She pops her lower lip into her mouth and nibbles.
I drop my arms and lean in. “Stop it, doll. You know what it does to me when you—”
She looks at me from under her lashes, those big brown eyes so innocent…well, innocent looking.
That girl is a schemer, and she plays me like a violin.
“I know it’s a little silly, but I’ll be right there with you. The Lucy to your Ethel,” she says, and she gives me this sweet smile.
Damnit. I’m not made of stone.
I grab the faded work shirt she hands me and growl, “I’d be Lucy, obviously.”
“But I’m the redhead,” she counters. I watch her dart her eyes away as I strip my shirt off and shrug into the old one. And I definitely notice the way she blushes.
I’m seriously looking forward to this date tonight. Jordan Caletti and I need some one-on-one time to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with here.
“But I’m the sexy one.” I earn a smile from her and pat myself on the back. For a split second. Then I try to wiggle out of this mess one last time. “Why don’t I lead a tour of the operations room? Really interesting stuff.” I finish buttoning up the shirt.
“Mmm. And we’ll have to brew some espresso to keep everyone awake. Florence told us we need to think outside the barrel…” She pauses, waiting for me to react.
“Stop with your puns. The fact that you’re cute as hell has been established. It’s nice, no doubt, but it doesn’t excuse this mess.” I gesture to the enormous wooden barrel that’s been cut short and filled with grapes.
“‘This mess,’ as you call it, has our Saturday morning crowd up by…” She takes out her iPhone and checks some app Florence installed for her. That woman is simultaneously streamlining and ruining my life at Golden Leaf. “Twenty-eight percent from last weekend and forty-two percent compared to this time last year! C’mon, it’s amazing right? Admit it. It’s incredible!”
Okay. I’m ridiculously weak in the face of her enthusiasm.
“Fine,” I sigh. She beams. Gotta admit, it’s a crazy beautiful smile, but I don’t want her to know just how much control she has over me. It’s actually a little scary. “This is so unsanitary,” I mutter, unlacing my boots, peeling off my socks, and rolling up my worn jeans.
A peppy young college student who helps at the tasting counter is yelling indecipherable directions into a megaphone and leading groups of people up the hill, where more barrels are set out.
“Okay, all we have to do is stomp the grapes in our barrel and look super happy doing it, so all the other guests will want to join in the fun,” Jordan explains. This time when she chews her lip, it definitely isn’t to attempt to seduce/charm me.
“Worried?” I ask.
“I’m just not all that coordinated. I’m a little afraid to fall on my face. The heir to Golden Leaf breaking her ass stomping grapes would definitely make a really embarrassing viral video.” Her eyes go wide, and it’s almost like I can see her overthinking this and psyching herself out.
“Hey, look at me.” She looks, and the trusting expression on her face loosens something in my chest. I want to protect her, to help her. I want to be that guy she can depend on, no matter what. “Hold on to me. I learned to surf before I learned to walk. Surfing is all about balance, so I have this pretty much covered. I swear, I won’t let you fall.”
She smiles, slowly, and nods. “I trust you.” She takes off the light sweater she had on, and reveals a tight, floral cotton dress, faded to the point where I can see through the fabric and low cut enough that her cleavage is spilling out.
“You’re sure you want to wear that?” I ask gruffly, glaring over her shoulder at the hyenas who’ve already come closer to lick their chops.
“It’s my grandmother’s old grape stomping dress. They actually made their wine this way. She thought the grapes were too delicate for the machinery. She may have had a point, because the wine from her family’s vineyard in Italy was the best I’ve ever tasted.” She has this dreamy expression on her face that makes her look even more freaking gorgeous. “Why? Did you think it was too dressy? I don’t mind if it gets more stains.”
“It’s not stains I’m worried about. I just can see—” I gesture to her, suddenly irritated with myself for even bringing this up. “Everyone can see— Damnit, Jordan, you know what I’m talking about!”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Everyone can see my boobs?” She glances down at her cleavage.
“That, and the dress…it’s very…it’s see-through,” I bite out as we step into the small tubs of soapy water and wash off our feet.
She’s bent over at the waist, a long curtain of red-gold hair draped over her arms, one hand holding the hem of her dress as she rubs the soapy water up her calves slowly. It takes a hell of a lot of mental focus to keep my body from reacting strongly to hers.
Jordan catches me staring and cocks one eyebrow. “Mmm. So you’re worried about everyone else, Enzo?”
“I’m just saying—” But I don’t say anything. I know what she was getting at, and, much as it pains me to admit, she’s right. I’m acting like a jealous ass. I rinse my feet in the clean water bucket, and hold her arm so she doesn’t slip when she goes to rinse. “Never mind. I kept it together when I sat with you wearing that tiny little nightgown and those boots last night.”
“Right,” she snorts. “Because that was such a sexy outfit, I’m sure you had to try so hard to resist the temptation to jump all over me.”
I look at her until the laugh dies out on her lips and those big brown eyes search my face. “You should know by now, it doesn’t matter what you wear, doll. I just suck at keeping my eyes off of you. I can’t apologize for that.”
The girl with the megaphone chooses this exact moment to ruin the romance by marching over and yelling that we’re about to begin the grape stomp. Jordan and I take each other’s hands and step into the barrel. Somewhere behind the scenes and away from all this nonsense, lucky Jack flips on the sound system and Dean and Frank start singing about Napoli, boys and girls, the moon…
Amore.
It’s just a song. I’d say a cheesy song, based on the lyrics, but Frank and Dean are kings, and I won’t go disrespecting them. Plus that, it’s not all wrong.
The world is shining. I am drooling. And it’s definitely because I’m standing so close to Jordan while she wears that old-fashioned dress that makes her look like she’s from another time. A more romantic time, when things were simpler.
Is it amore?
I don’t know.
That feels like the biggest, most complicated question of all, but is it, really? I think about what Maren said last night about not complicating things and giving ourselves permission to be happy. Is love really so complicated or do we drag all our own baggage into every new chance, every beautiful possibility?
Jordan and I probably would have been married already if we lived in our grandparents’ time. Maybe we’d have a kids on the way. The way my grandparents tell it, back then people met and liked each other. A few dates, the blessing of your family, and it was a done deal. You started a life together, and you vowed to devote yourself to that one person through good times and bad, sickness and health, till death do you part.
I’m sure it wasn’t always that easy, but, today, standing across from this beautiful, sweet, smart, sexy girl who cares about me and who I can’t stop thinking about, the one thought that keeps running through my brain is, “What’s the holdup?”
With my last girlfriend every single thing that could go wrong did, and I fought like mad for her. Literal blood, sweat, and tears for a relationship that was doomed from the start.
Now I’m standing across from someone who makes sense in all the ways that matter, and I’m holding things up…why? Nitpicking details? Cowardice because my heart got broken once before? Did I really think I’d be able to go through life without some serious heartache?
When did I start giving up because shit got har
d?
Maybe it’s time I stop stalling and start paying serious attention to the perfect girl right in front of my eyes. But am I brave enough to do that?
“Are you ready?” Her voice is soft, her smile softer.
The answer comes without any hesitation.
“Yes. I am.”
I’m not sure if I’m answering her question or mine, but I don’t have a ton of time to think it through before she stomps down on the grapes and winces.
“They’re freezing,” she gasps.
“C’mon, Caletti. You’re made of tougher stuff than that.”
There’s that eyebrow again. “It’s on, Rodriguez.”
She steps higher and faster, sliding a little as the grapes burst and the juices make things slippery, so she has to throw her arms out to keep balanced. I look her dead in the eye and start stomping, twice as fast and hard. The grapes explode under our feet and send sprays of purple juice all over our clothes and skin until the air is heavy and sticky with the misted juice. While we work up a sweat, the crowd is going nuts, cheering, chanting, screaming along to the chorus of the song. All the excitement adds to our competitive drive.
Jordan attempts to keep pace with me, but it’s not easy. She’s naturally tall and willowy; not the best body type for balance and strength. I never noticed before today, but she also has very small, delicate feet. They’re beautiful, but she’s going to have a much a harder time stomping than someone with wide, calloused feet. Like me.
Oh, she’s so going down.
Her eyes narrow. She starts stomping with more intensity, pumping her legs up and down like a maniac. “How’s this for—”
She never finishes her question because her feet suddenly fly out from under her. I make a valiant effort to catch her, but the grapes are slipperier than I expected and she’s falling hard. The best I can do it cushion her as we both go down in the barrel. Her arms are knotted around my neck, and she’s sitting on my lap.
“You could’ve just asked if you wanted me so bad, Caletti. Didn’t have to throw yourself at me like that.” I try to help us both up, but it’s impossible to find my footing on the slippery grape skins.
“Trust me, this was not a plan.” She grips onto my shoulders and tries to stand, but she just manages to knock us both flat on our backs.
Her hair looks like she got a bad punkrock dye job. There’s a droplet on the tip of her nose and more glistening off all of her lashes, like she got caught in a purple downpour. When she scrambles up, I can’t help but notice how the wet fabric of her dress clings to every curve. If it was see through before, it’s transparent now.
“If anyone recorded this, we may go viral, you know,” I warn her.
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Somehow being humiliated with you at my side isn’t so bad.”
“Glad I can be the company to your misery.” I manage to push myself to the side of the barrel, hold on, and stand. I give her my hand, help her out, then follow, shocked at how enthusiastically everyone is cheering and stripping off their socks and shoes.
“Come one, come all! Stomp away! And don’t forget to sign up for a bottle of the Golden Leaf Grape Stomp Vintage, a great way to enjoy the wine you had a blast creating!” The college girl is jumping up and down like she might break into a full cheerleading routine.
I raise my eyebrows at Jordan, shocked when she wrings her dress out and clears her throat sheepishly. Her actions confirm my worst fears.
“You’re using these feet grapes to make real wine? Actual Golden Leaf wine?” I can’t wrap my head around it.
“Yes,” she says calmly. “I know you and my mother think it’s disgusting, but this is harkening back to traditional winemaking methods. Plus, our filtration system is top notch, so it will be perfectly sterile. And, if you still have doubts, just look.” She hasn’t even wrung the grape juice out of her hair, but she already grabbed her tablet from the kiosk where she left it. “The orders are rolling in faster than the system can handle them.”
“So people like to drink wine flavored by their own feet?” I wince. “Unbelievable.”
She sighs and tucks the tablet back into its spot. “You know, you’re the one who’s always going on and on about how we have to be more laid back about how we make and consume this stuff. What people are paying for is exactly what you value most; being part of the process of making something amazing.”
“I guess I see your point. Please make sure the labels are super clear, though. I don’t think I’ll be drinking any of that swill.” I watch as she squeezes the purple juice out of her hair.
“I promise, you’ll never have to drink a single drop.” She shrugs. “I might, though.”
“Really?” I start to walk back to the house with her so we can change out of our grape flavored clothes.
“Well, this will be the wine we made together on the day of our first date,” she says slowly.
“Ah.” I feel a little nervous about that. It’s strange to think that this day will be immortalized, at least for a while, in something as tangible a bottle of wine. “So you’ll crack it open to celebrate?”
She frowns. “If this date goes well, you might change your mind about wanting to drink it. Maybe when the batch is ready, maybe we’ll be sharing a bottle. Or… “ She shrugs again.
We come to the path that leads to her house. I have to travel down a different path to my apartment. But we’re not done here.
“Or?” I prod.
When she looks at me, it’s with squared shoulders and this gleam in her eyes that’s all challenge. “Or I drink it alone, and think about how today didn’t wind up going the way I thought it might. Maybe I’ll be a little bummed out, but when the bottle is empty, I’ll just promise myself to put it all behind me. And find a guy who can rock my world.”
She walks back to her house without another word for me, her hair dripping grape juice, her lacy panties showing through her soaked dress as I admire the curve of her ass, and I find myself bound and determined it’ll be me drinking that foot wine with her.
I’m gonna be the guy who can rock her world.
I change and head back to the tasting room. There’s a stomach-bug wreaking havoc on our schedule—probably not helped by the fact that the college kids Golden Leaf hires are prone to getting romantically inclined with each other on a pretty dizzying rotation. Too many fluids back and forth, and one stomach bug takes out an entire staff.
Luckily, most of the crowd who came here today is happily diverted by Jordan’s brilliant grape stomping scheme, so the tasting room is pretty sparsely inhabited. A clean-cut guy in a suit makes his way over to me. He looks out of place for a weekend wine dip in Napa, but everyone’s got a story. I figure he’s probably a business guy in town for the weekend. We get plenty of weekend entertainers looking to expand their wine cellars to complement their social lives.
“Can I help you, sir?” I ask, trying to size him up based on looks alone. He’s an older dude, but he takes care of himself. Neat, well-dressed, nothing showy, but his suit is definitely finely tailored and he’s wearing an antique wristwatch. He’s friendly and not remotely condescending when he introduces himself.
“I’d love to chat with you if you have a few minutes. The name’s Angelino, Bill Angelino.” He inclines his head my way, like he’s waiting to see if that rings any bells.
“I’m Enzo Rodriguez. Nice to meet you, Mr. Angelino.” I whip out a few glasses and start to put together what I think he might like.
“Call me Bill. Show me what you’ve got, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Call me Enzo. Get ready for the best wine you’ve ever tasted.”
I’m on fire, spinning out bottles, pouring mouthfuls of the best we have into the glasses, swirling, and offering them to him for a taste. He seems to have no particular preference, and there’s nothing he doesn’t want to try. Red, white, sharp, sweet, paired with chocolate and cheese, he’s cool with everything and anything. Usually I’d tone down and try to offer what I thin
k the customer would actually like and want to buy, but this guy requested the full package, and I feel like he’s noticing every little detail, drinking it all in, literally and figuratively.
I watch his face every time he samples, and the pleasure is genuine. I sincerely hope he’s going to become a Golden Leaf convert.
“Color me impressed, Enzo.” He folds his arms and leans back after he finishes the last sample, examining me. “You don’t talk about wine like any wine guy I’ve ever met.”
“Sorry about that.” I shake my head. “If you wanna know the truth, I spent most of my life drinking Negra Modelos on the beach with my brothers after surfing all day. I’m not sure I could have told you the difference between a Riesling and a Pinot a few weeks ago. I’ve had a pretty intense crash course, but I’m not remotely the best advocate of the wines here. Actually if you can wait a few, I know someone who can do a way better job explaining—”
“Whoa.” He laughs and holds his hands up, palms out. “Enzo, slow down. You did a better job than any wine guy I’ve ever talked to.”
“A better job?” I repeat, wiping my hands on my apron as I pick up glasses and re-cork bottles. “It pains me to say this, but I think you need to visit more vineyards, Bill.” I laugh, but Bill Angelino is nodding like he can’t hear a word I’m saying.
“The kind of passion you have, your charm, and your knowledge, it’s all very impressive, especially given the fact that you were a fan of Mexican beer just a few months ago.” He pulls a face, and I have to bring out the Rodriguez glare.
“Oh, I like wine. I’m getting to like it more every day. But I’ll still take a bottle of Negra Modelos over a Moscato any day.” I whip the bottles back onto the shelf, and, yeah, maybe I’m showing off just a little bit.
“That’s not a very high compliment you’re paying the beer, Enzo,” he says with a chuckle. “Listen, I’m sure you’re aware that competitions across vineyards has been pretty fierce. What with every celebrity and nouveau riche idiot who can afford expensive wine thinking they’ve got what it takes to make it, Napa is a good deal more crowded than it was even five years ago.”
Almost Lover Page 14