"Wouldn't dream of it. Night, Sunshine."
The door closes, and the porch light stays on while I stand there like a man who's just been struck by lightning and is trying to remember how his legs work. After a moment, I turn and walk back to my truck, and the grin on my face is so wide it hurts.
On the drive back to Twin Oaks, I don't turn the radio on. I don't need it. My mind is full of the taste of her mouth, the sound of that breathless laugh, the way she pulled me back like a woman who'd made a decision and wasn't second-guessing it.
The ranch is dark and quiet when I pull up to the house, except for the lamp glowing in the front window that Gran always leaves on. I park and sit in the truck for a minute, my hands on the steering wheel, staring at the stars through the windshield.
I have never been this hooked on a woman. The horses, the ranch, the investments, all of it is still there in the back of my mind. But tonight every available channel in my brain is occupied by Sunny Reese in a blue dress, kissing the living daylights out of me on her front porch.
I climb out of the truck and cross the yard toward the house, my boots crunching on the gravel. The front door opens quietly, and I take the stairs two at a time, feeling lighter than I have in months.
Wednesday morning at the winery.
I haven’t looked forward to a workday this much in my life.
Chapter 7
Sunny
This white blend is being difficult, and I should be paying more attention to it instead of replaying Saturday night in my head for the hundredth time.
I pull a sample from the barrel and hold the glass up to the light, but I'm not seeing wine. I'm seeing Charlie Hayden on my front porch, backlit by the streetlamp, his palms warm on my waist and his mouth doing things that made me forget my own name.
I went to bed Saturday night with my fingertips pressed against my lips and my pulse hammering so hard that the silence in my little house felt deafening. Then I spent the rest of the weekend swinging between giddy anticipation and pure panic.
But since then, he has been infuriatingly, bewilderingly cool.
He's texted me three times. The first was a photo of Kevin attempting to attack Wade's boot, captionedHe's making friends. The second was a sunset shot from the back porch at Twin Oaks, all gold and purple streaked across the hills, with no caption at all. The third, yesterday evening, was a short video of Gerald standing on top of the water trough while Dolly paddled around below, and Charlie's low laugh in the background as henarrated:Gerald has claimed the high ground and refuses to share.
Each message made me smile. But none of them asked me for a second date. None of them referenced the kiss, or Saturday night, or any of the things he said on that Fredericksburg sidewalk that I have been turning over in my head like stones in a tumbler.
I cap the sample glass and set it down harder than necessary. The man told me I was worth every mile of the drive and then proceeded to send me duck videos. Either Charlie Hayden has more patience than any person I have ever met, or he has decided that one kiss was enough to satisfy his curiosity.
The second option makes my stomach drop in a way I can’t afford to consider.
The production room door swings open, and the scent of coffee reaches me before his voice does.
"Morning, Sunshine."
My grip locks on the sample glass. Every nerve in my body fires at once, and today it is worse because now I know what his mouth tastes like and how his strong hands feel against my waist.
I turn slowly. Charlie strolls toward me with two paper cups balanced in one hand and an apron draped over the other arm. His dark brown hair is slightly ruffled, and that grin is aimed at me with the full force of a man who knows exactly how good he looks.
I take the cup he offers and the first sip burns my tongue, giving me something to focus on besides him. He ties the apron on and follows me to the tanks, and neither of us mentions Saturday night. But when I reach past him for a hose clamp and my arm grazes his, I jerk back like I touched a live wire. The smirk he gives me tells me he notices.
"What are we working on today?" he asks, as if nothing happened.
"Blending trials." I nod toward the row of sample bottles I laid out on the worktable before he arrived. "I'm working on a new white blend, and we need to test different ratios before committing to the final proportions."
His eyebrows lift with genuine interest. "You're blending the wines before they go into the barrel?"
"Before the final aging, yes. The components ferment separately so I can control each one, and then I blend to get the flavor profile I want." I pull two clean glasses from the rack and set them between us. "Blending is where the art meets the science. The numbers get you close, but your palate makes the final call."
Charlie settles onto the stool across from me and sets his coffee aside, giving me his full attention. I've noticed this about him across our sessions together. When I am teaching, his focus narrows to a degree that would be flattering if it were not also deeply unsettling. It’s the same intensity he turned on me across a candlelit table in Fredericksburg, and my body does not seem capable of distinguishing between the two.
I pour the first trial blend and slide it to him. "This is sixty-forty, with the heavier white leading. Tell me what you get."
He swirls, inhales, tastes. His brow furrows in concentration. "The lead wine is heavier here. I'm getting pear, maybe some honey. The second one is in the background, but it's there, that floral note you pointed out during the tasting."
