Page 4 of Talk Vino To Me

“At any rate,” I say, smoldering in her direction, “since we’re here together, we might as well make the most of this opportunity. Tell me your name again, love?”

Instead of giggling or playing with a lock of her hair, she closes her eyes. Like she’s doing her best not to roll them at me. That... that doesn’t usually happen. Maybe I need to try a little harder with the smolder.

When she opens her eyes again, the honey colored orbs focus on me with a laserlike intensity. She retrieves her hand from my grasp.

“This is exactly the kind of thing you’ll need to work on while I’m here,” she says. “We will need to practice recall. I know a few memory exercises you can try to get yourself back in fighting shape.”

I stare at the cheeky devil for an entirely different reason. Is she serious? Implying that there’s something wrong with my brain?

“After all,” she twinkles at me, “we can’t have the visitors to your winery feeling unhappy because you can’t remember their names.”

“There is nothing wrong with my memory!”

“It’s either that or you don’t care, right? And I’m sure you don’t want to be the kind of business owner who doesn’t care about folks paying their hard earned money to see your property and drink your wine.”

I sputter uselessly in her direction as she looks calmly back. Although she’s not entirely unaffected; her mouth twists in an effort to hold back a smile. Absurdly, I want to see that smile. Even if it’s at my expense. I bet it’s a thing of beauty.

“It’s not that I don’t care, Miss ... Miss...” Fuck. What did she say? Some kind of color? Brown? White?

“You’ve always had someone to remember pesky things like people’s name for you, haven’t you?”

“That’s unfair, love.”

She blinks at my use of that word. Like she wants to tell me off for saying it, but she’s not sure if she should. The woman acts as if I’m no better than a cranky toddler and she’s decided to pick her battles rather than challenge me for calling her a pet name.

I frown at the thought. It’s not as if I’m a child. I’m a justifiably pissed off adult. This is all the fault of that scheming piece of shite. If he hadn’t run off with all my worldly goods, I wouldn’t be in this position. But he’s gone, and until the police find him — and my money — I’ve got to make the most of the only asset I have left.

“Green!” I almost shout as her earlier words come back to me. “Your name’s Green.”

A sly smile crosses her lips. “First or last?”

“What? What the hell kind of idiot parents would name their child Green?”

“This is Portland, Mr. Worthington-Jones.”

I shrug. The lady has a point.

“Surname,” I guess. She smiles and offers me a polite little clap. I bow dramatically, like it’s the last night at Glastonbury and I’ve just finished my encore.

“Well done, you.” Her voice is genuinely warm. Like she’s really pleased that I put forth the tiniest bit of effort. I don’t love that. I’m not such an arsehole that she’s got to reward me every time I manage to do the right thing.

“That feels extraordinarily patronizing,” I tell her, deliberately using the snobby accent I’ve copied from my dad, “but I’m going to accept it nonetheless.”

Ms. Green laughs, and that warm sound oozes into my veins, turning to honey in my ears. I am helpless beneath its onslaught.

How is it that I want her so much, in the space of ten minutes?

It’s been so long since I thought about being with someone. I resigned myself to that part of my life being over. But now I’m standing in front of my guest room door, with a sweet little minx laughing at me, and damn me to hell if I’m not ready to play the clown, just to keep that glorious sound coming my way. The soft smile on her face and the sparkle in her eye have got me. I’m a mess, all foolish and aroused, like a teenaged boy.

“It’s nice to see you being, well, nice.” She smiles, full on, showing all of her teeth like she means it. The pleasure on her face makes her look younger. I can see that girl who used to sit in her bedroom, listening to Courage play her favorite song over and over. I wonder which was her favorite. Broken Roses, probably. She seems like a power ballad kind of girl.

“I can be nice,” I scoff, as if I’m offended. “If I’m so inclined.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“It’s simply that I find being naughty is so much more fun.”

Ms. Green is giving me a look somewhere between exasperation and amusement. That innocent, open look she had a moment ago is long gone. Absurdly, I miss it.

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