Page 1 of Talk Vino To Me
Dez
The dusty, rock covered driveway rattles the car we’re traveling in like a stormy ocean. I take a deep breath and try to not let it bother my stomach. I was too nervous to eat this morning, and I’m regretting that second cup of coffee. Feels like it’s sloshing around in my guts, just waiting for the opportunity to embarrass me. I can’t imagine a less attractive first impression than puking on my new client’s shoes.
I’m still pinching myself. I cannot believe we managed to secure this client. Ian Worthington-Jones is the former bassist for Courage, the biggest emo band of the nineties. He’s retired from rock stardom and is now shifting over to become a professional celebrity brand. His first venture, believe it or not, is opening a winery.
While Ian’s been off the radar for a bit, I’m certain that InWard Joy Winery is going to be successful. That’s not just twenty years of being an IWJ fan. That’s my determination to make it so.
“We’re here.” Daphne Washington, the agent for most local celebrities, parks her SUV in front of a fancy-looking farmhouse. When she said we were going out to wine country to meet with Ian, I thought the place would be more, I don’t know… rustic. It’s clearly not a sleek city condo, but the house is surprisingly elegant, with stone fencing along the property line and an endless vista of grapevines.
“I should warn you. He’s a bit of an ass—” Daphne catches herself. “He can be a challenge.”
“Understood. That’s what you hired me for, right?”
She smooths her tall hair back from her face and sighs the biggest sigh I’ve ever heard from a person so short. “Right. I just don’t want you to take anything he says personally.”
I’m about to reassure her I have plenty of experience with difficult clients and absolutely won’t take anything to heart when the door to the farmhouse opens, and out walks the literal man of my teenaged dreams.
Well, not just him. Two attractive pale blond women who might be twins emerge, giggling and running just fast enough not to get caught, followed by Ian himself.
Ian’s hair is long. His dark brown curls are lightly streaked with grey, and graze his broad shoulders in a casually tender kiss I instantly envy. Though he’s shirtless, covered in muscles and rippling abs, his sharp features stop me in my tracks. His face is transformed from the stern frown that stared down at me from my teenaged bedroom walls to the beautiful smile now taking over.
Ian snaps a towel at one of the girls. “That’s for making me do that stupid move earlier. I nearly blew my back out!”
His voice is a curious mix of his parents’ accents. I remember reading an article on Teen Dream Machine explaining that while his father is minor English aristocracy, his mother is a literal Southern belle from Tennessee. An actual beauty queen.
The blondes dance away, laughing themselves silly. “Try harder to keep up next time, old man.”
Ian flips them off. The two women slide into their SUV, still laughing as they zoom off down the long driveway.
Daphne and I get out of her vehicle, and walk toward the house. The smile that lingered around Ian’s mouth turns to a frown when he sees us. By the time we reach the door of his palatial farmhouse, it’s become one of his equally famous scowls.
“Daph.” His voice is gravel and rust tumbled in a dry cocktail shaker. “What the fuck is this?”
“Good morning to you too, crab ass.” Her tone is mild, despite the attitude she gives him right back. “Don’t act like this is a surprise.”
“I may have agreed to see you at this ridiculous hour,” he grouses, checking his watch. “But I don’t have to be happy about it.”
“Stop being a baby and let us in.”
He turns his gaze on me. But not just any gaze. I get the Ian Worthington-Jones special. It’s a slow, measured look from the ground up that sends heat spiraling from the soles of my shoes up to my ends of my hair.
He scans every inch of my body, studying me like I’m a subject he intends to master. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes promise all kinds of wretched, filthy things I cannot wait to experience. Whatever he wants to try, I volunteer to let him do once every day and twice on Sundays.
“Dez Green,” I say, holding out my hand. Ian ignores it, turning back to Daphne.
“Well,” he drawls, turning back to Daphne, “she’s prettier than the last babysitter you tried to stick me with. Thanks for giving me something nice to look at.”
“Ian —” she interrupts.
He keeps going like she never spoke. “Now send her back wherever you found her.”
Dang. They say never meet your heroes. I’m beginning to understand the wisdom of that advice. On the plus side, his words are like a cold bucket of ice water on my instant lust.
That’s a good thing, too. For a second, my inner teenager was about to throw herself on the altar of this rock god and worship him to his face. My outer thirty-nine year old, though, is another matter. She’s got better ideas — and knows how to handle spoiled rich clients.
“Mr. Worthington-Jones,” I tell him, drawing his dark eyes back to me, “I understand you don’t want me here. I also understand that you don’t have a choice in this matter. So you might consider coming down off that arrogant high horse before you hurt your aging back.”
Daphne chokes back a laugh as Ian scowls in my direction. I give him my sweetest, sunniest smile. For a millisecond, it seems like he’s going to smile back. But it disappears so fast I’m not sure it was ever there. Then he takes his saucy smirk and turns back to his manager.