Once Tasted: A Silver Creek Novel (6 page)

M
IA HAD WORKED
through the morning, moving through the blocks, going from vine to vine and cluster to cluster, inspecting the fruit for any signs of rot or mildew. As she went, she wielded her pruning shears, trimming errant lateral shoots and removing leaves that grew too close to the grapes, stealing the sun from them. Whenever she crossed a weed springing up between the vines, she bent down and tore its roots from the tan dirt.

Growing grapes involved cooperation from Mother Nature: a warm sun to ripen the fruit, and an adequate amount of rain to nourish the vines. Vintners dreaded Mother Nature’s nasty temper tantrums. Late-spring frosts wrought terrible damage to the vines’ tender buds; heat waves stressed the plants; prolonged or torrential rains waterlogged the grapes and made them rot. Any of these events could bring tears to a winegrower’s eyes.

A successful vineyard also required two additional things. First, an excellent site—
terroir
—and, second, a vintner who was moderately to largely obsessive. Like her wildly frizzy hair, this was a trait Mia considered she possessed in spades.

Happily, the grapes were looking healthy this year. The bright green clusters of fruit were full and unblemished. Their leaves showed no sign of being munched on by pests or withered by fungi. As long as Mother Nature continued to cooperate and Mia, Paul Cortez, and Roberto Mora, who helped manage the vineyard, were judicious and vigilant in thinning the vines to give each plant the needed energy to ripen the remaining grapes, they were headed toward a good harvest. Mia refused to say the word “great.” She didn’t want to jinx the vineyard’s chances.

At break time, Roberto and Paul, both of whom had worked with her uncle for years, walked with Mia back up the tractor path toward the outbuildings.

The carriage barn, which now housed far-less-romantic equipment—the small tractor and forklift, the grape bins, the dumper, and the crusher—came into view first. Next came the winery. A long building, its end was built into the slope of a hill to keep the cellar’s interior cool. When Thomas and Aunt Ellen had first built it, they’d dreamed of creating a tasting room in the front of the winery. That dream had died with Ellen. Grief had taken root instead.

Though smaller in scale, the staff building, like the other outbuildings, was constructed of redwood. The siding had aged to the color of dark chocolate. The trim and the doors were painted sage green. Climbing roses covered its front.

Ellen had planted the roses when Mia was eleven. Thomas had built the trellises for them, just as he’d constructed the trellises for the first grapes he’d planted in the vineyard, the land inherited from his mother.

Mia had never known her grandmother. She’d died a few years after her only daughter, Serena, ran away. Jay said grief killed her. Jay was skilled at mixing honesty and lies. Mia hated that this was probably one of the
occasions when her cousin chose the unadulterated truth.

Pushing her melancholy thoughts away, Mia inhaled deeply, catching the roses’ lush scent on the summer breeze. It was too beautiful a day to let anything spoil it.

“I’ll see you later, guys.”

“We’ll be in block five,” Paul said, opening the door to the staff quarters.

She nodded. “Maybe I can get Thomas to come down and lend a hand after lunch. I want him to see how nicely the berries are forming.”

As the winemaker, Thomas was by temperament more interested in what happened to the grapes—or berries—post-harvest. But this summer he’d stayed away even more than usual, seemingly content to rely on her updates. She couldn’t understand his growing detachment.

“The vines should put a smile on his face,” Roberto said. “They’re looking good, Mia.”

Roberto wasn’t known for his compliments. Feeling suddenly a little less sweaty and grimy, she waved goodbye and walked up the flagstone path to the back door of the house. Inside the mudroom, she toed off her sneakers and peeled off her socks before padding into the kitchen. The linoleum floor was deliciously cool. A quick glance at the counters showed no new dishes or any other signs of her uncle having foraged for lunch. Surely he was finished in the cellar by now.

“Thomas?”

There was no answer. She moved to the bottom of the stairs and called his name again.

“We’re here, Mia.”

She turned her head. Her uncle’s voice had come from outside. She glanced at the open window. The light wind lifted the linen curtains, making them billow like
sails. So her uncle had stuck to his plan and decided to sit on the porch with Vincent.

A second voice reached her. Recognizing the low, relaxed drawl, she stiffened. And here she’d hoped nothing would spoil her day.

Steeling herself, she opened the front door. Unlike the rest of the female population, she didn’t intend to go marshmallow soft over the sight of Reid Knowles.

As she stepped onto the wide porch, Reid, handsomer than Adonis and twice as annoying, rose from his chair. She refused to be impressed, knowing he performed the courtesy instinctively. His parents had taught him his manners.

He crossed the porch to lean against the railing. “Mia,” he said with a short nod.

“Reid.” She spoke his name through clenched molars. No wonder the women at Spillin’ the Beans and the luncheonette had been aflutter that their number-one “crushtomer” was back in town. He was tanned, and his gold-blond hair was a little shaggier than usual. His chambray shirt made his blue eyes even more piercing. He must have left his razor behind in South Carolina.

Thank God she didn’t like facial hair.

She reminded herself of that fact even as her fingers itched to touch the light-brown stubble covering his lean cheeks in a slow, exploratory drag. Would it feel silky-soft or scratchy?

Stop, her brain commanded. There would be no gawking or fantasizing about what a few days’ old beard would feel like against her fingers, her lips, or any other part of her body.

She told herself to look away. Unfortunately, her eyes were as wayward as her itchy fingers, for her gaze landed just below the straight blade of his nose. If she’d had to describe his lips, she’d have said they were normal, of average width and shape. Nothing special. Until
he smiled. Then Reid’s mouth became a thing of beauty. Outrageously seductive and so very kissable. His smile was like the rest of him: perfect.

A woman would do a lot for a smile from Reid Knowles.

But not her. Her days of dreaming of Reid’s smiles, of longing for just one of his kisses, were in the past.

And, besides, Reid didn’t smile at her. He didn’t even smile
past
her.

He was doing it again, that trick he employed. He’d fixed his electric-blue gaze on a spot just beyond her left earlobe, a neat way of avoiding eye contact with her.

Someday she was going to kick him in the shins, but not today, when her feet were bare. She planned on wearing steel-toed boots when she finally gave in to temptation. She’d had her young heart wounded because of him. No way was she going to break a toe over him.

And no way was she going to start wishing that she wasn’t wearing dirt-streaked, shapeless pants and a baggy button-down shirt that was too old even for Thomas to wear. Even with the breeze it had been hot in the vineyard. She was sure that sweat had darkened the faded bandanna she’d tied about her head to keep her hair from going
sproing, sproing
, Slinky-like, in her face while she worked. Her bare feet were in equally dismal shape. She couldn’t even remember when she’d applied her current coat of polish.

Why was it a man could look better the scruffier and dirtier he was? Were life fair, she should look smoking hot right now. Yet Reid seemed far from caught in the grip of burning desire.

She reminded herself that she didn’t care. She didn’t care how she looked, and she didn’t care what he thought of her. And she hated the little voice inside her head that screamed,
Liar!

Thomas was smiling benevolently from his rocker, seemingly unaware that Mia and Reid hadn’t moved beyond their one-word greeting—and weren’t likely to before the next century.

“Mia, love, Reid and I were just enjoying a chin-wag with Sirrus and Vincent—though Vincent decided he didn’t have much to say to a horse and he left. Such a snob, our cat.”

Horse? It was only then that Mia noticed the dark-gray animal grazing contentedly on the green grass bordering the house’s foundation. As sleek and assured as its owner, the equine hadn’t bothered to raise its head at her appearance. She forgave the horse for ignoring her.

How lowering to realize that Reid exerted such a magnetic force on her that she hadn’t even seen the large animal tied to her porch rail.

Would she have missed a howdah-strapped elephant, too?

A military tank, perhaps?

It rankled that she couldn’t say for sure.

And why was Reid Knowles the only man on earth who could get away with riding his horse over to visit a neighbor?
Normal
people drove cars, rode bikes, or walked. But Reid never did the usual. He did what he pleased.

“Reid’s just come back from South Carolina,” Thomas said, adding, “he rolled in this very morning.”

“Mm-hmm. I heard something to that effect in town.”

“Really? You didn’t mention it,” Thomas said.

She shrugged and allowed herself a small mocking smile. “Not being newsworthy, I guess it slipped my mind.”

For a fraction of a second Reid’s gaze connected with hers. The jolt seared her. Then his gaze shifted to fix on
that damned point beyond her ear. His expression was impossible to decipher.

“Don’t tease the man, Mia.” Amusement laced her uncle’s voice.

“Don’t worry about me, Thomas. I think I can handle anything Mia dishes out. I have a bratty sister, after all.”

Thomas chuckled. Reid’s visit had obviously energized him. He always loved it when Reid came over to discuss winemaking with him and share a glass. And though she had a hard time crediting Reid with much, Mia knew his affection for her uncle was genuine.

She realized that she was still staring at Reid as if he were some masterpiece in a museum. She crossed the porch and sank into the chair he’d vacated.

Unfortunately, that brought her to eye level with his crotch. According to the females in Acacia, and doubtless across the other forty-nine states, the bulge behind the zipper truly was a work of art—a tool worthy of being cast in bronze.

Good Lord, what a thought. She must have had too much sun. That’s why her baggy shirt was sticking like flypaper to her back and the curves of her breasts; it wasn’t from the thought of what Reid’s penis looked like. She forced her gaze to the floor, but of course that involved taking in his casually crossed legs. Drool-worthy muscles stretched the worn denim.

Was there any part of this man that didn’t appeal? Oh, yes, his character.

“I should head off.” Reid directed his comment to Thomas.

“And you’ll talk to Adele and Daniel?”

Because she had yet to tear her gaze away from his jeans-clad legs, Mia saw Reid’s thigh muscle jerk. Had he just flinched?

Surprised, she looked up. Twin comma-shaped grooves
bracketed his unsmiling mouth. My God, the ever-relaxed cowboy was
tense
.

She glanced over at her uncle, who was looking at their guest far too intently. Something was going on.

“Yeah, I’ll speak to them—” Reid broke off and shook his head. “Damn, I nearly forgot why I rode over. Thomas, would you be willing to come and give a wine talk this Friday? It’s for our cowgirls’ weekend. After the talk we’ll hold a tasting.”

“A wine talk. That sounds like fun, don’t you agree, Mia?”

She made her shrug careless. “I wouldn’t have thought the women who sign up for a cowgirls’ weekend would be interested in wine. Shots of whiskey and tequila, perhaps.”

“I think you underestimate the sophistication of our guests.” Reid’s tone had an edge now.

Shame pricked her. She didn’t mean to sound condescending toward women she didn’t even know. Reid simply brought out the worst in her.

Done with her, Reid switched his attention back to Thomas. “The presentation and tasting will be at five o’clock. It’ll be followed by demonstrations in the kitchen from Jeff and Roo.”

Now that she’d heard about the other, less typical “cowgirl” activities scheduled, she wished she’d kept silent about the guests’ tastes. Jeff Sullivan and Roo Rodgers, the guest ranch’s head chef and pastry chef, were incredibly talented. Watching them work would be a treat for anyone.

“Are you sure you’re up to giving a presentation, Thomas? It might tire you out. You haven’t been sleeping that well.”

A flush stole over her uncle’s cheeks. She knew he didn’t like her fussing over him, yet she couldn’t help
but be worried about his insomnia and growing distraction.

“I’m fine, Mia. There’s nothing wrong with me.” But in a sudden imitation of Reid’s, Thomas’s gaze didn’t quite meet hers, leaving her more convinced than ever that something was off with him. Terribly off. The feeling only grew when he said, “But perhaps you’re right. Why don’t you give the presentation, Mia?”

“What?” Mia squawked. And from the way Reid jerked his shaggy dark-blond head, she knew he was equally surprised and unhappy at the substitution.

Thomas spread his hands as if the idea was self-evident. “Silver Creek’s female guests would much rather learn about wine from a woman close to their own age than from an old geezer like me.”

“I—I—” she stammered.

“It’ll be good for you to address an audience, Mia,” he said.

Cod-liver oil was supposed to be good for one, too.

“And, Reid, you’re of course fine with having Mia give the talk?”

Reid’s tanned throat worked, as if he was forcing something bitter down it. “It’s funny—Mom herself suggested Mia.”

Thomas’s smile looked like Vincent’s when he was fed poached chicken. “Did she, now? A smart woman, your mother.”

Mia was busy zeroing in on what had been left unsaid. Despite Adele Knowles’s vote of confidence, Reid had nixed the idea of Mia giving the wine talk. He’d scratched her off the list even before she’d made the snippy comment about the ranch’s guests.