“I don’t, but I don’t have a choice. This one is messing with my vision.” He climbs into the truck and moans as he places his head on the dashboard.
Running around to the driver’s side, I climb in, adjust the seat, and start the truck.
“Do you have any medicine you can take?” I’m anxious and worried to the point that I’m tempted to dig through the center console and the glove box for anything that might help him.
“It’s on my desk in my office.” He groans again as his eyes shut and squeeze tight.
“Should we stop and buy something?”
“No. Won’t help, unfortunately.”
“All right, hang tight. We’ll be home before you know it.” I shift into reverse and back out of the spot.
Home.
Somehow, over the last couple of days, the winery has begun to feel a little bit more like a home and less like a vacation spot. While I still don’t understand his mood swings or why he initially disliked me so much, I keep reminding myself that if he’s friends with Lexi, there must be something about him.
The truck goes over an uneven bump in the road, and he moans next me as I turn the corner.
I’ve had migraines here and there over the years, but none of them have been as debilitating as this. It’s as if it’s morphed him into someone else. That spark and fire he constantly breathes out onto everyone is gone.
A few minutes later, I hop on the interstate, and we’re on our way. Without thinking, I reach over so I can thread my fingers through his hair and begin to rub his scalp. He lets out a sigh at the sensation, and I don’t even think he realizes he did it. A few minutes later, he slumps my way over the center console, tucks his arms under him, and hangs his head toward my lap. As much as my opinion of him has wavered over the last couple of days, my heart aches at the apparent pain he’s in. Keeping the radio down, I press on and hope not to get pulled over.
We’re an hour into the drive before I reach down by my feet and dig my hand in my purse to find my cell phone. I know he isn’t sleeping, he’s moaned a few times keeping his eyes shut, and it crosses my mind that maybe I should take him to the hospital or an urgent care or something. Very carefully, I shoot Michelle a text.
Me: Hey, Zach has a really bad headache, what do I do?
Michelle: Where are you?
Her text comes in almost immediately.
Me: A little over an hour north, just turned onto sixty-four at Sylvia. We’re on our way back from Asheville.
Michelle: Did he take anything for it?
Me: No. He says it’s on his desk.
Michelle: Oh, no. Okay, just get back safe and Kyle will get him when you get here.
Me: Does this happen a lot?
Michelle: Yes. See you soon.
Fried Green Tomatoes
No one likes to show their weak side . . . and that’s exactly what happened. She already knows how I feel about weakness, and now she knows mine. Fucking migraine hit, and I folded into her like a deck of cards. I didn’t even think twice about it.
Most people don’t know about the migraines. It isn’t something that I talk about publicly, but after yesterday, there’ll be no way to evade her questions. Not that I blame her. She was scared shitless, I saw it all over her face, but she held it together and took care of me. Thank God I wasn’t out by myself somewhere. I never would have made it home. Even today, I’ve spent most of it flat on my back. Kyle checked in a few times, but when these episodes happen, nurse Michelle takes over.
The thing about being laid up and bored is that it allows for a lot of time to think and reflect. Both of which I did today.
I’ve replayed what I saw and the conversation I heard at the Feeding America event over and over in my head. I know I didn’t get it wrong, she said, “If he had known I was a critic, I would have gotten better food. How he stays in business, I will never know.”
How bad could the food have possibly been?
But then I hear her talking about how she loves to find new places and looks for the magic in each one, and I don’t understand. Yesterday, she said it wasn’t always about the food, that it was about the total experience. Something doesn’t add up, and the more I try to figure it out and remind myself that in the end she’s still a critic, the more unsettled I feel.
Just thinking that I might have pegged her all wrong causes uneasiness to creep its way in. The way I’ve talked to her, the way I’ve made her feel, even the plan we derived to win her over . . .
I find myself questioning everything.
And then to make it worse, I keep hearing the excitement in Lexi’s voice when she talked about introducing us. She’s Lexi’s friend, and Lexi is a very good judge of character. Then again, someone being a critic isn’t a character flaw to her, but it is to me, that and she’s a workaholic. Not that what Shelby thinks of me as a person really matters. She’s been here for almost a week and only has one to go. Who knows if or when I’ll ever see her again. Not that I intend to. I only need her to write a glowing article, and a stellar blog post. A blog that she does for fun, because one job isn’t enough for her, she needs to give up all her time.
Shaking my head, I pull myself out of bed, take a quick shower, grab some stuff, and lock my door behind me. I remind myself to stick to the plan and head down to the cottage to spend the evening with Shelby and keep things low-key.
When I reach the cottage, I let myself in. I know it’s probably rude, but technically, it’s my house, and other than me, who is coming down here to see her? Still, I make it a point to close the door loudly and make noise as I walk inside.
“Hey,” she calls out from the kitchen when she sees me. “How are you feeling?” She wipes her hands across an apron tied around her waist and smiles at me. Her eyes are bright but filled with concern, and my heart thuds against my chest unexpectedly. Her and that damn smile. I hate that I have this involuntary reaction to her.
“Better. I’m really sorry about yesterday. I’m sure having to take care of me wasn’t on your list of things to do. I appreciate it, so thank you.” I place the bag I brought down on the island and sit on a stool across from her.
There’s a sincerity in her expression as she studies my face. I know she’s looking for lingering traces of the migraine, and it makes me feel exposed and cared for at the same time.
“Michelle says it happens a lot.” She moves to the cabinet, grabs a glass, and fills it with water before setting it in front of me. Her thoughtfulness in gestures like this doesn’t go unnoticed, and again I’m reminded that it’s reasons like this she’s friends with Lexi.
Taking a swallow, I soak in her appearance. She’s got her hair all tied up and messy on top of her head, her face is makeup free, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that reads: Will write for food.
Shit.
Her adorability factor is rising, and I really need to stop noticing these things.
“More like comes and goes, but lately it feels like a lot,” I tell her honestly.
She frowns. It’s the same frown she wore yesterday when I walked away from her.
Kyle was at the side door of the manor waiting for us as she tore down the driveway. He handed me a pill before I even got out of the truck, which I swallowed dry before I started the mental countdown I knew it took for the medicine to kick in. Kyle slung an arm around my shoulder and helped me up the steps to the west wing. I heard Shelby ask if she could do anything to help, but Michelle told her no and that she and Kyle would take it from there. For a split second, I wanted to argue with her and tell her it was fine, but the energy required to talk was more than I had in me, and it was taking every bit of power I had not to lose my lunch all over the ground. Collapsing in my bed, I missed the smell of honey and her fingers in my hair. No one has ever rubbed my head like that, and I wanted more.
Looking around the kitchen, I chuckle at the mess she’s made. “Wow, you’ve cooked a lot today.” There are large platters of food that look as if they could feed a dozen peopl
e lined along the top of the island. “And you made the biscuits.” My mouth starts watering.
She grins and wipes the counter down in front of her. “I told you I would, and I did make a lot. I needed to make sure I had the correct measurements. A few of them I made more than once to see which version I liked better.”
Next to me there are three bowls of macaroni-and-cheese. “What are you going to do with all this food?”
“I thought I would take it to Michelle to see if she wants to put it out at the bar to let the tasters try. Is that all right with you?” Her eyes widen as she waits for the answer, and again I find myself in a situation where I can’t tell her no. Not that I would, this food looks amazing.
“I think it’s a great idea, and I’ll help you here in a bit, but first, I brought the reds down. I thought we could taste them here. It’s quieter and there’s no audience.”
“Don’t we need to call the photographer?” She pulls the strings of the apron and it slips off her waist, leaving her in a pair of gray leggings that show off their shape and hug her perfectly.
“Nah, he can meet us another time and get a picture of us drinking the reds then.”
“Should you be drinking these after that headache?” Her face is full of concern.
“I’ll be fine. We really aren’t drinking much, just tasting, and interestingly I haven’t found the wines to be much of a trigger.”
She looks at me hesitantly, shrugs her shoulders and then smiles. “Okay, well let’s see what you brought.”
Opening the bag, I pull out our four bottles of red wine, four tasting glasses, and a wine key.
“Will you grab us another glass of water. Palate cleanse between each one.”
“Sure.” Shelby turns around, giving me an awesome view of her ass, and grabs the extra glass.
“When most people come in to do the wine tasting, it’s just that—a tasting. They sip the wines, laugh with their friends, and then move on. But to truly taste a wine, it takes a little more than that and has to involve the other senses.”
After opening my wine key, I grab each bottle in turn, keeping the labels faced toward me, and open them with practiced precision. After each one, I set the bottle next to me making sure to keep the label away from Shelby.
“Meg and I have gone to tastings before, and I freely admit to falling into the in-and-out category like the masses.” She’s watching my hands as I move between the bottles, and I hate to admit it, but I like it.
“And that’s quite all right with us. The majority of people who come in are no different, but to those who’ve made wine tasting a hobby, it’s more involved than that.”
“So teach me, oh great one.” She folds her arms in front of her on the island and leans toward me.
A smile splits across my face, and I shake my head at her. She smiles back, and the air in my lungs freezes. Damn, she’s beautiful.
I pour each wine into a glass and set the four glasses next to its respective bottle.
“First is sight and then smell. They say you eat with your eyes first, right? Well, drinking wine is no different. A lot of the time, people make an immediate assumption based on the color or clarity. If it’s light it must be weak, watered down, or flat, but if it’s dark and thick, it’s sweet like grape juice, et cetera. But don’t let the way something looks fool you.”
“Like don’t judge a book by its cover?” She grins at me.
“Something like that.” I push the first glass in front of her and continue, “But I’ll admit, I do. I’m guilty of keeping or passing on a book based on its cover.”
“Tsk-tsk, Mr. Wolff. You should take your own advice.” My eyes find hers and there’s a playfulness in them. Is she usually like this? Until yesterday, she’s been guarded and all business. The first time I saw this side of her was when she spun in a circle and forced me to eat honey. The slips in her armor seem to be coming more frequently, and I find myself becoming more confused and intrigued by what I see—a woman who doesn’t fit the image of a dream killer like I’ve created in my mind.
“Maybe. Here, take a good look at this and then smell it.” She picks up the glass, swirls the wine, and tentatively brings it to her nose to sniff it.
“What do you think?” I lean into the island to get closer to her.
“I think its color is a deep red, looks almost like blood, and it smells like pepper.” She looks at me for an affirmation.
“Do you smell anything else?” I nod to the glass, and she picks it up again.
“Maybe a little clove and licorice?” she asks questioningly.
“Very good.” I smile at her.
“Okay, now taste it.”
She smells it again before shifting the rim to her lips, lips I’m suddenly fascinated by. With her eyes on me, she takes a sip of the wine. Her nose scrunches and her lips pucker together.
“It’s good, it’s just not for me.” She licks her lips and swallows again before sliding the glass in my direction.
Reaching for the glass, she freely gives it to me, and I taste the wine, too. I like the peppery undertones, always have. So, I take another sip before sliding the glass back to her.
“Taste it again. Just like eating some candy, say Sour Patch Kids. Your mouth needs time to adjust.”
She sips it again and then reaches for the water. “Well, that time it was a little better, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Why?”
“I like dry, bold wines that are more smooth. This one is way too spicy.” She shakes her head and frowns.
“Swirl the glass again.” I slide it back across the island to her. She complies, and as she swirls, I continue, “Do you see the streaks running down the sides? Those are called legs. Loose legs usually indicate the wine is light to medium with a lower alcohol content, and thick legs tell us that it’s a more full-bodied wine with a high alcohol content.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s a great tip.”
“Yeah, if you plan on drinking for a while, it’s a mental reminder to either have at it or take it slow. This wine is a syrah.” I turn the bottle around so she can see the label, pick up the glass, and swallow the rest of the wine in one swallow, enjoying the subtle kick it leaves behind. Delicious.
Reaching for my water, she mimics me, and we both cleanse the palate to start over.
She nods her head in understanding and picks up the next glass. “And let’s do it again, swirl this one a few times and deeply inhale it.”
She swirls, sniffs, and starts laughing. Her eyes are bright and her laugh is infectious. I grin along with her as a spot in my chest warms. Damn, I really like the sound of her laugh. “I know this is part of it, and a lot of people do it, but they look dumb and I feel stupid.”
“I actually agree with you. Some people take the nose sniffing way too seriously, but . . . if wine is your thing, then it’s a must.” I shrug my shoulders, still smiling at her.
“What’s your thing?” she asks, holding the glass out in front of her, twisting her wrist to roll the wine. Some people make the action looked forced, as if they’re trying to be something they’re not, and others it looks so natural. Like it does on her.
Folding my arms in front of me on the counter, I lean into them and closer to her. “Well, for almost thirty years, it was football. Since I’ve settled in here at the winery, it’s making sure it grows and keeping it successful.”
She lifts the glass, sniffs it again, and then tastes it as she regards me.
“Are the headaches why you stopped playing?”
Stopped playing. This makes me frown, and a longing for my former life hits me. I loved playing football. Some play it because they’re good at it and it’s their ticket to a better life, but I played to play. Everyone thinks their sport is the greatest, but to me, nothing compares to football.
“Not really, but they seem to be a residual side effect that I can’t get rid of.” Just thinking about the headaches causes me to tense. A normal headache people pop two aspirin
and it goes away, not me. I’m down for the count.
“I’m sorry,” she says sympathetically.
“Why?” I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. Everyone felt sorry for me, but it is what it is.
“Because. If I had to give up food, that would suck, and I imagine it did for you. Makes me feel bad for you.”
From what I know, her whole world is food. So, hearing her compare something that I love to something she loves makes that ache for the grass, heat and the sweat. Swallowing, I push down the emotion and remind myself how lucky I was to have another life already waiting for me.
“Don’t. I’ve always known I was headed here next. I love this, too.” I nod to her glass, asking, “What do you think of this one?”
“This one’s tasty, takes over your whole mouth.” She takes another sip, hands me the glass, and moves around to my side of the island to sit on the chair next to me. I shift in my seat and twist the bottles so she can’t see the labels.
I taste the wine, and after I swallow, it pulls my cheeks in. I hand her back the glass, and she drinks some more. “Do you feel like you have cotton mouth?”
“I do.”
“Those are the tannins from the skins and seeds of the grapes. Tannins are the backbone of red wines, giving them texture and different levels of complexity.”
She passes the glass back, I pour a little more for us.
“What flavors did you taste?”
She swirls and sips. “This one has the cherry flavors like the wine in the cave, and it tastes earthy.”
“You would be right; this is a cabernet. Very similar to the one in the cave.” I turn the bottle around so she can see it, and her face lights up.
“In general, cabernets have been nicknamed ‘the big boy’ wine—big in flavor, big in body, and big in alcohol content. Cabernets will get you the most bang for your buck.”
“That one was luscious.” She licks her lips.
“Yes, it is.” I finish the glass in one swallow, and her eyes zero in on my mouth. Warmth runs through my chest and stomach. As I set the glass down, she breaks her gaze and looks over at the bottles. Her cheeks turn pink. God, what I wouldn’t give to be in her mind right this second.
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 11