"The band sets up there," he said, following her gaze. "For summer concerts, wine releases, that sort of thing. We can expand it for the festival, add lighting, whatever you need."
She pulled out her notebook and began sketching a rough layout. "How many people can the lawn accommodate?"
"Comfortably? About five hundred."
"The vendors—where would they set up?"
"Along the north edge, usually." He pointed. "We run temporary power lines from the main building. There's water access near the winery, and we can bring in portable facilities."
She nodded, still sketching. "Parking?"
"The main lot holds two hundred cars. Overflow goes into the lower field."
*He's thought this through*,she realized reluctantly.*He actually knows what he's doing.*
It was annoying. She'd been half-hoping to find obvious problems, logistical nightmares that would justify her reluctance to be here. Instead, she was looking at a venue that was genuinely, frustratingly ideal.
"This will work," she admitted, still not looking at him. "The layout is good. Better than good, actually."
"Praise from the florist." His voice was warm with amusement. "I'm honored."
"Don't be. It's just an observation."
"Everything with you is*just*something." He moved closer, and she felt the warmth of him even though they weren't touching. "Just an observation. Just business. Just?—"
"Can we see the tasting room?"
He paused, and she could feel him watching her. Assessing. Deciding something.
"This way," he said finally, and led her toward the main building.
The tasting room stole her breath.
She hadn't been expecting it. The exterior of the building was attractive enough—local stone, clean lines, a broad porch with rocking chairs overlooking the vineyard—but the interior was something else entirely.
Exposed beam ceiling soaring overhead, dark wood against whitewashed stone. Wide windows letting in floods of golden afternoon light. A bar that seemed to go on forever, made of reclaimed oak so old and polished it glowed like amber. Behind it, a wall of wine bottles arranged in precise rows, their labels creating an abstract mosaic of color.
And everywhere, subtle touches that spoke of care. Fresh flowers on each table—not her arrangements, but lovely nonetheless. Soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers. The faint, intoxicating scent of aged wood and good wine.
"You designed this," she heard herself say.
Thallos had moved behind the bar, his hooves clicking softly on the flagstone floor. He looked up, surprised.
"What makes you say that?"
"The attention to detail. The way everything fits." She gestured vaguely at the space around her. "It's intentional. All of it."
Something shifted in his expression—pleasure, maybe, or something deeper.
"My mother designed it," he said quietly. "I just finished building it."
Before she could respond to that, he was pulling glasses from a rack overhead and setting them on the bar.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward one of the high stools. "You can't properly assess our wine options without tasting them."
"I don't think that's necessary?—"
"It's absolutely necessary." He uncorked a bottle with a single smooth motion, the sound oddly intimate in the quiet room."You're the co-chair of a festival being held at a vineyard. You need to know what we're offering. Quality control."
