Page 55 of Inflame

“What did you think?” I ask the group, while we exit and place our feet back onto solid ground.

“Loved it,” Angie answers first.

“You did well planning this,” Claire agrees. “I didn’t even know this was an option to go all the way to the canyon.”

I nod and smack hands with Graham’s outstretched one.

“So, I thought we could visit a winery and have lunch at their restaurant,” I suggest.

Claire looks at me with curiosity. “In the desert?”

“Yup. It’s pretty unique.”

“Let’s do it,” she chants.

Angie’s smile beams. “Sounds amazing. Wine is my love language.”

Graham looks at her with mirth in his eyes. “I thought”—he bends to whisper something in her ear—“was your love language.”

Angie blushes and then smacks his arm, mouthing, “Stop.” We all laugh over their exchange.

I pull out my phone to text the limo driver that we are ready to move on to our next destination. Within seconds, he pulls up to the front of the building and helps the girls into the backseat.

The Desert Rose Winery is a half hour away but worth the drive. It is smack dab in the middle of the dusty plain and offers the only greenery seen for miles. I have no idea how anyone is able to grow grapes in this type of climate, but I am excited to try out the harvest.

“Mr. Hoffman,” the hostess greets, “it is our utmost pleasure to meet you and your guests.”

“Thank you,” I respond with a nod.

She is pretty enough and from her eyes directed at me, I can see that she feels the same attraction. I feel Claire moving closer to me without even looking down at her. It is her scent that gives her away. She smells like a fresh baked vanilla cupcake, and her little spark of jealousy makes me smile. I wonder if she has sprouted any claws.

The hostess glances away and when her eyes slide back to mine, she appears to be back into her professional mode. “Follow me, please.”

The tour options did not appeal to me when I had Kylie first call to set up a reservation, so I negotiated with the owner myself to set up a table at their on-location restaurant so we could partake in watching the head chef make a twelve-course meal of mini favorites. In addition, we will later learn about wine making and be able to make our own blend for testing and bottling.

“This is our very own Chef Mason Brunson,” the hostess introduces, her hand sweeping out toward the man in all white. “He will be taking over your tour of the kitchen, as well as teaching you about the process of making our restaurant’s favorites.”

“Hi folks, I’m Mason. I’ve been in the restaurant biz for about twelve years and my claim to fame is that I was the personal chef for Gemma Valco.”

“The two-time gold medalist gymnast?” Claire asks, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Mason’s eyes light up. “The one and only.”

“She’s from NoVa,” Claire adds. “Just a town over from me. But I was too young to remember her Olympic wins.”

“After she retired, I was fresh out of culinary school and looking for work. What are the chances of setting my résumé on fire with her name attached to it? It was a dream job,” Mason reminisces.

“I bet,” Graham says with a chuckle. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

Mason pushes open a door marked for employees only and steps back to grant us access. “Follow me and I’ll show you my office.”

When we enter the air-controlled room, we are surrounded by stainless steel. Every surface and device seems to shine. Several workers are shimmying pans and stirring sauces. The aroma alone makes my stomach growl.

“Are there any dietary restrictions in the group?” he asks politely.

When Claire doesn’t speak up, I lean in closer to whisper in her ear. “Want me to pretend I hate beef?”

She looks up at me and grins. “I’m going to cheat today. This food is going to be too good to pass up.”

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