"Good. Now try this one." I pour the second trial, reversing the ratio.
He tastes again, and I watch his expression shift as the difference registers. "This one's brighter. More citrus up front, and the stone fruit is leading. The other wine gives it weight on the finish, but the brighter one is running the show."
"That's exactly right," I say, and the admission comes out quieter than I intended.
He catches it. His focus lifts from the glass to my face, and the corner of his mouth curves. "You sound surprised."
"I'm impressed. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because last time, 'not terrible' was a long way from good, and now I'm getting 'impressed.' I'd say that's significant progress." He leans forward on his elbows, and the distance between us shrinks over the worktable. "Just out of curiosity, what does a man have to do to get an actual compliment out of you?"
"Identify the third trial without any help."
"Bring it."
I pour the third blend and slide it to him without telling him the ratio. He takes his time, swirling the glass, inhaling twice, tasting with his eyes closed in a way that makes his lashes fan against his cheekbones. My attention catches there for a beat longer than it should.
"Fifty-fifty," he says, opening his eyes. "Equal parts Viognier and Traminette. The two wines are balanced, neither one dominating. It's rounder than the other two."
My jaw sags to my chest. "That is exactly correct."
"And my compliment?"
"You have a good palate, Charlie Hayden." I hold his look, and the warmth that spreads through me as his face brightens has nothing to do with the coffee. "Better than good. You have instincts that most people never develop."
He stares at me for a long moment, and the air between us turns charged and heavy. Then he leans back on his stool and breaks the tension with a twinkle in his eye. "I have a good teacher."
We spend the next two hours working through the remaining blend trials, and an easy rhythm settles between us. He asksquestions that push past surface-level curiosity, and I find myself explaining concepts I have never bothered to articulate for anyone else, not because he demands it, but because his interest makes me want to share them.
When we take a break at the worktable, Charlie pulls out his phone and swipes to a photo. "The landscaper finished the bridge on Monday." He turns the screen toward me, and I lean in to see a miniature arched bridge spanning the duck pond, its railing painted an absolutely outrageous shade of pink.
I press my lips together, but the giggle escapes anyway. "Please tell me Evie picked that color."
"Down to the exact shade." He swipes to the next photo, and it shows a tiny girl in pink rain boots standing on the bridge with her hands on her hips, supervising a row of ducks beneath her. "She also informed me that Kevin needs a timeout corner because he bit Wadsworth."
"Kevin bit Wadsworth?"
"Kevin bites everyone. Wade calls him Satan's poultry. Gran calls him spirited." Charlie shakes his head, but the affection in his expression is unmistakable. "I call him a liability."
I am laughing before I can stop it, and the sound echoes off the steel tanks. Charlie watches me laugh, his eyes gleaming with delight.
"Come see them," he says.
My laughter trails off. "What?"
"Saturday. Come out to the ranch." His voice is casual, but his focus is steady on mine. "You said you love ducks. I've got six of them and a brand-new pink bridge that needs admirers." He pauses, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "And I believe I owe you a horseback riding lesson. It’s only fair since you’re teaching me about winemaking."
The rational part of my brain, the part that spent years building walls out of productivity and solitude, is alreadycomposing reasons to decline his offer. Saturday is my day off. I have laundry to do. I could catch up on production logs. I could clean my house, which is already spotless, or reorganize my closet, which does not need reorganizing.
"I'll pick you up if you want, or you can drive out yourself," he adds, giving me the option the way he always does, letting me choose the terms. "No pressure. Just ducks, horses, and whatever Gran decides to feed you, because she will absolutely want you to join us for lunch the moment she finds out you're coming."
"I can drive myself," I answer. "What time?"
"Ten? That way we can get a lesson in before it gets too hot."
"Ten works."
His chest expands. "Wear boots if you've got them. And something you don't mind getting dirty."
