Page 59 of The Sweetness of Life

“Hang tight, I’ll be right back.” He grabs some equipment, turns to walk off, and then spins back around, grinning at me. “Pun intended.”

I grin with him. Who is this funny guy and what happened to the scowling ass I met back at the Feeding America event?

Zach puffs the smoker and aims it at and around each beehive before setting it on the ground. I watch in fascination as he pulls off the lid of the one closest to me and uses a large flat scraping device to cut off a piece of the honeycomb and drop it into a bowl. After putting the lid back on, he grabs the smoker and starts walking toward me, smiling from ear to ear. If I hadn’t had been falling for him before, the moment he hands me the bowl of beautiful golden honey would have done it for me.

“See? Not that hard, and not one sting.” He smiles as he strips off the gear.

“Well done, Mr. Wolff, and I have the perfect idea of a snack to make with this. Are you hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he says, climbing in next to me.

Turning on the golf cart, he zips us back through the trees and heads for the cottage.

“I can’t believe you just whipped this up,” Zach says before taking another bite of his salad topped with grilled prosciutto-wrapped peaches and a honey mustard vinaigrette. Most of lunch, we sat in silence as he devoured the food on his plate. His face was one of contented bliss.

“It really wasn’t that hard—I only used one pan,” I tease. Just like the night he came over for the red wine tasting, we’re back to sitting next to each other at the kitchen island.

“I know, but who thinks like this?” He looks at the grill pan behind me on the stove and then down to his salad.

“You should come to Charleston and taste the stuff Meg and I come up with. She’s brilliant when it comes to perfecting the recipes.” I tear off a piece of bread and smear some homemade honey butter on it.

His brows rise as his eyes collide with mine, and his chewing slows.

Cheese and crackers! I just invited him to Charleston!

I wasn’t even thinking. The conversation has been so easy with him today that I’m talking to him as I would one of my friends. Yes, we slept together. Yes, he apologized for being a jerk. Yes, we’ve had an amazing morning together—but friends at the end of this? I’m not so sure.

Feeling a bit awkward, I drop my eyes from his and move to reach for my glass, but his hand grabs mine. His thumb gently swipes across the inside of my arm, and I freeze, knowing he’s trying to get me to look at him, which I eventually do.

“Well, I happen to be a fan of your cooking.” He gives me a reassuring smile, and my heart clenches at his willingness to smooth over the awkwardness I created.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

The compliment was heartfelt, but it doesn’t go unnoticed that he didn’t agree or disagree to visiting us in Charleston. Last night while we were sitting on the cliff edge, a part of me wondered if we would see each other after I went back home, if I even wanted us to, and well, I guess I just got my answer. I know this is an assignment and hook-ups happen all the time, but despite his split personalities, I do like him.

Hopping out of my chair, I scoop up the plates and then drop them into the sink. Zach moves over to the couch and settles in.

Brushing away the unwanted discomfiture, I change the conversation. “How did your winery get picked for this assignment?” I move to sit in the chair adjacent to the couch. He shifts and leans in my direction.

“I think there are several reasons, the main one being that one of the editors visited and loved our wines. Plus, we use only grapes that are grown here on the farm while a lot of wineries outsource, so that keeps us local and Southern for their special farm-to-table issue. Our property is beautiful, one of the larger ones in the area, and we keep it ‘visitor ready’ year-round. We also offer more in the way of private events and open the manor and the cottage to overnight visitors.”

There’s pride in his voice as he talks about his winery. It’s easy to see running this place isn’t something he does just because it belonged to his family. He genuinely loves it.

“That makes sense to me. I love it here.” I look around the quaint cottage and then out the French doors. Rows of grapevines bump up against the porch garden, and it’s so pretty.

“And our wines are exceptional.” He grins, pointing to my glass.

“Yes, they are.” I raise it to him and then take a sip. His eyes fall to my mouth the same way they did two nights ago, and a heat swirls and burns from my chest through my legs.

“When do your parents get back?” I set the glass on the coffee table in front of us.

“August first. They will have officially been gone for one year.” He leans forward, picks up my glass, and takes a sip. Why do I love it so much when he does this?

“That’s a long time.” I know he grew up here and worked the vineyard since he was a kid, but it’s still kind of crazy to me that they just up and left right after he took over.

He puts the glass down, leans back, and props his right ankle on his left knee. “Went by quicker than you would think.”

“Okay, my turn. Since you took me out and shared something with me today, and since it’s kind of relevant, I have one for you. Growing up, my nickname was Bee.”