Page 61 of The Sweetness of Life

“I know, but these are made of cork, and I couldn’t help myself.” She kicks one up to give me a closer look and smiles. Damn if she doesn’t take my breath away. “How’s the headache?” Her brow lowers and little wrinkles form as she studies my face.

Scrubbing my hand over my chin and through my hair, my fingertips run over the usual suspects and there’s no trace of any tenderness. “Gone, which is a good thing. I had a ton of paperwork and e-mails to catch up on today.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Her face relaxes, and her smile returns. “I just invited Michelle to dinner, so she and Kyle will be there around six. Are you still coming?” She twists one foot back and forth in the dirt. She’s nervous, and I think she’s adorable.

“Of course. You’re cooking, so I wouldn’t miss it.”

Hell, I don’t even need the food. If she wants me there, just tell me when and where. At this point, I’m hanging on to every second I can get, because in a couple of days she’ll go back to her life and I’ll still be here in mine.

She blushes and lets out a pleased breath. “Good.”

A bee flies by and she jumps closer to me, squealing. With her eyes bright, she laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear. My lungs constrict at the sight.

Damn.

“Would you like to come in?” I blurt out, pointing over my shoulder.

She glances toward the west wing door and curiosity lights up her face. “Sure. I haven’t seen this side of the manor yet.”

I can’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm as I reach for her hand and lace my fingers through hers.

“It’s nothing special, I promise. This wing is mostly offices, and upstairs is my apartment.”

“Your apartment?” She laughs. Stepping into the hallway, her eyes sweep over the framed photographs and articles on the walls. “You live in this giant, gorgeous castle-slash-manor, and you call it an apartment.”

“Well, it is.” I give her hand a light squeeze. “You’ll see. It’s two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a laundry room—everything you would expect from an apartment.”

“Hmm,” she mumbles as we walk into my office. “Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?” she asks as she passes by me and scans over every inch.

Looking around my office, I try to see what she’s seeing. It looks pretty standard to me. Cherry wood furniture, one wall lined with built-in bookshelves, a fireplace with a flat-screen television over it, and a sitting area. I hate disorganization so it’s kept clean.

Yep, this is me.

“Technically, I did. I lived off campus in college and then I had—well, have—a condo down in Tampa.” She turns and faces me as I grab a football off my desk and lean against it.

“Oh, right. I forgot about you playing.”

It’s interesting to hear her say this. There are very few people who just know me as the wine guy. Everyone else associates me with football first and wine as a close second, even those in the wine industry. Given the status of our name associated with the winery, the fact that I was a professional athlete in the public eye, and who I kept company with, the media loved me. They followed me around for years reporting on every detail of my life, including my breakup with Elaine, and had just started to ease up when that review posted last fall. Just thinking about the review makes me want to grit my teeth.

“What’s this?” Shelby asks. I turn to see her pointing to the whiteboard on the wall.

“It’s our homemade version of a seasonal tracker. We record daily starting and ending temperatures, weather patterns, rainfall inches, any problems that occur, et cetera. It helps us gauge how the wines are growing from season to season, about when they’ll be the perfect ripeness for picking, and what type of flavors we can expect to get.”

“Wow, that’s interesting. You don’t put this into a spreadsheet or something?” She looks at me questioningly, and I laugh.

“I do, but during the season this larger, in-your-face view is best for all of us.”

“Gotcha. Tell me more.” She walks closer to the board and examines what we’ve filled in.

“The most important part of the wine is knowing the exact moment to pick the grapes, and tracking the weather affords us a preview of the harvest. For example, the hotter the season, the more shriveled the grapes, which makes the flavors stronger. On the flip side, if there’s too much rain, the grapes will swell and the juice will be diluted.”

“Has that ever happened to you?” She turns to face me.

“Yes, both have, and knowing these things also helps us decide which varietals to blend.”

She regards me silently then picks up the board marker and draws a bee up in the corner.

“There, I’ve now contributed to the board.” She smiles proudly to herself while putting the marker back.