She didn’t look convinced. “Wandering around, doing what?”
“Some measuring—”
“You don’t need to check my measurements,” she interrupted with a spark of her trademark pride.
“Yeah, I do. That’s my job.” To illustrate that that’s why he was here—work, his job, nothing personal beyond a favor to his brother’s widow—he gestured toward the women in the wine-tasting group. “We’d both better get back to it.”
He went to work, starting down at back, taking measurements for the repositioned doorway between the tasting room and the winery, checking out the storage room she wanted gone, then working his way back down the room. Checking against her—detailed and accurate, he conceded—draft plan, making notations, setting up a work schedule in his mind.
And all the while aware of her voice, like the soft, rich melody of background music, as she went about her business. As he worked nearer, the hum of that voice took on the shape of words, then sentences, then the full commentary, and Seth reached three fundamental conclusions.
She knew her wines. She knew her audience. Her job in this tasting room married the two.
Oh, and yeah—if he took on this job, he was a masochist.
Squatting on his haunches to check the cypress flooring—it was making way for slate tiles and although well-worn, it might be salvageable for resale—he felt the passion for her work and for her wines play over him in warm, velvet notes. Not a good position with all that wine-talk flaring through his body.
Shaking his head, he stood. But being a masochist, he decided to observe for a few minutes, out of her line of vision but close enough to listen in as she finished up the current wine and selected another bottle.
She poured a small measure into each glass as one of the red-hatted crew—who were all dressed in various shades of purple—expounded her knowledge of big California reds.
“I think you’ll appreciate this cabernet sauvignon,” Jillian interjected smoothly when the expert paused to draw breath. “It’s our ninety-eight reserve.”
“My husband says cabernet is a man’s wine,” a woman commented. “And we don’t have the palate to appreciate it.”
“Carol, isn’t it?”
The fiftyish-looking woman nodded.
“Well, Carol, your husband might be interested in the Human Genome Project which showed that women, in fact, have finer palates. As a gender—” she paused to smile conspiratorially at the all-female group “—we’re better at sensory evaluation.”
“No kidding?” Carol grinned back. “I told Jim he was talking horse-spit.”
He watched Jillian temper her smile. “The ‘man’s wine’ comment is interesting since cabernet sauvignon is regarded as the king of red grapes. They make into wines that are big and bold and full-bodied. Some might say those are masculine attributes—others might think that’s a sexist viewpoint. Or simply horse-spit.”
They all laughed, Carol longest and loudest.
“And there are some women who prefer those qualities in their wine,” Jillian continued. “What about you ladies?”
“I like my men big and bold and full-bodied. Does that count?”
More laughter, and since the joker looked prim and ladylike and had to be pushing eighty, Seth grinned, too. Amused by the interplay, intrigued by Jillian’s easy rapport with the group—another facet he’d never been privy to—he leaned himself against a thick vertical support beam, crossed his arms and settled in to enjoy the show.
“Do you like the big wines, Jillian?” another woman asked.
“When I’m in a certain mood, yes. Other times I’m in the mood for something more elegant and refined. Less ballsy, if you will.”
“You must have a preference though,” the woman persisted. “What’s your favorite of the Louret wines?”
Jillian lifted a glass, tilting the angle until the opulent ruby color of its contents caught the light. “You’re about to taste it.”
“So, you’re feeling ballsy today, are you Jillian?” Carol asked.
No, Seth decided, as the warmth of the group’s laughter rolled through him. That didn’t describe her current mood. Ballsy was Monday when she’d galloped that monster horse up the hill. Today she was more relaxed and supple and confident.
“Pinot noir,” he suggested softly.
In his peripheral vision he saw a dozen red hats swivel in his direction, but his eyes were fixed on Jillian as she carefully placed the glass back on the bar and even more carefully turned his way.
“Why pinot noir?” she asked as her eyes met his. No wariness there, more a watchful stillness, as if she held her breath while she waited for his answer.
“My interpretation of your mood.”
Wow. Between the impact of those dark chocolate eyes fixed on hers and the complexities of his answer, Jillian could find no ready response.
Assuming that his pinot noir call wasn’t some off-the-cuff pick-a-wine retort.
Later, she would stew on that. Possibly for days. For now she needed to concentrate, since this tricky group was already firing questions at their new quarry.
“Do you think cabernet is a man’s wine?” Carol wanted to know.
“What’s your opinion on that gender research project Jillian mentioned?” another asked.
“Are you a wine drinker?”
“Have you ever done a tasting with Jillian?”
She really did need to concentrate, since she somehow heard that as “tasting of Jillian.” And the notion of Seth’s mouth on hers, on her body, tasting her…
Oh, boy. Instant dizziness and disorientation. Her mouth turned dry. Her hand shook as she reached for water and took a quick mouthful, washing away the taste of full-bodied wine and the forbidden heat of her thoughts.
Better. Except the women of the Golden Elms Red Hat Social Club looked set to drag Seth over and into their tasting circle. Making a time-out T with her hands, she raised her voice enough to be heard above the hubbub. “Ladies, let’s give Seth a break.”
Thankfully—and surprisingly—they quietened. Enough that when Kitty spoke, her cultured little lady’s voice chimed as clearly as silver on crystal.
“Is Seth your man, Jillian?”
Please, Lord, let me slip through these floorboards and disappear.
Of course the good Lord wasn’t listening. No doubt because of her previous sinful thoughts about tasting. And because she couldn’t look anywhere near Seth until her face stopped flaming, she focused on the faces
