“How can you tell which is healthier?”
“Bigger, stronger-looking. Larger diameter. And this one, the puny one? I snip. The healthy one is also closest to the trunk and thecordon, see?”
“What was that word?”
“Cordon?”
“Yes. I like that.”
“In English, you call it an arm. This is the trunk, and these are the two arms. Spurs.” He pointed to the knobs that grew along the cordons, to last year’s growth, dead and messy and held up with wires. “Canes.”
“So, the weak and the old get cut out? That seems so…unfeeling.” The idea didn’t appear to please her, and he didn’t bother responding. Of course the runts had to go. When he’d arrived here, the vines had been a mess. Left to grow wild for years, the weeds rampant. He’d almost turned around without making an offer at all. Luc’s gaze lifted again to the barn, nestled just beneath the precariously perched boulders at the top of the mountain.
You didn’t buy a vineyard for a barn, much less a rock. He knew that. Everyone knew it. You bought for the location: the soil, the health of the vines. But while the real estate agent had gone on and on about the barn and its potential as a tasting room, Luc’s attention had slid right over it, over the top-of-the-line equipment. The temperatures were ideal inside the odd structure, which was built into the actual mountain, its backside carved straight from the granite boulders. It reminded him of the troglodyte caves in France. AndGrandpèrehad always told him to look for rocks like these.
After months searching this country where his father grew up for just the right place to make his own, it was that barn and its boulders that had decided him. Stupid, likely. Just more of his grandfather’s superstitions, but…
“What about that little stump here?” Abby broke into his thoughts.
He looked at the spur she indicated. Older growth, without any visible one-year wood. “That goes.”
He caught a glimpse of her face—the concentration as she watched, doing her own work but more interested in his. Learning. She looked good in his oversize Aran sweater. Although he wouldn’t have had time to notice that if he were working as hard as he should.
A glance at the sky told him it was nearing the end of the afternoon. They’d worked straight through, both of them soaking wet. His boots squelched in the mud that was no doubt sucking at her pathetic shoes, and just as he wondered what awaited her back home, her hands dropped to her knees. She inhaled deeply.
“What is it?”
“I…I guess I should have had breakfast.”
“You’ve eaten nothing?”
She shrugged.
“That’s…stupid.” The words were too harsh, he realized as soon as they were out. More proof that he wasn’t fit to spend time with people, especially in America, where everyone was sonice. He avoided her shocked expression and set his pruners down. “Come. I’ll give you something to eat.”
“No. Thank you, sir. I…I should leave.” She threw a look over her shoulder, toward the top of the mountain where she’d first appeared.
“You have far to go?”
She shook her head again—more to clear it, he thought, than any sort of denial. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
He made an effort to soften his voice. “Why didn’t you eat?”
“I…I was in a rush.” It sounded like the truth, but he didn’t quite believe her. “Is it all right if I… I mean, I need to be getting back.”
“Of course. Come in, and I’ll pay you.”
“Could you hold on to it for me?”
“Hold on to your mon—”
She reached for the bottom of the sweater she wore, and Luc, who’d opened his mouth to ask…something…lost his train of thought. It came off—up and over her head, leaving her underdressed and cold in that odd-looking gown. A bit frantic, he averted his gaze from the sight of her nipples, perfectly outlined by the clinging material of her dress.
He concentrated instead on her hands as she pulled the gloves off—worn and full of holes, probably gritty on the inside from this summer’s work—and handed his things over. They were still warm from her body.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanek,” she said with a smile, putting her small, frigid hand out for another awkward handshake before turning away. From behind, her thin form was made shapely by the cut of fabric, tight at her waist and flaring at the hips. It should have expanded from there, leaving her bottom half mysterious and sexless, as he assumed was the intended purpose of that type of garb. Instead, the wet dress hugged her in a way that was decidedly appealing.
Rather than continue to watch the sway of her backside, Luc’s eyes snagged on the straight, proud angle of her shoulders—which, though painfully thin, appeared strong. And if he wasn’t mistaken, stubborn.
