Drink Me Up
Synopsis
My life is like Romeo and Juliet. Except instead of being in love, I want to break Romeo's nose. My family has always been rivals with the Banthams. We both make top-tier wine. We both don't know when to back down. Darius Bantham ESPECIALLY doesn't know when to back down. He's been flirting with me since we were teens. But it doesn't matter if his smile lights up a room, or if his dark eyes make me shiver. I hate his guts. So when I'm forced into spending a week with him at a wine seminar that's a chance of a life time, I'm not happy. But he is. Darius doesn't care that we're enemies. And when he finally gets me alone, he makes me a hot-whisper of a promise: that I'm going to love kissing him. And as much as I hate it... He's right.
Drink Me Up Free Chapters
Chapter 1 | Drink Me Up
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I’m standing at the entrance to the social and professional event of the season, holding a bag packed with all the luxury clothing I specifically tailored for this weekend. Outside, it’s a gorgeous spring day at the mountaintop hotel and spa where we’re meeting. The bright sunlight highlights the rolling green lawns outside, up to the slopes of the still-snowcapped mountains and the glittering bright blue lake beyond, which is so still it’s the mirror image of the mountain above it. I’m holding a ticket for this exclusive, sold-out event, filled with everyone I’ve waited years to meet, to impress…
And I couldn’t be angrier.
Because across the sweeping stonework hotel lobby from me, standing at the VIP check-in counter like he owns the damn place, is Darius Bantham.
Of all the people I could have found here…
I don’t realize my fists are balled until someone steps up beside me and clears their throat. “I take it you’re as little a fan of the Banthams as I am?”
I startle out of my reverie and force a neutral smile onto my face. Dammit. The only thing less professional than allowing Darius Bantham’s presence to get under my skin right now is to let him get so far under my skin that other people notice. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I reply, my smile as wide as I can force it under the circumstances.
Beside me, a shorter man in a buttoned-up suit, his hair sprayed into a crisp wave, winks conspiratorially at me. “Of course not. There would be no reason whatsoever for Holly Spring to be glaring daggers at the son and heir apparent to the family who just took out a four-page magazine advertising campaign to smear her parents’ vineyard.”
My cheeks flush bright red, but I laugh, too. For all his forwardness, the guy is funny. “I’m afraid you have the advantage on me,” I reply. “You seem to know all my dirty laundry, and I don’t even know your name.”
He offers a hand and a dip of his head at the same time. “My apologies for the ambush. It’s Tony Chambers, Ms. Spring.”
I take his hand and shake, my smile widening. “Ah, now that I recognize. The local chef who’s been getting all those great write-ups lately. The camera-shy one.”
“That’s me.” He winks again as he releases my hand. I can’t help but notice the way he subtly removes a handkerchief from his pocket immediately afterward to wipe his palm, though. It feels like a dig, but I tell myself he’s probably just a germaphobe. “And I’m not camera-shy,” he continues. “I just didn’t think any of the candid angles the reporters from our local beat used suited me. Call me conceited, if you will.”
I shake my head. “Nothing wrong with wanting to look your best, especially when it’s running in print.”
“Glad you understand.” His gaze drifts back toward Darius Bantham. “Not all of us can be tall, dark and handsome over here.”
I snort under my breath, mostly to conceal the fact that my blush is spreading.
Because he’s not wrong. Whatever else Darius may be, Darius is smoldering hot. Like, half a head taller than me—and I’m a really tall lady—with cheekbones that could cut glass, a perfect dusting of stubble to accentuate the hollows beneath them, and the kind of lips that would be sexy as hell if they weren’t always twisted into a sneer of some kind.
But I’m not attracted to him—I can’t be. Not with the shark-like family he comes from, who would stop at nothing to advance themselves, even—or perhaps especially—if it means trampling on every other vintner in the region to get to the top. My family seems to have earned a special place in the Banthams’ hearts when it comes to such sabotage, though. Ever since my father was invited to present our wine at a special competition in Napa Valley nine years ago, where we placed second, a surprise upset since we overcame many, much more famous and older, more established vineyards to do so, the Banthams have had it out for us. They weren’t even invited to that competition, let alone able to claim second prize.
Our farms are only a few miles apart down in Paso Robles, California, the region everyone is hailing as the latest and greatest in winemaking. Until we came along, the Banthams held the undisputed title of best new winery in the region.
We threaten to upset all that, and that, apparently, is an unforgiveable sin. Ever since our Napa near-win, Darius’s father Martin Bantham has gone out of his way to bad-mouth us in the press, poach our workers out from under our noses by offering to pay them triple the salaries we do (and then usually reneging on his promises the moment they hand in their notice and quit our farm), even once going so far as to “accidentally” knock over an entire shelf of our wine at the local grocery store. He claims he tripped into it, but a couple of my father’s friends run that store, and they both swear they saw him checking the aisles for witnesses just a few minutes before the shelf came crashing down.
But all of that seem petty, just local concerns that shouldn’t be occupying my mind right now. Not when I’m here, on the brink of a weekend that could change everything for us.
Here at the SoCal Wine & Food Festival, held every 5 years for the whole region to attend, everyone who’s anyone in Wine Country is ready to put their best foot forward to the celebrity chefs and restaurateurs in town. There are enough famous multinational restaurant owners here that one good showing at this festival can put a winery on the map for good. All you need is for just one of these fine dining stars, like Alexander Microff for example, whose fifteen restaurants across North America, Europe and Asia have twelve Michelin stars between them, not to mention two of those fifteen have been regularly listed as the 8th and 9th best restaurants in the world for the past several years running.
He’s also the star of a new Food Network show, Cooks in the Kitchen, where he trains other up-and-coming chefs around the globe, giving them the kind of hardnosed, blunt advise that makes for an entertaining show, but also really does improve the owners’ restaurants too.
“What I would give for even half as sharp a jawline as that,” Tony Chambers is saying, still ogling Darius across the room.
I realize I am too, but only when Darius glances our way. Even across the expanse of the stone-tiled, high-ceilinged lobby, I can feel the heat of that stare. He’s always had that way of looking at people—like he’s a mind reader, seeing right through your skin to peer into your skull.
Well, if he’s reading my mind right now, he’s not going to like what he finds. I narrow my eyes and draw them away from him, peering around the room to make it pointedly clear that I’d rather look anywhere but back at him.
Still, I can feel his gaze lingering on me, long after I force my eyes away. “I don’t know,” I hear myself saying aloud to Tony. “I’ve never been into the pretentious types.”
“Not even to look at?” Tony counters, one eyebrow raised in a way that makes me laugh and shake my head.
“Okay, maybe to steal a peek or two. But nothing more. Otherwise, I’ll stick to the reliable-and-hardworking types when it comes to making new work alliances, thank you very much.”
“Well, just your luck then, because reliable and hardworking are my favorite words.” Tony grins. “And I’m in the market for a vintner to team up with. I need some wine pairings to really ensure my food stands out this weekend.”
“Funny, I’m in the market for some restaurateurs to team up with to impress the chefs in town.”
“I’ve got my sights on Microff,” Tony says, as if reading my mind. “He’s got the clout, not to mention the celebrity, to put anyone in here on the map. Presuming they deserve to be on said map, of course,” he adds, not without another sly glance in Darius Bantham’s direction.
My smirk widens. “We’ll definitely have to talk more soon,” I say. “You’re a man of a similar mind.”
We exchange cards, and I’m just bidding him farewell when Tony glances over my shoulder and lowers his voice. “Don’t look now but you’ve attracted some unwanted attention.”
At the same instant, I feel a warm hand come to rest on my shoulder, in an all-too-familiar way. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” comes a smooth, deep baritone voice.
My stomach sinks, but at the same time, I can’t deny a spark igniting in the pit of my belly at the warm sensation of his skin against my bare shoulder, his hands calloused, no doubt from working on the vineyard with his parents. I know I’ve got similar rough spots on my own hands, ever since my father’s knee injury earlier this year forced me to take more of a hands-on approach at the farm than I have in the past.
That’s why I’m here today, in fact, rather than him or my mother. They felt it was time for me to step up into the role I’ve been training to fill my entire life, the role of heir to the Spring Valley Vineyard. This weekend is a test for me, just like the Napa competition a few years ago was a test for my father. If I perform well here, if I give us a good name and increase visibility for our brand, that will reassure my parents that I’m ready.
Since they’re creeping ever closer to retirement age, it’s important for me to reassure them as often and as well as I can, that things will be all right once they step down to relax, the way they deserve to.
Belatedly, I shrug my shoulder to dislodge his hand. “As a matter of fact,” I say, “You were—”
“Not interrupting at all,” Tony interrupts quickly, a broad grin plastered on his face. “Holly and I were just finishing our chat. Holly, catch you soon?” He flashes me one last trademark wink of his, then saunters away toward the general mill near the elevators, as people head up to their rooms to finish checking in.
“Good to see you out and about,” Darius says, undeterred by the cold sideways glance I shoot him. “It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” I mutter under my breath.
He must not hear me, though, because he doesn’t reply except to ask, “Can I help you with that?” Darius bends to pick up the weekender suitcase I’ve been standing next to before I can move a muscle, or refuse. “Which way are you headed?” he adds, peering over my shoulder at the keycard I’ve got clutched in one fist.
I sigh and relent, figuring there’s no avoiding this now. “302,” I reply. “But I could carry that myself, you know.”
“I’m well aware you could,” he replies, but leads me toward the elevators anyway, my bag over his shoulder, his own over the other shoulder. It looks like he packed even more than I did, just for one weekend here. “I’m glad to see you here, Holly,” he says as we walk, me trailing behind him. But walking behind him only affords me an even better look at his backside, which in turn is distracting me because wow, he chose some slim-fitting suit pants, and it is very obvious that his ass is tight as hell. It also raises some questions about what other new muscles might be lurking beneath the suit of this man, who looks so very different from the scrawny teenager I used to chase away from our farm on the back of my bike (on my father’s orders of course). “I was expecting to see your father instead.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell Darius’s back, eyes now fixed firmly much higher than his ass, just in case he turns around and mistakes this for me checking him out. “I plan to give you just as much hell as my father would if he were here.”
“I’d expect nothing less from a Spring,” Darius replies, shooting me a grin over his shoulder, and the kind of wink that’s so much more arresting than Tony’s. Tony winks like a kid letting you in on a secret. Darius winks like a man who knows you have something he wants, and he’s intent on claiming it from you. “But I’ve a feeling being given hell by you will be a far more pleasant experience.”
My belly tightens, and I catch myself breathing a little faster. Especially when the elevator doors open and we squeeze in side-by-side, the press of people around us enough to force us into close quarters. His side presses against mine, and even through his suit I can feel the warmth of his body, the hard steel of his muscles. “I’m just here to do my job, Darius,” I tell him, my voice lower due to the crowd around us.
He dips closer, until I can feel his breath against my cheek. “Who says you can’t mix a little pleasure with your business?”
“Who says I’d be interested in that?” I shoot back, eyes narrowed.
“Well, it was difficult to miss you checking me out in the lobby just now,” he replies, voice dipping even softer, so I catch myself raising up on tiptoes and tilting closer to him just to hear his reply.
I force myself to stand back on my flat feet and lean away from him. “I was not checking you out.”
“My mistake. So you weren’t staring at my ass either, just now, I take it.”
My cheeks flare red-hot. “I was not staring—”
“Too bad,” he says, with a lingering glance down the curves of my body. “Though I must confess, I certainly was. That skirt is extremely flattering on you, I must say. The way it hugs your assets…” His hand brushes my waist, and the heat in my belly travels lower now. I can practically feel the muscles in my pussy tightening in anticipation, even as my mind tells it to cool the hell off.
I twist around to plant my backside against the elevator door, even as it dings open. A few people press up against us to scoot around. More than one shoots a disapproving glance in our direction, mouths downturned as they exit. I have no doubt they overheard what we were saying. Or at least, what Darius was.
I elbow him as the door closes once more, leaving us alone. “This is a professional event, Darius. I’m here to work, and to make a good impression on people.”
“Well, you certainly do the latter. I don’t see why me stating that fact out loud makes a difference.”
“Because,” I hiss, frustrated, “I don’t want people eying me like I’m just some skirt to chase. I came here to make a name for my family’s vineyard. I came here to win this competition.”
“Well, I came to win something else.” His gaze drifts down my body again. “I have to admit, you’re a more appealing prize than anything else on offer this weekend.”
Just then the elevator dings open on my floor. I practically leap out of it, grateful for the reprieve. But at the same time, his words confuse me. “Don’t you care about Bantham’s reputation?” I ask, one eyebrow lifted.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Our wines speak for themselves. They need little help from me along the way.”
That doesn’t sound like the Banthams I know. Not like his father, anyway. “So why did you even bother coming, then?” I ask, a little more coldly than I intended.
His gaze catches mine, and holds it. “I heard an old friend was going to be here, and I couldn’t resist the chance for a weekend alone with her. No parental chaperones in tow.”
My cheeks are practically on fire now. “You did not come here for me, Darius. I don’t believe that for a second.”
He lifts one shoulder, lets it fall. “Believe what you want. It’s the truth.”
I stride up to my door and extend a hand for my bag. He hands it over, and I plant one hand on my hip, as I twirl my hotel card with the other. “Well, if you did, then I have bad news for you, Mr. Bantham. Because I don’t view us as friends, old or new. The last thing I want right now is to deal with you trying to distract me. So I’d suggest you take a hint and stay out of my way this weekend. I’m here to make sure my family’s vineyard gets the notice it deserves; to make sure we crush our competition. Your family included. Actually, no. Your family especially.” I narrow my eyes. “So goodbye.”
With that, I yank open my door and step into my hotel room.
But my triumph doesn’t last long. Because as soon as I cross the threshold to slam the door behind me, I hear the lock of a neighboring door turning. A second later, there’s a knock on the small door that connects my bedroom to the next one along.
A pit forms in my stomach, along with a sinking suspicion. But I cross the room and open the connecting door anyway, as the knocking continues.
Sure enough, Darius is standing in the hotel room beside mine, smirking. “Seems like fate is on my side, this time. At least when it comes to room assignments. I apologize, but it’s looking like it will be difficult to obey your command to stay away from you this weekend, given where I live. But if you’d like, I’d be happy to cater to any other desires you may have…”
“Fate can shove it,” I reply, glaring at him. “You stay in your room and I’ll stay in mine.” With that, I slam the door in his face, my blood boiling.
But at the same time, and somehow worse, I can still feel the tightness in my stomach, the tension below my waist. God dammit, when I press my legs together, my traitor panties even feel a little bit damp, just from those few seconds when Darius had his hand around my waist.
I am not giving into him, I tell myself. But even so, as I set about unpacking, ignoring the overly loud crashing sounds Darius is making next door as he no doubt does the same thing, I can’t help thinking about the look on his face when I opened the door connecting our rooms. The piercing, knowing gaze of his. The way he seemed to drink me in from head to toe, like he could never get enough of staring at me.
Ignore him, I tell myself. But I wonder how long I’ll be able to do that…
Chapter 2 | Drink Me Up
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“Dad,” I answer, a grin already on my face. “Before you ask, yes, I have a plan for getting us on the map. I’ve already been networking with one of the chefs here.” I twirl Tony Chambers’s business card between my fingertips, one eye on the name of his restaurant. La Saveur. A bit pretentious, sure, but the card is minimalist, and from the reviews I’ve looked up on his place since our brief conversation out in the hallway, he’s already making huge strides toward putting his restaurant on the map. Which is saying something, since it’s in an area that’s really popular for foodies already, and a difficult place to make a new name for yourself, with so many old established restaurants to compete with.
I’m thinking I’ve chosen a winner as our first pairing potential. But the weekend is still young, and I’ll have plenty of other chances to network still.
I will not let Darius Bantham’s presence ruin this weekend for me. Nor will I let him distract me enough to stop me from doing my job—putting Spring Valley Vineyard on the wine map. Possibly an even more difficult map to get noticed on than the foodie one in this valley.
“That’s my girl,” Dad says on the other line, and though I’m sure I can detect a smile in his tone, I also don’t miss the slight groan at the end of his sentence, presumably as he readjusts himself on the couch.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, unable to mask the worry in my own voice.
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” my mother calls down the line, which is clearly on speakerphone, I realize now. Par for the course when you’re talking to either one of these two. “He’s just bellyaching again because I’m making him change positions on the couch for once in the entire day.”
“I’m injured!” my father protests.
“You’d heal faster if you did the stretches the doctor recommended,” Mom scolds, and I laugh, interrupting before they can derail this any father.
“While I’m glad to hear Dad’s on the mend,” I say, only to be interrupted in turn by his snort of derision.
“It was barely a flesh wound.”
“Right, that’s why you’ve been laid up here moaning all week,” Mom says.
“I assume you guys did call to talk about the wine?” I add, glancing up into my hotel room mirror to catch my own grin in the reflection.
“We just wanted to check in,” Mom takes over now. “See if registration went all right, ask if you were settling in okay. If this feels like too much, Holly, just remember, you can call us anytime. We’re only a couple hours’ flight away. If you need me to come, I’m happy to abandon your father to his misery here.”
“Well, I’d have been perfectly happy to fly up there in the first place, if you two hadn’t convinced me I needed the healing rest,” Dad rebuts. “They do have wheelchairs at the airport, you know, and I have this walker from the doctor I can use.”
“His stubbornness aside,” Mom puts in, “What we’re trying to say is that we don’t want you to feel like you’ve been thrown in the deep end without a lifeline. I know this is a big event, so…”
“Relax, guys.” I shake my head, eyes rolling a little in disbelief. Even though this is classic my parents—give me a responsibility and then panic that it was too much and spend the next few weeks second-guessing and offering to take it back—it still surprises me that they can be so worried. After all, they’ve been training me my entire life. If they can’t trust me to take over now, when will they be able to? “I’ve got this covered,” I say. “And if I need any tips or anything, I’ll call you both first thing, I promise. But honestly, so far the weekend has been off to a great start.”
“What all have you done so far?” Mom asks, sounding relieved.
“Well, just checked in,” I admit. “But I met this new up-and-coming chef in the lobby, so first connection of the weekend seems solid.” I fill them in on Tony Chambers, and they agree he sounds like a great bet as a restaurateur to team up with for the food and wine pairing competitions. After that, I go over the usual gossip—how Alexander Microff looked when I glimpsed him in the lobby, which of my parents’ friends are here in attendance. Dad’s arranged for me to meet a couple of his best friends from the business for dinner tonight, so I reconfirm the details with him.
Finally, just as I’m about to hang up, I catch Mom coughing pointedly. Dad clears his throat, and my stomach sinks. Suddenly, I know what’s coming.
“Are the Banthams showing their faces this year?” Dad asks, and my fists clench involuntarily at my sides just at the very thought of Darius.
I press my lips together for a moment and cast a sideways glance at the smaller door inside the hallway of my hotel room. It suddenly looks very flimsy and thin. Not much of a barrier at all between me and Darius, son of our worst nemeses.
Then, unbidden, the mental image of him standing in that doorway smirking at me through the door I’d cracked open fills my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the sharp cut of his jawline as he grinned at me, or the way those dark eyes of his slowly drank in my body, lingering all over me like he was memorizing every inch of me.
A shiver runs down my spine, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Oh, the things I’m sure Darius Bantham could do to me…
Things he already offered, right up front. I’d be happy to cater to any other desires you may have… His deep baritone voice plays on repeat in my head, impossible to forget.
“Holly?” Dad prompts, and I forcibly shake my head to yank myself out of my reverie.
“Oh, just the younger. No Bantham Senior or Mrs. Bantham in sight.”
“Darius is there,” Dad replies for clarification, and if anything, he sounds angrier about this than about Darius’s parents.
“Yeah, but don’t worry, I can handle it,” I say breezily. Wrong take, apparently.
Dad’s tone darkens. “Just remember who those people are, Holly. What they’re capable of.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes a little, even though I do agree with him. “I know, Dad. Ever since Great-Granddaddy Spring lost three quarters of his land to Darius’s great-grandfather in that poker game—”
“That rigged poker game,” Dad clarifies. “Everyone in town agreed afterward there was no mathematical way Henry Bantham could have played the hand he did. He had extra cards hidden up his sleeve, played a dirty damn trick to swindle our family out of our inheritance.”
“Ever since then, the Banthams have played dirty, and we’ve gotten the brunt of it. I know, Dad,” I repeat.
“It’s not just some old family grudge,” he answers me, stubbornly, as though he can hear the exasperation in my tone. He probably can. We’ve had this conversation more times than I can count. Normally it gets my blood boiling too, but tonight, after my conversation with Darius—after drooling after him while he shamelessly hit on you, a tiny voice in the back of my mind counters—it just exhausts me instead. I don’t want to be involved in some epic ancient blood feud. I just want to do the job I came here to do. Get more publicity and notice for our wines. Wines that can stand all on their own, and deserve the notice.
“Martin Bantham spent the better part of his adult life ruining this family,” Dad is ranting. “And you won’t believe the latest article I read from him in the Paso Robles Tattler—do you know he’s blaming us for the crop blight on the Merlot vines right now? He claims I imported some foreign bug during my last research trip down to Chile. More than that, he’s claiming I did it on purpose, like I tracked down some invasive species and then let it lose in my own damn backyard just on the off chance it would infect my neighbors’ vines too. The damn nerve of him—”
“Well, if that’s all for the night,” I interrupt with a bright smile, “I’ve got to go get back to that whole networking thing we mentioned. Not to mention get myself ready for this dinner with Mr. Cartwright and Mrs. Kent tonight. Any tips on what to wear, by the way?”
Mom jumps back on, clearly also eager about the change of topic. “I do love that black dress you packed, the ruched one with the cap sleeves,” she says.
Poor Mom. I’m sure she’ll be getting a further earful about Martin Bantham’s crimes as soon as I hang up the phone, because once Dad’s in a ranting mood, he can carry on all night if he takes a mind to it. I feel bad for her, but not bad enough to stick around for long. “Thanks, that sounds about right. Talk to you both later then?”
“Just be careful,” Dad says, still grumpy, I can tell by his tone. “I don’t trust any of those Banthams farther than I can throw them. And that Darius kid is shaping up to be a spitting image of his old man. If he doesn’t try pulling the same kind of dirty stunts Martin does this weekend, I’ll eat my crutches.”
“Don’t eat them yet; I’ve a feeling you’ll need them,” I answer drily.
“Go have fun, sweetie,” Mom says. “I’ll make sure your father doesn’t eat any of his medical appliances.”
“It’s an expression,” I can hear Dad grumping when I hang up the phone.
With a groan, I collapse back onto my bed, staring at my ceiling. Now that their voices have faded from my ear, I feel all too aware of the silence from the room next door. How thin are the walls? I’ve been in my room for a couple of hours, but I haven’t heard anything from next door. Which is for the best. Probably means there’s plenty of insulation.
No way Darius could have overheard that conversation, then. At least, so I hope.
But it also leaves me wondering where he is. Whether he’s in his hotel room right now, just a few feet away from me, and if so, what he’s doing in there. Is he thinking about me too? Is he also aware of how thin the door between our rooms is?
If I walked over to that door and knocked, would he spring up to answer it?
And if I asked him to make good on that promise… I’d be happy to cater to any other desires you may have… What would he do?
Unable to help myself, I picture the rock-hard, muscular body Darius must be sporting underneath that tight-fitted suit of his. Then my brain takes off on its own, imagines those dark eyes of his boring into mine as he runs those strong, warm and calloused hands of his over my skin. I picture him tracing his palm down the expanse of my belly, sliding one hand under the hem of my skirt as his fingers reach for my panties, delve beneath them.
I picture him kissing his way after those fingers. Pushing my skirt up around my waist so he can bury his face between my thighs instead. And suddenly I realize I’m wet all over again, picturing Darius spread-eagling me across this bed and eating me out until I screamed. At least I know these nice thick soundproof walls would hide my voice when I screamed his name…
Dammit, Holly.
I’m supposed to be working. Not fantasizing about my worst enemy. An enemy my own parents just oh-so-pointedly reminded me is probably going to try to sabotage me this weekend.
What if him hitting on me was all part of his game? What if he wants to get into my bed and then… What? Steal trade secrets?
I shake my head, forcing the wild thoughts out. Don’t get carried away. That would be a ridiculous move, even for a Bantham. Besides, it’s not like I have some deep dark trade secrets I’m hiding. The key to our wines’ success is the same thing that’s the key to every other vintner’s success story—good terroir, taking proper care of our vines, and processing the wine the best way we know how. Simpler is better when it comes to wine, my father always says. The flavor complexity doesn’t come from fancy techniques or secret ingredients—it comes from loving your work, and doing it the best you can. You can taste that love in the final product, our wine.
All I need to do is share that love and that wine with the world now. Which will be simple, with the right people on my side.
Head screwed on straight once more, I square my shoulders and roll off the bed, heading to my closet. I’ve got a dinner to prepare for. And an arch-nemesis to forget about in the meantime.