“Now?” Saffron glanced out the window. The sun was low on the horizon.
“We’ve got lights.”
“Okay. Let’s try,” she said after hesitating for a few seconds.
“Dinner is at seven,” my mother reminded me. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t, Ma.” I kissed her cheek and motioned Saffron in the direction of the door to the porch.
Outside, the evening air felt blessedly cool after the attic as we walked the path toward the caves’ entrance.
“Your mom is wonderful,” Saffron said.
“She likes you.”
“How can you tell?”
“She gave you cookies and rolls. Ma only shares those with really special people.”
Saffron smiled. “I’m honored.”
“You should be. Kick’s been trying to get on her good side for twenty-eight years. Still hasn’t managed it.”
She laughed, and the sound made my chest warm.
“Cold?” I asked when we walked in and she shivered and rubbed her arms.
“Yes, but I’ll adjust.”
I led her farther in, past barrel rooms filled with aging wine, through passages carved into the hillside decades ago. The records room, a small chamber lined with filing cabinets and boxes, was in the east branch.
“This is going to take forever,” Saffron said, surveying the sheer volume of material.
“Then, we better get started.” I grabbed a bottle of Zinfandel from a nearby rack. “Want some?”
“We’re working.”
“We can work and drink.” I found wineglasses on a shelf and poured. “It’ll make the time go faster.”
She accepted the glass and took a sip, her eyes closing briefly.
We settled on the stone floor and started going through the boxes. While we found notes about various vintages, most were recent. I couldn’t help glancing at her every few seconds—the way she concentrated, the furrow between her brows, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear repeatedly.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked without looking up.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Can’t a guy appreciate a pretty woman?”
She raised a brow. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“No.” But her mouth curved up at the corners, betraying her.
“Liar.”
