Page 17 of Talk Vino To Me
I make the proper noises, but my brain is on autopilot. I don’t even notice that we’ve hung up the call until I pull the phone away from my face.
Twenty years of work, gone, just like that. All that so-called saving for my future he encouraged? Gone with the wind. The foundation I planned to create? A phantom.
So much for my legacy. So much for building a life.
Daisy’s face flashes before my eyes. Fuck me. She’s gonna kick me to the curb if she finds out about this. There’s no way she wants to be with an idiot who let himself get taken advantage of. Who was too arrogant to check on what was happening with his assets.
This winery really is all I have. I need to make this work, if I’m going to have any chance with her at all.
Otherwise, I can kiss the best thing that ever happened to me goodbye.
Dez
We’re finally here. Opening day for InWard Joy Vineyard and Winery. Because, as our spiffy brochures point out, those are two different things. Just one of the many points of trivia guests will learn as part of the tour that Ian’s staff will take them on. After a bit of negotiating with the lawyers and the Connor Group — they were surprisingly reluctant to agree; something about tetanus or whatever — a select few will get to try out the grape stomping experience. Although obviously no one else’s will end quite the way mine did...
I close my eyes as a full body flashback hits me. I can recall every touch, kiss, and lick in exquisite detail. The way Ian slid inside my body, filling me up perfectly. Him calling me his perfect girl, the way he —
“Where on earth is your mind, sweet Daisy?” His low whisper hums in my ear and dances over my skin. “From the look on your face, I’d say it’s descended to the gutter.”
A hot blush rises in my face even as my nipples tighten and my core throbs at the sound of his voice. I shut my eyes and attempt to compose myself before I turn around.
Which is a waste of time, because damn. Ian looks so smoking hot I can’t even think straight.
He’s dressed in a striped button down, and jeans that fit so well they ought to be a crime. He’s left the top two buttons undone, showing just enough skin to stir up some not so dormant fantasies, and turned up the wide French cuffs to show off those forearm muscles I drooled over during our photoshoot. That shirt hugs his torso like a second skin, hinting at the sleekly muscled body underneath. It looks so soft and touchable, it must be made from cottontail bunny fur and angel wings. I ball my hand in to a fist so I don’t reach out and stroke it.
“It’s warm in here.” I fib. Ian eyes me with mock pity. I can’t blame him; it’s a sad attempt to avoid admitting the filthy nature of my thoughts. Better try again.
“I was thinking,” I say instead, “that it’s an absolute miracle to see you with a smile on your face instead of a scowl.”
“I’m not always a cranky bastard, darling,” he purrs. “Some days I’m merely a bastard.”
I roll my eyes at his foolishness, although I can’t deny how much I like seeing this new, playful side of Ian. It feels like getting a peek behind the curtain of his rock star persona. My younger self would’ve given anything to know what he was really like after too little sleep and too much caffeine. Remembering the reason for his lack of sleep makes me blush all over again. I pick up a brochure and fan myself, as if I can swish those memories away with a stiff breeze.
We survey the mild chaos swirling around us. The staff bustle around putting all the last-minute touches in place. The place has been utterly transformed.
Ian wants InWard Joy to be a real blend of his life. Not just celebrating the height of his celebrity, but all of him. I think we’ve managed it. I found a florist who was happy to incorporate cuttings from the vineyard into the tabletop display. They’ve become the star of today’s event. Almost all the decor is natural. I was surprised and pleased when Ian insisted on it. But he refused, in his words, “to faff about with a fuck ton of frilly shit” that he couldn’t even re-use, and the massive bins he would need sent him over the edge.
The food, too, was Ian’s idea. He was determined to combine the native foods of the Pacific Northwest with his English and Southern roots. On that score, at least, The Connor Group was happy to go along with our vision. They’re providing catering of locally sourced food prepared from the Hotel D kitchens. They even helped us to source sustainably made dishes and glassware, as well as compostables for one-off events like today. Their head sommelier helped us choose which dishes would go best with the wine.
“How are you so calm?” I ask him. “Most of my clients are absolutely frantic on the first day, even when we’re doing a soft opening.”
“Everything’s ready,” he says, almost to himself. “I’ve done my part. I have to trust that everyone else has done theirs. I let go and let the universe take control.”
“Is that why you were out of bed by five, riding around the property?”
He grins, not at all ashamed to be caught out. “Well, I trust the universe, but Mother Nature is another story.”
Kel, another member of the Behind Closed Doors staff, is in charge of the day’s schedule. She approaches us now, ushering us toward the arriving golf carts full of guests.
Many of the folks on the guest list are Ian’s friends and family. Over a long career, he’s acquired quite the list. We’ve also used the Courage fan clubs, running a contest, and have flown out the winners to come visit the winery and receive a special edition of their twentieth anniversary album.
We’ve sent nearly three hundred invitations. About half have RSVP’d, though because it’s a less structured kind of event we aren’t sure if folks will simply show up. We’ve made sure to have tons of food just in case, and found a place to donate leftovers if there’s too much. I’ve also arranged for several local food and wine reporters to be here.
“Do we have time for one more trip around the property?” Ian asks Kel. She’s a pro — utterly unflappable. Even though we both know there’s no way we can manage it.
“Let me check,” Kel replies. She steps away and consults the schedule, making sure there’s nothing on there that can moved at this late date.
“Ian, whatever happened to letting the universe take control?”