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“Still, I—” I interrupt myself to stare at the top of the short staircase.
A woman stands there.
Light-blond hair, blue eyes, glowing tan skin.
A California girl.
So striking.
Damn.
This is her. The wine doctor.
Chapter Three
Ashley
Diana’s nowhere in sight, but I recognize the three people standing at the bar in the family room.
The older man—he’s tall, dark-haired with some gray at the temples and sprinkled throughout. Silvery stubble laces his strong jawline. Talon Steel, Diana’s father.
The young woman—tall with dark hair and eyes. Slightly taller than Diana herself, and even more of a clone of their father. Brianna Steel, Diana’s younger sister.
Both worthy of my focus, but the third outshines them by far.
The blond man—taller even than his father, warm honey hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck but looking more like it wants to escape. It’s grown long since the photo I saw of him. Masculine jawline laced with sandy stubble.
But his eyes.
A green so clear and true, perhaps brought out even further by the green shirt he’s wearing.
Bells ring inside my head. A bell choir playing holiday carols. That’s the sound of his eyes.
Dale Steel.
He’s even better-looking in person.
I clear my throat. “Hi there.”
“Come on down,” Talon says. “You must be Ashley.”
I walk down slowly, hoping I don’t stumble. I reluctantly look away from Dale. Otherwise, I can’t help staring. “I am. Thank you for having me.”
“We’re happy to. I’m Talon Steel, Diana’s father.” He holds out his hand. “This is my daughter Brianna and my son Dale.”
Brianna pulls me into a hug. Is this a family of huggers?
God, I hope not.
“Great to meet you,” she says. “We’re all excited to have you here. Except, of course, I’m leaving next week to go back to school.”
“Right. You go to Mesa?”
She nods. “One more year.”
“What are you studying?”
“Agriculture.”
“So you’ll work here on the ranch, then?”
“I’ll work with my dad in the orchards,” she says.
Talon chuckles. “The only one of four children who shares my interest.”
Dale stays quiet. Finally, I gaze his way, the bell choir in my head deafening. It’s like that when I encounter a color I’ve never seen before. It usually gets under control within a half hour or so.
“Hello,” I say shyly.
“Hi.”
I nearly lose my footing. Thank goodness I’m standing next to the bar. Gives me something to lean on.
One word.
Hi.
And I’m jelly.
His voice is rich and deep, the color of the darkest red wine made with the Syrah grape. My favorite of all the reds.
Unreal.
If possible, he just became even more attractive to me.
His lips are full and gorgeous, but he doesn’t smile. Nor does he move. No hugger there. Just as well. My senses would be overcome.
“I hear we’ll be working together,” I say, willing my voice not to crack.
“Yes.”
God, another one-word response, and that gorgeous deep red flows over me and into me. I thank the universe again for the bar I’m leaning on.
What the hell am I going to do when I have to have an actual conversation with this guy? The dark red will be so pronounced, it will threaten to overtake my mind and body.
“Can we get you a drink?” Brianna asks.
I jerk out of the garnet haze. “What are you drinking?”
“Peach Street bourbon. It’s Dad’s favorite. Mine too. It’s distilled here on the western slope.”
“Then I guess I should try it,” I say, forcing a smile.
“You got it.” Talon pours me two fingers of the dark-amber liquid and hands me the glass. “I suppose you normally drink wine.”
“Wine is my passion, but I like some of the liquors too. Bourbon and Tequila mostly. I never drink beer.” I take the glass, my hands trembling slightly. I’m still overwhelmed by the deep-red color of Dale’s voice, even though he’s only spoken two words since I entered the room.
I’m a color and sound synesthete for the most part, but sometimes my emotions have colors and flavors as well, and sometimes tastes have sounds. Wine especially. Colors have sounds, always, and sometimes, sounds have colors. It’s usually the other way around. For me, not all sounds have colors.
But Dale Steel’s voice sure does. Even now, the deep red surrounds him, and he hasn’t spoken again.
I take a sip of the bourbon, and six eyes—including those bell-choir-green ones—are staring at me.
I let it float on my tongue for a moment and then swallow. Nice. Smoky and spicy and not a hint of harshness.
Still, all eyes are on me.
I raise my eyebrows.
“Well…?” Brianna asks.
“Uh…well, what?”
“What do you think? Of the bourbon? Of course, it’s not technically bourbon because it isn’t made in Bourbon County, Kentucky. But Colorado calls corn whiskeys bourbons anyway. You know, kind of like the sparkling wines in California are called champagne, but they’re not really champagne?”
I smile. “You know a little about wine.”
“You can’t grow up here without absorbing a little by osmosis. Dale started working with Uncle Ry before I was even born, so he brought home all kinds of wine knowledge. Didn’t you, Dale?”
