.”
I reach toward a vine and cup a cluster of grapes in my palm. Nicely dense. I inhale. The fragrance is subtle but sweet. He’s right. This is a perfect crop.
“How did this crop turn out so well?” I ask.
“A lot of variables came together. The weather, for example. We’re just coming out of a drought, so we had a little more precipitation than usual. We didn’t have to do any artificial irrigation. The roots dug deep to find their water, and it’s paid off in spades. We also added some organic micronutrients to the soil after harvest last year that we were experimenting with. The results speak for themselves.”
I nod.
“And of course, there’s no substitute for caring for the vines. They need love just like any other living thing.”
Dale loves these vines. His green eyes sparkle in the moonlight, and he looks upon this vineyard with more emotion than I saw from him all day.
Man, if he could only look at me like that.
“When did you become interested in the business?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond. Why? I’m not getting personal. This is business.
“It happened little by little,” he finally says. “I was a loner as a kid, and one day Uncle Ryan asked me to come to work with him. I wanted to say no, but I knew I’d disappoint my dad if I did, so I went.” He draws in a breath, closes his eyes, and then exhales, opening them once again. “Best thing I ever did.”
“I can see that.”
“I never thought of myself as particularly creative, but Aunt Mel—”
“Aunt Mel?”
“Yeah. She’s married to my dad’s other brother, Jonah.”
“Right. They have two boys, if I remember.”
He nods. “Bradley and Brock. Anyway, right after I first came to the ranch, I was having trouble picturing my mom’s face. Not Jade, my natural mom. Donny and I didn’t have any photos of her. So Aunt Mel told me to draw her.”