“Probably.” I squeezed the berry, tasting the juice. Still too acidic, the tannins sharp. “Needs more time.”
I reached for another at the same moment he did, and our hands collided.
Rather than pull away, he wrapped his fingers around mine. They felt warm and strong, and my breath caught.
“Sorry,” we said simultaneously.
The absurdity of it—apologizing for touching each other when last night we’d been pressed against my kitchen wall, his hands in my hair and my legs wrapped around his waist—broke something loose. I laughed, and it felt like relief.
He smiled, really smiled, and God, when had he gotten so beautiful? Or had he always been this way and I’d just been too scared to really look?
“Great minds,” he said, his thumb stroking across my knuckles before he let go.
“Something like that.”
After we finished sampling, we headed to the winery, and he led me into the production building.
“We’ll use these for the maceration,” he said, pointing to three large tanks.
I ran my hand along the cool steel, studying the monitoring systems built into the sides. The units were beautiful—clean lines, flawless welds, technology that made our equipment at Hope look ancient by comparison.
“This is ideal,” I said.
“The system logs everything.” He moved to a control panel, and data appeared on the screen. “Temperature, CO2 levels, pH. All of it.” His fingers moved over the touchscreen, familiar and confident. “I can set it up to send alerts to both our phones. That way, we can both monitor it remotely.”
Both our phones. Partners.
“Wow.” I stepped closer to the screen. “Show me how it works?”
Our gazes collided, and his face was inches from mine. “Saffron?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am.”
“What did I just say?”
I had no idea. “Something about…temperatures?”
He half smiled. “Wrong.” His sounded amused when he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“How do you always know when I’m lying?”
“Because I know you.” His hand lingered near my face, thumb stroking along my cheekbone. “I’ve always known you. Let me help. That’s all I’m asking,” he said, cupping my cheek with his palm.
“You are helping.”
He leaned closer. “You know what I mean.”
I wanted to tell him everything. The foreclosure. The desperation. The fear that kept me awake at night. But I wasn’t able to bring myself to.
“I, uh, need to get home. I have a lot to do before Wednesday.”
