Sunny has a smudge of dirt across her jaw, and she's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
She doesn't realize I'm watching. I'm supposed to be scrubbing the inside of a fermentation tank, a task that was clearly meant to keep me occupied and out of her hair for at least thirty minutes. Instead, I'm leaning on the rim with the scrub brush idle in my hand, like a love-sick doofus, watching her move between tanks with quiet precision.
Except today there’s something on her mind. She keeps pausing, her palm resting on the metal, her focus going somewhere far away before she catches herself and moves on. Once, she mutters something under her breath that I can't make out. Every time it happens, her lips press together and one corner twitches. It's not a frown, but it's not a smile either. I've spent enough time studying that mouth to know the difference between irritation and distraction.
She looks preoccupied. I'd like to believe I'm the cause, but Sunny doesn't give away her thoughts that easily.
Her gaze lifts from the clipboard, and that sharp blue stare catches me watching her. "Hayden." Her voice snaps across the room. "That tank isn't going to scrub itself."
"I'm admiring the craftsmanship of the steel." Even I don't buy that one.
"You're stalling." Her expression sharpens, one eyebrow lifting. "If you can't handle a simple cleaning assignment, I'll have to reconsider your apprenticeship."
"I thought this was training, not an apprenticeship."
"That training is the part where you learn that winemaking involves a lot of cleaning." The spark in her sapphire stare sends heat straight to my groin. "You should get back to work."
I exhale through my nose and turn back to the tank. The scrub brush moves in steady circles against the steel, and the rhythm of it gives my hands something to do while my mind replays Saturday in a slow loop. Sunny on Pearl, her spine softening against the saddle. Her legs crossed in the grass while Gerald nudged her knee. Her mouth on mine under the willow tree, her fingers curling into my shirt, the sound she made against my lips.
When I arrived this morning, she handed me an apron and launched straight into a lesson on sulfite management as if the last time we saw each other she hadn't kissed me senseless. I'm starting to think this is how Sunny processes things. She files them away, lets them settle, until she's ready.
I finish the tank and climb down, rinsing the brush in the utility sink. Sunny has moved to the worktable, where she's recording numbers in the production log. I bring her a fresh cup of coffee from the machine in the break area and set it at her elbow.
She picks it up without looking at me, takes a sip, and mutters a thank you in a tone that could mean anything from genuine gratitude to quiet acknowledgment that I exist.
"How's the blend coming?" I ask, settling onto the stool across from her.
"The new white is almost where I want it. I adjusted the ratio after our session last week, and the floral note is more prominent now." She flips a page in the log. "I need to let it rest for another few days before the final tasting."
"I'd like to be here for that, if possible."
Her attention lifts, and warmth flickers behind it that wasn't there a moment ago. I file that away as a small victory, and wonder if she knows she just let me in. "I'll let you know when it's ready."
We work through the late morning, and the ease between us is the same comfortable rhythm I've come to look forward to during our sessions together. She teaches, I listen, and every so often the conversation drifts from wine into territory that has nothing to do with fermentation or barrel selection.
She glances at the clock on the wall and frowns. "Dammit. I didn't realize it was so late. I need to call a plumber."
"What's going on?"
"The pipes under my kitchen sink are leaking. It's getting worse, and I don't even want to think about what a plumber's going to charge me on short notice."
"Let me take a look at it. I might be able to fix it."
She gives me a look that manages to convey skepticism, amusement, and something dangerously close to hope all at the same time. "You know how to fix a kitchen sink?"
"A leaking joint is a twenty-minute repair. You need a basin wrench, some plumber's tape, and probably a new compression fitting." I lean against the worktable and cross my arms. "I've been fixing things on ranches since I could reach the toolbox."
When she doesn't say anything, just stares at me with skepticism burning in her expression, I add, "I have a lot of plumbing and electrical experience. Let me take a look at it. If I'm wrong and it's beyond a simple fix, I'll personally call the plumber, pay for the visit, and apologize for wasting your time."
The corner of her mouth curves. She considers me for a long moment, her chin tipped at the angle she uses when she's deciding whether to let me past another wall. "We have a deal. But when you make it worse and my kitchen floods, I'm holding you to every word."
"If your kitchen floods, I'll also mop."
She turns back to the sample glasses, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide, and the warmth of it fills my chest like sunlight through a window.
I finish my session at the winery around noon, and Sunny tells me to come by her place at five, which gives me time to run home, get some work done, and grab the tools I need from the barn.
Later that afternoon, Wade watches me toss everything into the truck bed. "Going somewhere?"
