Page 62 of The Sweetness of Life

I’m never washing it off.

Continuing her perusal, she inspects everything before stopping to look at my favorite framed awards. Behind the bar, we keep a portfolio of all the articles we can find where our winery or wines are reviewed. I call it my brag book, but really, it’s a visual reminder to all of us that what we’re working toward here is something great. Our wines have touched people enough that they felt the need to write about them, and ultimately that’s what anyone who takes pride in their work wants—recognition.

She stops again when she spots the magazine that is framed, propped up on a bookshelf, and has been my sole motivation for the last seven months.

“Tell me what happened for you to receive four wilted grapes. Your wines are so good, so I don’t understand.” She moves to sit in a chair in front of my desk, and I sit in the other one next to her, stretching my legs out.

“After my parents left, Kyle and I decided to launch the wine club membership. I told you about it before.” She nods. “Once it was kicked off, more and more locals in the area joined, and after a few months, we started brainstorming ideas that would make returning each month fun.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“We did, too. So, what we came up with first was for our regulars to do a blind taste test. We bought some off-the-shelf, mass-produced table wines and scrubbed off the labels. During the tasting, we put up three glasses, and if the patron can guess which wine is not ours, they get to pick out two dessert truffles. The wine is so different from ours, people never guessed wrong.”

“When you say different, you really mean bad, don’t you?”

“Yeah, basic table wine is never really good, but it’s done on purpose. We don’t look to compare—we just want it to be fun.

“So, it was a busy night, Michelle and I were behind the bar, and I’m not sure how it happened, but a guy and a girl came in, had one glass of wine between the two of them, and left. They couldn’t have been there longer than ten minutes. As I was clearing the glasses, I noticed the color of the wine and realized we’d given them the bad wine. It was a stupid error and one we couldn’t fix because they’d already left. Forty-eight hours later, I received a call from my father telling me about the review. Seems the magazine editor thought he deserved notification first instead of me, and that set off a chain of bad events. This was the night before the Feeding America event. The review went live two weeks later, and I quote, ‘How Mr. Wolff can serve this wine to the general public in good conscience, I’ll never know. All it took was one taste, one horrible taste to know I didn’t need another.’”

“I read that review,” she says sheepishly.

“My father reached out to the guy to explain what had happened, but the damage had been done. Our local business was still thriving, but the traffic flow from vacationers dropped off significantly. This last year our sales were the worst they’ve been in over a decade.”

Unexpected things happen in business all the time. That’s reality. Not every year can be perfect, and I don’t expect every year to have high profitability. Still, that year was my first year, the year I wanted to prove to my family, myself—hell, the world that I wasn’t just a football player. And now, explaining the article, I suddenly find that I care what she thinks, too.

“I take it your father wasn’t too pleased.” Her tone is softer, as if she knows she’s broaching a subject she shouldn’t.

“You could say that.” Discomfort is rolling off me, and I hate that she can see it. Feeling the need to cut the connection between us, I move over to the window. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. It is what it is, and I’ve spent the last seven months doing what needs to be done to repair the damage and move on.

“Zach.” Warm hands land on my shoulders and lightly run down my arms, causing a slow burn to spread out of my chest. Her hands slip under my arms, wrap around my stomach, and hug me from behind.

The heat of her body presses against mine, and I let out a deep sigh. I know it’s a stupid thought, but other than Kyle slapping me on the shoulder and telling me we’ll get through this, I haven’t had anyone stop and have a moment with me. It’s not that I necessarily need a moment, and I certainly don’t need a therapy-type session where I unload how shitty it’s been dealing with all of this, but I’m surprised how freeing it feels. And of all the people to give this to me, it’s her, this girl I was a complete asshole to, this girl I mistrusted, and now she’s hugging me because she understands how hard things have been. I don’t deserve this from her, but I realize my need to share just a little bit of the frustration I’ve felt outweighs the other tenfold.

“Shelby,” I whisper, her name sliding through me like a balm as it soothes places I didn’t know were sore. Her arms loosen a little, and I turn to face her. Large blue eyes find mine, and in this moment, they feel like complete solace.

Her hands drop to my waist, and my stomach muscles clench at the contact. I love her hands on me and can’t resist running my fingers up her arms to her shoulders.

Reaching the neckline of her shirt, I slip underneath it and push the sleeve off her shoulder, exposing just enough skin to make my mouth water. My fingers thread through her hair at the back of her head and her eyes flutter shut.

Damn, I love her skin, too.

Needing to taste her, my lips fall to the dip just above her collarbone. A barely audible sound rolls through her throat as she tips her head to the side to give me more access. I tighten my grip, locking her in place, and link the fingers of my free hand through hers.

Needing to savor every inch of this girl, I kiss up her neck, over her jaw, and linger at her lips. She leans farther into my chest as she tries to get closer.

“You are so beautiful,” I mumble against her lips. Her eyelashes sweep against my skin as she lowers them, and her fingers curl in the fabric of my shirt.

Sliding my lips across hers, I kiss the corner of her mouth. She lets out a sigh, and I inhale it as my own with every nerve ending standing and waiting in great anticipation of my next move. This girl lights me up like no one has before. I don’t understand it, but I’m embracing it.

“Why do I like kissing you so much?” Her voice vibrates against me, and I kiss her again instead of answering. The feeling is very mutual.

Warmth. Cinnamon rolls. Coffee. Delicious.

The flavor of her mouth reminds me of a lazy Saturday morning, and I want to fall into bed with her and get lost under the sheets. I want to sink every part of me into every part of her and stay there indefinitely. From my fingers into the smoothness of her skin to my mouth into the familiar warmth of hers, I want to bury myself so deep into her there’s no beginning and no end. I want to make her mine. All. Mine. And I want to do it now.

“Wanna go tour the upstairs?” My hand releases hers, slides across her hip, over her ass, and I pull her against me.

“Yes.” Her voice is a whisper, but there’s no hesitation. She’s with me one hundred percent.