Page 51 of The Sweetness of Life

“I don’t need a whole case, but thank you.” I’m somewhat surprised by the generous offer, and a light blush warms my cheeks.

“Well, then, half, and fill the other half with the sauvignon blanc. You seem to like that one, too.”

“I do.” He’s been paying attention.

Lowering my glass to the bar, my hands flatten over the base to hold it in place. Slowly, Zach reaches across and lays one of his hands on top of mine. His warm fingers slide between mine, linking us together as his thumb swipes back and forth.

His hand is so much larger than my own. The strength it possesses and the gentleness of the gesture blur the lines I keep trying to draw between us.

Trailing my eyes from our hands to his face, I’m met with a heat that speaks to every cell in my body. His eyes show a complete contrast to the gentleness in his hands, and this is a need I understand . . . this need I want.

Reluctantly, I glance toward the photographer sitting off in the corner with his camera pointed right at us. Zach’s eyes follow, pause for a second, and then return to mine. When his brows drop with annoyance, I realize he’d forgotten we have an audience.

“The last one we need is in the cellar. Walk down with me, and we’ll drink it there.” He gestures to the door, and I nod in agreement before moving to the door to watch him. He says something to Michelle that makes her and the guests close enough to hear smile. If I had to guess, they’re all about to get some free drinks thanks to the open bottles sitting on the bar. Then he moves to the photographer, who’s sitting a few feet away from where I stand. “We’re all done, but feel free to stick around or take off. It’s up to you.”

His face lights up. “Really? That’s great. I think I’ll take off, so thanks.” He grabs his bag and starts packing his gear. Zach gives him a pat on the shoulder then slips his hand into mine. Leading me through the right wing, we pass the library and head for the cellar stairs.

The buzz and the sounds from the tasting room begin to drift away as the echoes of our steps bounce around the hall. As we descend down into the cellar, the temperature drops, and suddenly I’m wishing for a sweater and not this tiny dress.

Zach turns a knob, and the muted glow from the chandeliers brightens the room.

“I’m not sure if I told you this before, but it’s beautiful down here.” I trail my eyes over the photos that line one wall and show the history of the vineyard. There are several with Zach as a kid, and he was good-looking then, too. I’m not surprised.

He chuckles and heads into a side alcove where large coolers are built into the wall to grab the brut.

“Thanks, although I can’t take credit for it. My mother does all the decorating around here.”

As he walks back toward me, my eyes drift down over the length of him, admiring the way his clothes are perfectly tailored to his body. His steps never falter, but his free hand curls into a fist at my blatant perusal.

“Well, she did an amazing job.”

“Yeah, she did.” His voice is a little deeper, and inwardly, I smile at the effect my eyes are having on him.

When he gets close enough, he sets the bottle on the high-top table next to me and opens it, the hiss lingering in the air. Once again, he pours the perfect amount into the glass—a single crystal flute—before he hands it to me, and his fingers brush against mine. His eyes flare, and a thrill runs up my arm at the contact. Why do I love it so much when he touches me?

Pulling away, I bring the glass to my lips and pause. His eyes roam over my face, glance at my mouth, and then he breaks away, running his hand through his hair and around to his neck. The blue in his eyes is darker down here; I want them to be darker because of me.

The wine has effervescence and a lightness that wasn’t in the three upstairs. This one is completely different, sensational, and in a league of its own.

“Wow, this is incredible,” I say between sips.

He gives me a closed-mouth smile and nods his head. He knows it’s good.

Picking up the bottle, I look at the label and then him: Farkas, brut, blanc de blanc. It’s dry with no hint of sweetness, even though a touch of sugar is added, and it’s made entirely of white grapes.

“Farkas means ‘wolf’ in Hungarian.” He answers the question before I ask it.

“That’s your ancestor’s name?”

He nods his head. “When the wine industry took off again, my grandfather thought it would be better if we changed our name to a more recognizable one. My father agreed, so they filed the paperwork. This was about a year before he met my mother.

“So, this is fairly new change?” I drink a little more, and he tops off my glass.

“I guess you could say that.”

I look him over from head to toe, and he shifts his weight to lean against the table. “You don’t look like a Farkas.”

He chuckles. “Zachary Farkas?” He taps his chin for a few seconds as if he’s thinking about it. “Yeah, no.”