Page 7 of Talk Vino To Me
“I do. I’m Dez.”
“No.” Her eyes narrow, and she taps her chin. “Not Dez. Something with a flower. Dahlia?”
“Daisy. Daisy Lynn Green.” I don’t know why I’m giving her my entire government name, like she’s the school principal and I’m a wayward student.
“Daisy! Yes!” She claps her hands and satisfaction. “It’s cute. Simple. Like sunshine.”
“Daisy?” a masculine voice intones. I close my eyes and tip my head back, willing my body to melt into the floor. I deliberately didn’t tell Ian my real name. Yet here we are in precisely the scenario I wanted to avoid.
“Yep!” I add an extra dose of cheer into my voice. “Yours truly is a Daisy. It probably won’t surprise you to learn my nickname in high school was ‘FreshAz,’ will it?”
I stop talking when I turn around and nearly swallow my tongue whole. Ian wears low-slung jeans that make it clear he’s not wearing anything else. His dark hair is tousled, the waves and curls more pronounced than I’ve ever seen them. And for someone who hunted down approximately nine million pictures of him during Courage’s heyday, that is saying something.
His chest and feet are bare, and tiny beads of water slide down his pecs in gentle cascades. I suddenly want to be a towel with all my might.
“Ian!” Marta’s voice interrupts my fantasy. “It’s good to see you. Selling wine now, hmm?”
His tight smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.” Got to diversify the income. You taught me that.”
“Glad you’ve finally listened. Which reminds me: you weren’t still with Arthur Kent when he?—”
Ian makes a vague gesture in my direction, then mimes zipping his lips. I’m not sure why he wants her to keep quiet about someone I don’t even know, but whatever. Maybe there’s some super secret rich people code he and Marta exchange, and us regular folks aren’t allowed to be part of it.
“Marta,” I give her a big smile. Not going to make a fuss over their secrets. “It’s wonderful that you and Ian know each other. I imagine that familiarity makes the shots go more smoothly.”
“It can.” She gives Ian a frank appraisal. “Or it can make it harder, because they know I won’t put up with spoiled star bullshit.”
I blink. She laughs at my expression.
“Ian’s a good boy, though. Very cooperative.”
I blink again. Surely we aren’t talking about the same man.
“Only for you, lovely Marta.” He’s practically purring at her. I roll my eyes at his shameless flirting and turn back to her.
“We should head back to the tasting room.” I suggest. “We’re excited to see what you think of the space, Marta. I know how good you are when it comes to images of people, but I’d love to see what you do with the product. Have you done much commercial photography?”
We discuss the campaigns she’s done while Ian gets a shirt on and slips into a pair of loafers. He gives her assistants directions to the tasting room, then helps them load everything back into Marta’s van for the drive over.
About an hour later, everyone is settled into the space. Marta is mumbling to herself as she takes shots of the wine bottles, making slight adjustments between pictures. She shows us the images on her computer; they’re looking good.
“These are wonderful,” I say honestly. “I like the mysterious kind of effect you’re creating here. But I wonder if we could play with something?”
“Hmm?” Marta asks. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe some moody black-and-white of Ian’s hands around the bottle? We could do some with his guitar in the background, or just using the signet ring he always wears? Courage fans will recognize it. And then you could put his signature on the image in post?”
I draw a quick sketch of what I mean on my iPad. Marta is silent for a few minutes, weighing my concept. I cross my fingers, hoping she’ll be into it.
“I like it,” she finally says. “Let’s try.”
As she and her assistant set up the shots, I organize Ian, finding his ring and rolling up the cuffs of his seersucker shirt, so his forearms show.
“Interesting concept.” I look up, sure he’s teasing me again, but his eyes are sincere.
I shrug. “The wine is what’s on sale, right? We should emphasize that. Not you, so much.”
He laughs soundlessly, but doesn’t say anything more. I examine his hands. The nails are in good shape, but he needs a bit of moisturizer. I reach my bag, retrieving my precious tube of La Mer hand cream.