Page 51 of One Week Wingman

I catch Roxy’s blank look. “That means they’re maturing,” I explain. “Some vintages are best fresh, but others should age for five, ten years, even longer to make the grapes taste their best.”

Franco nods. “I have a 1985 merlot down there,” he says.

“Wow, that’s going to be amazing.”

“Saving it for the first grandkid,” he adds, with a look at Natalia.

“And that’s my cue to leave you to it,” she says with a laugh. “Enjoy the tour.”

Franco takes us down to the cellars. He’s still not exactly friendly, but he can’t contain his enthusiasm when he’s telling us about the grape varietals and how they’re stored and processed.

I struggle to keep up. Not because I’m not fascinated by his work, but because Roxy is walking just ahead of me in the dim, narrow hallways. Her hips sway with every step, and her choppy hair barely brushes the tops of her shoulders.

How am I supposed to focus on anything else?

“Everything is natural,” Franco is explaining. “No pesticides, or additives polluting the grape.”

“Natural wine is a real movement,” I agree.

“It’s not just a fad,” Franco says. “It’s the way things should be done.”

Suddenly, Natalia’s voice calls down the stairs. “Dad? It’s Giorgio on the phone.”

Franco makes a harrumphing noise. “My idiot cousin,” he explains. “I won’t be long. Look around.” He takes a few steps and then stops. “Don’t touch anything,” he adds, warning.

He leaves, and Roxy looks around at the barrels. Suddenly, the cellar seems far more intimate with just the two of us in the dim light. “So all of this work goes into serving douchey frat-bros on a Friday night?” she asks.

“You better not be serving them Modesto wine,” I tease. “It’s a waste on their palates.”

She smiles. “So how does the magic happen, exactly?”

Well, you put on that dress, for starters…

I clear my throat. “Well, the simple version is, it’s all about the interaction of the grape juice and the yeast,” I tell her. “Fermentation. The sugar and grapes turn into alcohol and then you have wine.”

She nods, trailing her fingertips over the rows of dusty bottles.

I want her touching me like that.

“And different grapes make different types of wine?” she continues, flashing a glance over at me.

“Some are tart, some are sweet.” I agree, barely paying attention. All my focus is on the way the shadows are caressing her skin, golden in the dim light.

“What about if we’re both?” she asks with a flirty smile.

“I’d have to taste you to find out,” I reply without thinking.

She freezes. I think for a moment, I’ve fucked up and gone too far, but then she meets my eyes, and the desire there is clear to see.

She wants me.

The realization crashes through me. All this time, I’ve been trying to keep my hands to myself, thinking she’s off-limits. That this is just an act to her. That I’m the only one going out of my mind with lust.

But she wants me. And goddammit, I’m only human.

I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms. She melts against me with a gasp, already reaching to lock her hands around my neck as I kiss her like my life depends on it.

Because right now, it feels like it does.

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