Page 22 of Love You More

The space opens like curtains flung open to the morning sun. A broad circular drive takes cars on a loop past the tidy rosemary hedge maze, where visitors can drop their cars at a valet station that’s currently unattended. Most wineries don’t have valet parking, but most wineries don’t usher guests through an archway of grapevines into a week’s worth of wine tasting, pampering at the bed and breakfast spa, and fine dining at two restaurants.

The Corbett family has built a destination winery, and the entrance gives off a “your vacation starts here” sort of vibe.

The farmhouse itself fans out in all directions with vineyards as far as the eye can see. By the time I get to the door, a sweaty dribble runs down my back. I’m about to open the door to the winery when it swings open, and I find Jackson standing there.

He doesn’t look pleased to see me, tipping his head to the side and grimacing. “You again?”

“Nice to see you too,” I quip, trying to push past him into the entryway, but he blocks it with his broad shoulders, leaning his forearms against the doorframe like a cactus. If I want to get around him, I need to slither past his muscles.

“Six in the evening. Right on time.” I hold up my phone as proof.

He shakes his head. “I made a bet with myself that you wouldn’t stick around twelve hours later for a job you don’t want.”

“Sounds like a sucker’s bet either way.” I give him my brightest red-lipped smile and slide beneath his elbow, brushing his lats with my hand as I pass by and sending shivers down my spine.

The cold air inside the room hits me as soon as I enter, which is a good thing because he just set my hand on fire.

Once inside, I don’t need to check in with a receptionist or otherwise announce myself because Dashiell Corbett is there waiting for me. He looks like a younger, less polished version of Jackson, if Jackson shed his computer for a surfboard and had pale blue eyes like the sea. One stray lock of hair hangs down over his forehead, obstinate.

“Ruby?” he asks.

Extending my hand, I shake his. “Yes. Hi.”

“Dashiell Corbett. Thanks for being here. Heard there was a mixup earlier.”

“Yeah, my fault.”

He dismisses the thought with a flick of his head, which succeeds at tossing the lock of hair out of his face. It falls back immediately. Appreciate you coming back.” He gestures around the entry with a flick of his fingers in both directions. “This is where people come to check in for tours and tastings. Pretty much the staging area for everything that happens next around here—shuttles to the restaurants or the inn, walking tours, the whole lot.”

He talks as he ushers me down a different hallway than the one that led to Jackson’s office. “Mostly offices over there, but here’s the part that always gets a lot of oohs and aahs from our guests.”

He hauls a heavy barn door along the iron rod that holds it over an archway. Sweeping it aside, he reveals a small wine cave, its walls heavy plaster with arched cubbies where wine barrels sit with candelabras on top. The air in the room drops by at least ten degrees, and for the first time all day, I feel a chill. And equal parts awe.

Nodding at my wide eyes, Dashiell nods. “Right? Showstopper.”

“It’s gorgeous.” I step farther into the room and take in the wrought iron chandeliers, circular with candle-shaped lights twinkling atop them. Rustic wooden benches line one wall of the windowless room, which somehow doesn’t feel dark because of all the sparkling lights and large swaths of backlit stained glass.

Dashiell walks me closer to one panel, pointing. “You know how churches often tell the story of the saints in their stained glass? This tells the story of our family and the winery.” He nods and points me to the next panel, where fields of grapes are pictured under a sunlit sky with a lone farmer gazing at the harvest. “It’s a little much,” he admits quietly.

“It’s perfect for this room, and I’ll bet people love it.”

“You’ve got that right. Tourists eat it up. You give ‘em a story about early California folklore, dustbowl days, and hearty Americans working the land and dreaming of better days, and they’re all in.”

The difference between Dashiell and Jackson is like night and day. He has such an easy rapport and a clear enthusiasm for the customer-facing side of the business. I can immediately understand why he’s the one conducting interviews and Jackson is stuck crunching numbers in his office.

But instead of feeling more drawn to Dashiell’s easy way, I find myself thinking about Jackson, wondering what he’s doing right now. Wondering if it was an accident that he happened to be there when I arrived just now.

And that’s plain crazy since I only spent an hour with him, and he mostly tried to dissuade me from coming back for the interview and taking the job.

I run a hand over the rough-hewn bar top that contains a homey display of silver picture frames, each showing the farmhouse and grounds in different eras. There are family photos as well, and I find myself trying to pick out Jackson in each one when Dashiell starts talking again. “I understand my brother advised you against this job.”

“He had strong opinions,” I confirm.

Dashiell nods. “I’m of a mind to disagree with him in matters of staffing, so that works in your favor.”

“Ah, so it’s a good thing he told me to take a hike.”

“But he’s also right. You’re overqualified for the job. You don’t need to study viniculture to pour wine for guests all day, and I don’t want you to get bored and quit in a week.”

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