Page 10 of The Sweetness of Life

One day down, thirteen to go!

Peach Pound Cake

NATURAL LIGHT FILLS the sunroom, which is the chosen spot for the interview. It’s my favorite room in the manor, as it gives a sweeping 180-degree view of the winery and hillside. The room isn’t overly large, but my mother made it cozy by filling it with three separate seating sections. Guests are allowed to relax and lounge as long as they want. This morning, two of the sections were removed, and ours is set up in the middle.

When they first suggested this location, I figured why not. I love this room, but when Shelby walks in, I wish I chose the cellar instead. Down there, it’s dark, whereas here the light makes all her little detailed nuances stand out even more.

I hate it.

Today, she has on a little white dress that’s tight through the top, showing off her amazing full chest, and it flares at the waist, stopping right at her knees. She has on pearls, another pair of insanely hot shoes, and her lips are a dark red. At the event last fall and again yesterday, her hair was pulled back, but today, it falls in waves down her back. I’m torn between wanting to drag her around by it and running my fingers through it.

Shelby carries an air about her that screams sophistication and poise. Her back is straight, her feet are crossed at the ankles and off to the side, and her hands are perfectly folded in her lap. With breeding comes training, and knowing she’s fierce in the kitchen, I can see why Lexi is friends with her. They’re cut from the same cloth. They’re both true Southern girls, and that isn’t something you can become. It’s something you’re born into, only this one lacks the heart of gold. Hers is empty, like her soul.

Shelby’s eyes flick to mine and narrow. She’s caught me staring, but she doesn’t back down.

That’s okay, sweetheart, keep it up. Eventually, I will break you.

“All right, let’s get started, shall we?” says Kelly, the reporter conducting our interview. She’s sitting to my left and Shelby is to my right. There’s a small lounge table in the middle of us that holds a pitcher of sweet tea and some blueberry muffins. I love muffins. No, scratch that—I love food.

“Yes, let’s.” Shelby smiles at Kelly, and my traitorous heart thuds in my chest. Holy shit, her face completely transforms when she smiles, making her even more gorgeous, and that’s just wrong on so many levels. I swear this chick reminds me of one of those beautiful but poisonous flowers—so tempting, but one touch and a painful rash covers your body from head to toe. Both of them turn to look at me, and I have to clear my throat.

“Let’s do this.” I grit my teeth.

Kelly smiles at me, glances down at her list of questions, and then nods to the camera guy who will be recording this.

“Thank you for sitting down with me today. I appreciate you both making the time.” She smiles at me again, her gaze now heavy with interest, and she never even glances to Shelby.

It should irritate me that she’s being rude, but it doesn’t. Instead, I find it humorous and typical. All women love to look at me—all women, that is, except the one sitting to my right. Not that I want her to, because I don’t.

“This interview will not be printed with the feature article, but it will accompany it on the network’s All About the South website. All interviews, videos, pictures, both bios, featured wines, et cetera, will be advertised to act as a link to entice our print readers to view us online, and to encourage our online readers to pick up the magazine. Sound good?”

Shelby smiles and I nod.

“Zach, it’s public knowledge that you bought the winery from your father last May. He was legendary in this part of the country for the delicious wines he produced over the years. How does it feel to step into shoes so big?”

I watch as Kelly’s eyes drop over my body and land briefly on my shoes. I know football, I know wine, and I know women. The look may have been subtle, but that’s twice now I’ve caught her, and I know what she’s wondering: big feet, big . . .

This interview started two minutes ago, and that’s all it took. It doesn’t even matter that she’s probably ten years older than I am or that she’s barking up the wrong tree. She’s still the perfect distraction from the she-devil sitting to my right. Besides, there isn’t anything I’d like more than to piss Shelby off, to let her see how nice I can be to everyone but her. In fact, excluding her from this interview would be fine with me. I give Kelly a knowing smirk.

“Feels great, and if you must know”—I lean a little closer to her—“my feet are actually bigger than his, so my shoes are . . . larger.” I nod at the reporter, and a nice shade of pink slides into her cheeks. From next to me, Shelby lets out a single laugh, and I turn to glare at her. “What?”

“That’s what you have to say about the winery and your father? Didn’t they coach you on how speak to the press when you played football? So humble you are about your business and your . . . shoes.” She looks at me as if she’s disgusted and shakes her head.

“You don’t know the first thing about my business.” I sneer at her.

“You’re right, I don’t, and neither do all the readers, but hey, kudos for having big feet.” She turns away from me and looks back to Kelly.

Damn it.

Heat spreads up my neck into my face. She’s right, and I hate it. More importantly, I hate that I’ve let her get under my skin. All it took was her walking into the room for my mind to switch from business mode to conquer-and-defeat mode. She’s throwing me off my game—a game I’m very good at—and I blame her. This assignment is immensely important for us, and that answer was out of character for me. Yeah, I do know women, but there’s a time and a place, and this is neither.

Shit.

When I drag my eyes back to Kelly, the confusion on her face matches those of others in the room. Her eyes bounce back and forth between Shelby and me. The tension between us is palpable, and just like that, the crew from the magazine knows we don’t get along. My heart sinks.

Behind Kelly, Kyle shifts. He looks furious as he mouths, What the hell? I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face this red, and even though his hands are shoved in his pockets, I know they’re clenched into fists.

Damage control. Got it.