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Cue exploding brain as I try to restrain myself from telling her all the ways I’d love to boss her around. Swallowing hard, I manage a nod.
“You strike me as someone who could use a little bossing.” Now I’m adding sexual harassment to a job description I know nothing about.
Her eyes widen and flash at my comment, and I prepare myself for the feminist schooling that I absolutely deserve. And yet, I’d bait her over and over again just to watch what it does to her eyes.
She surprises me by laughing. Her head tips back, and she closes her eyes, which is sad because they’re so damn pretty, but the look of pure joy on her face is a nice substitute, even if I have no idea why she’s laughing. Or if she’s doing it at my expense.
Opening her eyes, she fixes me with a new stare, but she looks more relaxed than she did a moment ago. Then she shakes her head. “That makes no sense.”
At first, I think she means my innuendo, but she waves a hand and explains, the other hand reaching for her car door. “You do not want me to work for you.”
“Why not?” I mean, she’s right. I don’t need anyone new working for me—in fact, complications of any sort will only slow down the hellish process of trying to get our business on track. I should send her along in her ladybug car and take a second cup of coffee to my office, where I belong, but I’m drawn to her.
“Whynot?” She looks incredulous, eyes opening even wider before they scan the landscape around us. Almost like she can’t help looking. And that’s something I do understand.
That one small unintentional movement makes me like her even more. It’s what makes me think, yet again, that she should work for us in some capacity.
People like her, who understand on a gut level what makes this place special, are the kind we need. We’re not going to survive on wan smiles and so-so chardonnay. We need a passion that bleeds through every gesture, every conversation, every wine tour, and at home, where people drink our wine. If passion is going to intrude on a person’s home life, it had better be worth every rude penny.
But I can’t tell her I’m reading all of that into her glance. Even if I know in my bones that I’m right.
“Yes. You said you’re here for a job interview, and now you’re disqualifying yourself from working here?”
She huffs a laugh. “I was disqualifying myself from working foryou.”
I’m not even offended. Just curious. “Why?”
“I don’t want a pity job because you feel bad that I’m too dumb to know that six o’clock means evening.”
“I don’t think you’re dumb. I appreciate your go-get-'em attitude. It was a compliment. What job are you interviewing for, anyway?”
“Tasting room assistant.” She mutters her answer like it doesn’t matter, slides into the car, and drops her left foot onto the clutch. I shouldn’t be so turned on that she knows how to drive a stick shift, but I fucking am.
I step into her space for reasons I don’t exactly understand and make it impossible to shut the car door, gripping the lightweight frame. “I don’t hand out pity jobs.”
I don’t hand out jobs, period. I’m not in charge of what my younger brother calls the “human capital” of the business for a very good reason. According to him and an array of others, “I make peoplenotwant to work for us.”
Aside from that bullshit assessment, I know I should send her along and have her return at six in the evening, and yet…I don’t want my younger brother anywhere near her. I’d be hard-pressed to come up with an attractive woman who hasn’t fallen for his tattoos, messy hair, and bedroom eyes—but in this case, an irrational part of me wants to keep this woman for myself.
And I have no idea what job she’s applying for or what she’s even qualified to do. “What are your job qualifications?”
“You can’t be serious.” For emphasis, she turns the key in the ignition, and the car sputters to life. I feel the hum of the motor under my hand, which still grips the doorframe.
“Ruby, turn off the motor and come have a cup of coffee with me.”
I’m done messing around with a cat-and-mouse game I don’t understand. I hold out my hand. “What?” she asks.
“Hand me your keys.”
“I’m not giving you my car keys.”
“So. Fucking. Difficult,” I mutter, and it earns me a smile. With an overly strong motion, she turns off the motor and drops her keys into my hand.
I notice a crystal-studded Eiffel Tower hanging from the keychain and tuck that bit of information away. She likes Paris? She’s been to Paris? Someone she knows brought her a keychain? This isn’t her car or set of keys?
I’m grasping at anything to know more about her, and I can’t fathom why it matters to me.
After shoving the keys into my pocket, I present her again with my hand. At first, she looks confused, but then she gingerly puts her hand in mine, and I help her out of the car. She gives the door a swift bump with her backside, and it slams shut. This woman…
