Page 37 of Twin Babies For The Grump

“Mhm. That’s what I’m going with,” says Owen. His hand slides down, settling on my neck, then dropping down to my waist. He tugs me forward. I suppose that it’s late enough, he’s trusting there’s no one to spot us around here.

My cheeks go bright red. I glance about just to make sure. When I look forward again, Owen is right there, bent down, leaning in for a kiss. I can’t help myself—I kiss him back.

“You’re not going to let me go back to work, are you?” I ask.

“No, I’m not. I thought you could come in for dinner. If you really need to feel like you’re accomplishing something, we can discuss the Grapefest,” he says, turning and heading into the house.

He clearly expects me to follow him—and that’s exactly what I do. I follow him up the steps and into the house, basking in the crash of cool air that hits me.

“God, I didn’t realize how hot it was,” I say.

“That sounds like someone is asking for a cold drink,” says Owen. He leads me into the kitchen and heads over to the fridge. Two glasses are pulled from the cabinet and set down. “Red or white?”

My heart skips a beat. Shit. I work at a winery. All we do is taste wine. This is backfiring on me seriously fast.

I try to avoid the question. “Speaking of red and white, we’re going to have those samples up here for you tomorrow. I think that they’ve put together a white and a red, and a third one. I have it written down somewhere, but they tried to match the palate options that you gave us during your first week.”

“I can’t wait,” says Owen, pulling a bottle out of the fridge and turning it in his hands. “Everyone’s looking at the current season. But I really think that it’s going to be best if we just do it by taste. When was the last time that you had a wine with almond?”

“I think that the pear will go well with it,” I say, sliding onto one of the black and metal bar stools. I brace one arm against the top of the marble counter. “But the citrus one, that’s where I’m placing my bet.”

It’s a strong move, making a wine with concentrated lime and honey hints, raisin, and orange as the background highlights. That’s not something that most people are going to think of, but I’m excited. And then the oak aging in the barrel? Just one more finishing note on top.

It’s a shame I can’t actually try it right away. But I know that it’s going to be a prize winner.

Owen nods. “I think we’re going to pull in strong with that one. White tonight?”

“I’ll pass,” I tell him when there’s clearly no other way around. “But thank you.”

He pauses and then tilts the bottle toward me. “We can do red instead, it doesn’tneedto be white.”

“I’m going to pass on the wine altogether,” I say, hoping that he’ll just let it slide.

He doesn’t. The man is like a dog with a bone at times. He puts the bottle back into the fridge and turns toward me. “Are you still feeling that sick?”

Shit.

It’s a twofold hit.

If I say yes, then he won’t ask why I’m not drinking… But I have no doubt that he’ll make me stay home from work again tomorrow. And I really, really don’t want to do that. There’s too much preparation that needs to be done for the Grapefest, and I get the feeling that Macy is having a blast with my recent absence.

I’m given a brief break from the conversation by the dogs coming in. They charge into the kitchen, Tipsy nearly barreling Owen down when he rises onto his back legs and plants his front paws on Owen’s chest, giving him a series of licks.

Owen laughs. “Did you just realize we were home?”

“No,” I say, smothering my own laugh. “It’s a distraction tactic!”

Blanc has come running into the kitchen. While Owen was busy loving on and trying to fend off Tipsy, she grabbed the hand towel that was looped over the handle of the oven door and has taken off with it.

“Shit!” Owen shoves Tipsy down and takes off after Blanc. Normally I would offer to help, but I’m too busy appreciating that I’ve been saved from having to reveal what’s going on pregnancy-wise.

I sit there instead, listening to the sounds of the two racing through the house, and laughing when Owen finally does come back in, victoriously holding up the hand towel and huffing slightly. But that was exactly Blanc’s mission; to have a good chase.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, tossing it down onto the island counter.

“You looked like you had it all under control,” I counter, smiling.

Unfortunately, while it cut off the conversation, it doesn’t stop him from just picking a bottle himself—red—and pouring us each a glass of wine.

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