"With help. Some of the locals know their way around construction better than I do. But I did most of the finish work." He glanced at her sideways. "Is that surprising?"
"I don't know." She considered it. "I guess I expected a winemaker to spend more time with grapes than with power tools."
"Wine requires patience. Building requires patience. I find I'm fairly good at both."
Patience. With wine. With building. With her?
The path curved, and suddenly the trees opened up to reveal the cabin. She stopped walking.
It wasn't what she'd expected. She'd pictured something rustic, rough-hewn logs or a basic A-frame structure practical for a bachelor who spent most of his time in the vineyard. Instead, she found herself staring at a careful marriage of old and new. Original stone walls blended seamlessly into expanses of glass and weathered wood, a broad porch wrapped around two sides, and there were plants everywhere.
Window boxes overflowing with trailing greenery. Climbing vines framing the entrance. A small garden off to one side where she could see tomato plants heavy with fruit. The wholestructure seemed to grow from the landscape rather than sit upon it.
"You made this," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I had help."
"But you… it's…" She shook her head, searching for the right words. "It's beautiful."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened.
"Thank you."
He led her up the porch steps and through the front door, and the blessed relief of cool air hit her flushed skin. True to his word, a ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead, stirring the air in the open-plan living space. The interior matched the exterior—a careful mix of new and old, natural materials, comfortable furniture, and plenty of books on built-in shelves. Everything looked lived-in but cared for.
*This is his home,* she thought. *A real home. Not a way station between disasters.*
"Make yourself comfortable." He was already moving toward a door on the far side of the room. "I'll be quick. There's water in the kitchen, or wine if you want something stronger."
"Water's fine."
"Festival plans on the table there." He pointed to a sturdy wooden dining table already scattered with papers and maps. "I've been doing some preliminary sketches of my own. Figured we could compare notes."
And then he was gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, and she was left alone in his home.
She stood very still for a moment, listening to the sound of water starting to run.
*He's showering. Right now. Right there.* She squeezed her eyes shut. *Don't think about it. Don't?—*
But her traitorous brain had already conjured the image of water sluicing over broad shoulders, down that chest she'd seen in the vineyard, along the lines of muscle that had been so distractingly on display…
*Stop it.*
She crossed to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator with more force than necessary and grabbing a bottle of water. The cold helped. She pressed the bottle against her forehead, then her neck, letting it ground her in the present moment.
*You're here for the festival. The paperwork. Nothing else.*
She returned to the table and spread out the vendor applications she'd brought. Focusing on logistics was infinitely safer than standing in the middle of his living room having inappropriate thoughts about his shower habits. The stack was thick with applications, everything from local artisans to traveling food vendors to a band that specialized in "monster music," whatever that meant. She began sorting them into categories, trying to focus on logistics and budget constraints instead of the sound of water running not twenty feet away.
*Fifteen food vendors. Eight craft vendors. Three entertainment options. We'll need to figure out the layout for?—*
The familiar rhythm of sorting and categorizing settled her nerves. This was what she was good at. This was what she couldcontrol. She was so focused on the work that she almost missed the sound of a door opening.
Almost.
"Sorry about that." His voice came from behind her, and she made the critical mistake of turning around.
He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, because of course the bathroom connected to the bedroom, rubbing a towel over his head with one hand, entirely casual about the fact that he was still shirtless. His hair was damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the ends where it brushed his jaw. Water droplets still clung to the planes of his chest, catching the light that filtered through the windows.
