Page 26 of Love You Always

Archer turns and catches me gawking. The corner of his mouth quirks up into a half grin, the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile thus far.

Finishing up his conversation with a few quick directives, he leaves the men behind and strides over to where I feel rooted to the earth. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” I say, dizzy at the nearness of him. I blink and let out a long breath, mentally talking myself down. “I thought if the offer for a tour still stood…but you’re probably busy.”

Glancing back at the men working forklifts outside the cellars, he shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

“Really? I don’t want to be a waste of time when you have a winery to run.”

The blue of his eyes deepens, and he looks almost angry. “Nothing about you is a waste of time.” The intensity of his words seems to surprise him, and he looks away.

I want to just roll with it. I’m used to people who are awkward around celebrities and it’s easy enough to flash the America’s sweetheart side of my personality to put them at ease. But a part of me doesn’t want to put Archer Corbett at ease. I like his intensity, especially when it’s directed at me.

“Okay, then. Show me what you’ve got, slugger.” I flash him a smile and take two exaggerated steps toward the cellar before his expression relaxes and he catches up.

“You’re trouble, you know that? I really should be working, but this is more fun,” he admits.

I nod. “How often do you allow yourself to have fun?”

“Almost never,” he admits.

“Shocking. Okay, I feel better about distracting you, then.”

On our way into the cellar, we pass a shed full of buckets and tools. Archer grabs two clean glasses from a tray on a metal countertop similar to the one in the lab. I follow him up a set of stairs to a massive cellar, where the air temperature drops a good twenty degrees from outside. A narrow wooden plank floor runs between rows of giant round metal vats under the slanted roof of the cellar.

Archer opens one of the vats, its lid lifting to reveal a swirl of dark red grapes fermenting in their own juices. He waves some of the vapors toward us with one hand. “Have a sniff, but don’t get too close because there’s a lot of gas in there and you’ll get a face full.”

I don’t back far enough away, so I’m assaulted by the intense scent of something between ripe and rotten fruit. It takes effort not to gag. “Smells…good.”

Archer’s low chuckle echoes under the bare beams of the ceiling. “Not yet it doesn’t. At least to most people, and I’m sorry to say, darlin’, you don’t have much of a poker face.”

“Fine. It’s awful. Do you disagree?”

“I’m just used to it. Smells like bacterial progress to me, and this one with the high intensity and heat coming off the top is nice and ripe.”

“Yeah, it’s ripe all right.”

Archer closes that vat and opens a few more as we make our way down the row. Each one smells slightly different, or maybe I’m just getting used to the smell of fermenting grapes. When we reach the far end of the room, another staircase takes us down to the cellar, where massive metal tanks stand floor-to-ceiling. Each one has a tiny spout on the front, and Archer wastes no time opening a tap and pouring some wine into each of our glasses.

He waits as I take a large sip. I immediately wince at the sickly sweet liquid and can’t force myself to swallow it. I stand there, cheeks inflated with the too-large sip of awfulness. His eyes dance in amusement as I decide whether it’s appropriate to pour what’s left of my wine on his head. “You can spit it into the glass. It’s okay.”

I let the wine dribble from my mouth indelicately. “Whatwasthat?” I ask.

“Very young wine. Nearly all sugar.”

“You think?” I wince at the layer of sugar still coating my tongue. Archer walks to one end of the room and comes back with a bottle of water, twisting off the cap before handing it to me. I gratefully slug down a gulp of water, then another, but it’s not lost on me that he bothered to loosen the cap. Something Callum would never do. Then I admonish myself for comparing them.

“Sorry. I should’ve warned you before you tasted that one, but the look on your face was priceless.” He takes the bottle from my hand and shoves it into the front pocket of his jeans.

“I will find a way to exact revenge.” I stand tall, but that stillputs me at a foot shorter than his muscled frame, and I doubt I look very imposing.

He smirks. “The rest of these are more mature, taste like the wine you’re used to.” We walk to the next tank and Archer pours out the wine that was in our glasses without sipping the vile sweet wine himself.

When he puts them aside and pulls out two fresh glasses, I stop him. “You don’t need to waste two glasses. I’m happy to share to save someone washing them, I mean, if you’re okay sharing a glass with me.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he nods, putting one glass down and pouring a few ounces of white wine into one glass. He swirls it around and lifts it up to what little light beams down from the bare overhead bulbs. “I think you’ll like this one better.”

He holds it out to me, and our fingers brush as I take the glass by the stem. A jolt of awareness hits my skin at the contact with his, and when I lift my eyes to his, it’s clear he felt it too.

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