one look at her suit and high heels the day of the interview and said, “You look nice, but if we hire you, I don’t ever want to see you in a suit again. We’re beyond casual around here.”
Such was the joy of working for two millionaires who’d made their fortunes in the tech world. Will and Flynn didn’t stand on ceremony like those in the wine industry. They shunned hosting black-tie, sequined events. And then there was her third boss—Slade.
“I’m sorry I didn’t dress for the office.” She gestured in the region of his fabulous tie. “I was trying to move the last of my things to town.”
“That’s all right.” His accepting tone contradicted his disapproving expression. “Did you feel the earthquake a few minutes ago?”
“I’m assuming you’re not talking about my car’s unique way of shutting off.” She gave him her best smile-and-laugh-with-me one-two combo, scoring a point when he smiled back, even though the Goth girls blanked her. “I may have felt something coming down Main. I thought it was bad gas knocking.” Not hardly. She’d thought her old beater would suffice and had given up her lease on the Audi. She was in penny-pinching mode, living here with her grandmother, saving for a down payment on her own vineyard. She wouldn’t have given up the Audi if she’d known her college car was in desperate need of a tune-up or a new engine or a trip to the scrapyard.
“It’s a toss-up whether it was your car or the tremor,” Slade deadpanned. He turned to the girls. “These are my daughters—”
His? Get out of town!
“Grace—” Slade gestured from one girl to the other “—and Faith.”
“So that was your wife leaving?”
“Ex,” he said curtly.
Immediately, Christine wished she could take the question back. Slade probably thought she was digging for information to see if he was single. What she really wanted was reassurance that Slade was more interested in the substance of the wine she made than the image he presented to the outside world. The wine industry attracted almost as many grandstanders as Hollywood. She didn’t care if Slade wore a parka in this heat, as long as their vision for their wine meshed.
Slade smoothed his tangerine-colored paisley tie. “After our tour, we’ll head over to El Rosal for a cool drink. Or some ice cream.” This latter part she assumed was an offer for the twins. Little did Slade know Christine liked ice cream almost as much as she liked wine.
He led them into the tasting room, the girls trailing behind Christine like silent wraiths. How their quirkiness must upset the balance in Slade’s otherwise balanced life.
Everything in the tasting room smelled of new construction, of sawed wood and fresh paint. The otherwise empty room had a large blue marble counter, behind which was a built-in oak buffet. And blessedly, they’d installed air-conditioning.
“Is that original?” Christine ran a hand over the buffet’s polished wood. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is. We were able to save much of the planked flooring, as well. This house was built over one hundred years ago by Jeremiah Henderson. The property remained in Henderson hands until we bought it earlier this year.” He spoke as if he was behind a lectern, coolly enunciating every syllable. No awkward pauses, lisps, or stutters.
The poor man is so personality-free it’s sad.
“It’s been remodeled,” he continued, “and had additions over the years, but this room is the original front parlor.”
It wasn’t every day a man used the word parlor in front of Christine. It drew her gaze to his perfectly formed lips. She licked her own, her gaze falling to his feet.
His loafers weren’t knock-offs. The workmanship and shine practically screamed Italian. “We also have a bathroom and a full kitchen here.” He led her to the rear of the house.
She passed through a doorway, dragged her gaze from the feet she was following, and fell in love. “I want to live here.”
Baby-blue marble countertops, soft white cabinets, and a double-wide porcelain farm sink. They may have built this place out in the boonies, but they’d spared no expense. Christine could hardly wait to start talking about the wine-making equipment they’d be purchasing.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” His smile was unexpectedly humble. She would have bet on chest-thumping pride. “The office space is upstairs.” Slade led her up a narrow staircase. “We couldn’t see a way to widen these without losing valuable space below. The footprint of the house is only one thousand square feet.”
The office was open, empty space with front-facing dormers and soft blue walls. The windows had no coverings, allowing the sun to beat in and suck the life out of the air.
“We didn’t think about desks until after the remodel was almost finished, so we’re having furnishings custom-built. I hope you like them.”
“Whatever you get will be fine.” She’d work on a plywood desk held up by sawhorses in exchange for the power over all wine-making decisions. “What about the—”
Slade put a finger to his lips.
That was when she noticed they were alone.
Soft whispers drifted to them from downstairs.
Slade smiled broadly, like a papa bear finding joy in his cubs.
Whoa. Mr. Perfect loves his Goth girls.
It surprised Christine so much she was sure she reflected his grin right back at him. The humanness—so unexpected—explained why his everyday-guy business partners put up with him.
The whispers stopped.
“You’ll get blinds or something up here, I assume.” Christine quickly filled the void.
“Plantation shutters.” He was still smiling at her, as if they’d shared a private moment and he wasn’t ready to let the feeling go. “Let’s check out the main winery.”
Maybe he wasn’t all staid ego and self-image. Maybe he’d had a business meeting earlier. Maybe he’d had a meeting before every time she’d met him previously. That would explain why she’d never seen him without a tie. But there was something about his rigid posture that negated that hypothesis.
From the farmhouse, they crossed the circular drive toward a barnlike structure on the same property. They’d only just broken ground on it when Christine first interviewed. She hadn’t imagined it would look so welcoming and yet be so huge, nestled amid row after row of grapevines.
Untended, overgrown grapevines.
The road to harvest wouldn’t be easy.
The heat pressed down on her once more, like heavy hands on her shoulders. Christine didn’t know how Slade could stand wearing a tie. The only concession he’d made to the heat was rolling up his shirtsleeves, revealing well-muscled, tan forearms.
Christine stepped through the forty-foot high double doors into the cavernous, blessedly cooler would-be winery. The new-construction smell was less noticeable here with the doors thrown open. It was empty, just metal support beams,
