Page 9 of Taken With You
She said, “Not yet.”
“I hope you like cheese omelets.” He shook the pan, sprinkling shredded cheese. “This is all I have in the house. I promise you a better meal next time.”
Of course there’d be a next time, though the thought left her unsettled. As partners, they’d share many a lunch meeting in this cozy kitchen, the light dimmed by the redwoods that shaded the cabin, the clock ticking, the rustle of the wind in the pines, and the smell of melting cheese filling the space, riffling up old memories of other homes and one particular farm.
She’d better learn to be cool with it. “How was your trip to New York?”
“Long.” With a flip of his wrist, he folded the omelet and pressed it down with a spatula. “My marketing guru is arranging a launch party for the winery in late October.”
“A party?” She sank against a counter. “This year?”
He slipped the omelet onto a plate and prepared to make another. “Is that a problem?”
“It seems premature.” With a pinch of a headache, she thought of all the work that needed to be done in the next two months just to get the harvest in and processed, never mind organized for public viewing. “I might be able to get the place up and running, but it definitely won’t be ready for tours.”
“The invites will mostly be my family, some friends. We’ll invite a few vintners, maybe some press, if Shelley—my marketing head—can rouse their interest.”
“You want the local press here when everything is still in chaos?”
“Shelley wants the community to see the ‘before’ picture, the historic place in its rustic condition. We’ll talk about the history and frame the future as if it’s a gritty start-up.”
“Okay.” Why, when she was around him, did she always have to gulp deep breaths like she’d been running? “As long as all I have to do is show up in a decent dress, I’m good with a party. But my focus has to be on getting the harvest in and the juice bottled.”
“Agreed.” He slipped the second omelet onto a plate and shot her a look that made her chest tug. “Division of labor is what makes partnerships work, Amanda. Speaking of partnerships, follow me.”
Plates in hand, he led her out of the kitchen down a narrow hall into a newer addition to the century-old cabin. Once out of the dim hall, she pulled her gaze away from Garrick’s flexing trousers to squint at the light pouring in through a bay window. The view took in the slope of the Cedar Ridge hillside, the terracotta roof of the winery below, as well as the swooping lines of vineyards. She absorbed the beauty of it as the piquant scent of wood oil from the redwood walls filled the sun-warmed room.
“I thought we’d be more comfortable talking in here.” He stood by a cluster of cushioned chairs by the ashy fireplace. He’d already set napkins and forks on the coffee table, as well as glasses of ice water beading with condensation. “After we eat, you can sign your life away.”
His teasing half-grin unsettled her, so she focused instead on the thick sheaf of papers on the table. The front page of the partnership agreement boldly proclaimed their names in large print. They’d negotiated the terms over the phone during the past week, in conference with a corporate lawyer she’d hired…but she still had one last question.
Garrick waited for her to take her place and then he sat across from her, tucking into his lunch. His oxford shirt gaped, showing the working of his strong throat.
She said, “Why are you doing this, Garrick?”
He paused with his fork midway to his mouth. A bite of egg dripped cheese back onto the plate.
“Investing in a winery,” she specified, turning her fork over and over as she watched his face, “with a complete stranger.”
“You’re asking me this question now?”
“The state of shock has receded.”
Those midnight-blue eyes narrowed, and a new wave of prickly heat washed over her.
“I believe I answered that question on the first day we met,” Garrick said. “It’s an investment. I invest in lots of different businesses.” With his fork, he pointed to the pen lying on the papers. “I’m part owner of a company that makes pens that light up in the dark, too.”
“So…light-up pens make a profit?”
“These do, since I took over the company.”
“That’s fortunate.” She stopped fiddling with the fork and took a sip of water, just to hold onto something, slippery as it was. “But most small wineries are on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“I know. The price on this winery was lower than I expected. I did due diligence.”
“Then you know that a winery like this may not show a profit for years.”
A slow lift of eyelids. “I’m a very patient man.”
