I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours catching up on work that I’ve put off over the last week and a half. My eyes are starting to blur and maybe I should take a break.
The intercom in my office buzzes, and I hit the button. “Yes, Michelle?”
She giggles at my tone. Between her and Kyle, I don’t know what I would do if one of them decided to move on. They are the best employees.
“Thought you’d like to know that Shelby just left.”
Out the window I find her heading toward the golf carts. Just the sight of her does something to me. The headaches, the article, our sales, my parents coming home, so much of it has been piling on, and ever since I decided to give in to this crazy attraction to her, all this work seems like not so much. It feels manageable, and I really like that feeling.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I jump out of my chair and head for the private exit off my office.
“Shelby!” I yell as I jog toward her. She hears me, turns around, and a smile lights up her beautiful face.
Damn, gut clenching.
“Hey.” In typical Shelby fashion, she has on little shorts and heels. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her feet wobble as she walks across the circular drive. This time, I find it endearing instead of annoying, and I drink in every inch of her sexy as hell legs.
“You’d think that you would’ve learned by now,” I say, pointing to her shoes.
“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 face 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 inside the hallway her eyes sweep over the photographs and articles framed on the walls. “You live in this giant, gorgeous castle/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 know me just 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, 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 break up with Elaine, and had just started to ease up when that review posted last fall. Just thinking about that 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 to 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 this 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 and 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.
I’m never washing it off.
Continuing her perusal, she inspects everything before stopping to look at my favorite framed awards. Behind the bar, we keep a portfolio of all the articles we can find where our winery or wines are reviewed. I call it my brag book, but really, it’s a visual reminder to all of us that what we’re working toward here is something great. Our wines have touched people enough that they felt the need to write about them, and ultimately that’s what anyone who takes pride in their work wants. Recognition.
She stops again when she spots the magazine that is framed, propped up on a bookshelf, and has been my sole motivation for the last seven months.
“Tell me what happened for you to receive four wilted grapes. Your wines are so good I don’t understand.” She moves to sit in a chair in front of my desk, and I sit in the other next to her, stretching my legs out.
“After my parents left, Kyle and I decided to launch the wine club membership. I told you about it before.” She nods. “Once it was kicked off, more and more locals in the area joined, and after a few months, we started brainstorming with ideas that would make returning each month fun.”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
“We did, too. So, what we came up with first was for our regulars to do a blind taste test. We bought some off the shelf mass-produced table wines and scrubbed off the label. During the tasting, we put up three glasses, and if the patron can guess which wine is not ours, they get to pick out two dessert truffles. The wine is so different from ours, people never guessed wrong.”
“When you say different, you really mean bad, don’t you?”
“Yeah, basic table wine is never really good, but it’s done on purpose. We don’t look to compare, we just want it to be fun.
“So, it was a busy night, Michelle and I were behind the bar, and I’m not sure how it happened, but there was a guy and girl who came in, had one glass of wine between the two of them, and left. They couldn’t have been there longer than ten minutes. As I was clearing the glasses, I noticed the color of the wine and realized we’d given them the bad wine. It was a stupid error and one we couldn’t fix because they left. Forty-eight hours later, I received a call from my father telling me about the review. Seems the magazine editor thought he deserved notification first, instead of me, and that set off a chain of bad events. This was the night before the Feeding America event. The review went live two weeks later, and I quote, ‘How Mr. Wolff can with good conscious serve this wine to the general public, I’ll never know. All it took was one taste, one horrible taste, to know I didn’t need another.’”
“I read that review,” she says sheepishly.
“My father reached out to the guy to explain what had happened, but the damage had been done. Our local business was still thriving, but the traffic flow from vacationers significantly dropped off. This last year our sales were the worst they’ve been in over a decade.”
Unexpected things happen in business all the time. That’s reality. Not every year can be perfect, and I don’t expect every year to have high profitability. Still, that year was my first year—the year I wanted to prove to my family, myself, hell the world, that I wasn’t just a football player. And now, explaining the article, I suddenly find that I care what she thinks, too.
“I take it your father wasn’t too pleased.” Her tone is softer, as if she knows she’s broaching a subject she shouldn’t.
“You could say that.” Uncomfortableness is rolling off me, and I hate that she can see it. Feeling the need to cut the connection between us, I move over to the window. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. It is what it is, and I’ve spent the last seven months doing what needs to be done to repair the damage and move on.
“Zach.” Warm hands land on my shoulders and lightly run down my arms, causing a slow burn to spread out of my chest. Her hands slip under my arms, wrap around my stomach, and she hugs me from behind.
The heat of her body presses against mine, and I let out a deep sigh. I know it’s a stupid thought, but other than Kyle slapping me on the shoulder and telling me that we’ll get through this, I haven’t had anyone stop and have a moment with me. Not that I necessarily need a moment, and I certainly don’t need a “therapy type session” where I unload how shitty it’s been dealing with all of this, but I’m surprised how freeing it feels. And of all the people to give this to me, it’s her, this girl who I was a complete asshole to, mistrusted, and now she’s hugging me because she understands how hard this has been. I don’t deserve this from her, but I realize my need to share just a little bit of the frustration I’ve felt outweighs the other ten-fold.
“Shelby,” I whisper, her name sliding through me like a balm as it soothes places I didn’t know were sore. Her arms loosen a little, and I turn to face her. Large blue eyes find mine and in this moment they feel like complete solace.
Her hands drop to my waist, and my stomach muscles clench at the contact. I love her hands on me and can’t resist running my fingers up her arm to her shoulders.
Reaching the neckline of her shirt, I slip underneath it and push the sleeve off her shoulder, exposing just enough skin to make my mouth water. My fingers thread through her hair on the back of her head and her eyes flutter shut.
Damn, I love her skin, too.
Needing to taste her, my lips fall on the dip just above her collarbone. A barely audible sound rolls through her throat as she tips her head to the side to give me more access. I tighten my grip, locking her in place and link the fingers of my free hand through hers.
Needing to savor every inch of this girl, I kiss up her neck, over her jaw, and linger just at her lips. She leans further into my chest as she tries to get closer.
“You are so beautiful,” I mumble against her lips. Her eyelashes sweep against my skin as she lowers them and her fingers curl in the fabric of my shirt.
Sliding my lips across hers, I kiss the corner of her mouth. She lets out a sigh, and I inhale it as my own with every nerve ending standing and waiting with great anticipation of my next move. This girl lights me up like no one has before. I don’t understand it, but I’m embracing it.
“Why do I like kissing you so much?” Her voice vibrates against me, and I kiss her again instead of answering. The feeling is very mutual.
Warmth. Cinnamon rolls. Coffee. Delicious.
The flavor of her mouth reminds me of a lazy Saturday morning, and I want to fall into bed with her and get lost under the sheets. I want to sink every part of me into every part of her and stay there indefinitely. From my fingers into the smoothness of her skin, my mouth into the familiar warmth of hers, and I want to bury myself so deep into her there’s no beginning and there’s no end. I want to make her mine. All. Mine. And I want to do it now.
“Wanna go tour the upstairs?” My hand releases hers, slides across her hip, over her ass, and I pull her against me.
“Yes.” Her voice is a whisper, but there’s no hesitation. She’s with me one hundred percent.
The door whips open and Kyle strides in. “So, I just got off the phone with—” Shelby squeals and jumps away from me.
Kyle freezes.
“Ah, sorry.” He looks from me to her and then back to me, but he never retreats the way he came.
“No worries,” I grind out, hoping he’ll catch on to my tone and leave, but he doesn’t.
Silence falls around the three of us, and it’s Shelby who breaks it.
“Okay, right, I’ll just go now.” She sputters the words out as she runs her hands down her shirt and shorts to smooth them out. Her eyes flick to mine as she walks past Kyle, and a small smile tips the corner of her mouth.
Following her, I stop in the doorway and reach to hook my fingers over top the doorframe. Leaning forward, I take in the sight of her in my hallway and her long legs with those high-heeled shoes. It takes everything in me not to follow her and stay here with him.
“Hey, Shelby,” I call out just before she reaches the west wing door.
“Yeah?” She spins around and walks backward.
My heart stutters at how impossibly beautiful she is.
I need more time with her.
This is a new feeling for me, one that I’m not ready to put any great thought into, I just know I need more. More of her.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing you later.”