He held out a hand. “Looking for inspiration?”
She could have said he was doing just fine in that department, but that would have violated their nothing-personal rule. So she curled her fingers around his palm instead and let him drag her to her feet. Unfortunately, his perspiration-covered, hard-packed abs were now staring her in the face. Looking down or up wasn’t an option, so she stepped back instead.
“I think I’m getting sunstroke along the way.”
He frowned down at her. “Have you had enough water?”
She held up her bottle. Took a deep breath. “I don’t understand what makes this wine special. I need to know what its key differentiator is to come up with a theme, and to me a Cabernet is a Cabernet.”
He looked down his perfect, aquiline nose at her, as if to ask why she hadn’t said something sooner. “You were with Pedro in the winery,” she said defensively. “I didn’t want to bug you.”
His frown eased. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you know about wine?”
She winced. “Three.” That might actually be pushing it.
He sighed. “You need to understand the process from beginning to end if you’re going to understand what makes the wine special.” He glanced at his watch. “I can give you a tour before my call and shower later. I just need to grab some water from the house.”
They started the tour in the rows of De Campo’s prize Cabernet vines. Maybe it was the passionate way Gabe spoke about the growing process or maybe it was because one of the hottest men on the planet was delivering the information, but wine was getting more fascinating by the minute. This Gabe, the relaxed, visionary version of the man she’d never seen before, was darn near irresistible and it was doing strange things to her ability to focus.
“You still pick the grapes?” she asked incredulously. “I thought there were machines for that.”
He nodded. “There are. For mass production that’s fine, but the machines can’t distinguish between the desirable and undesirable grapes, so for the premium wines such as the ones that come from these rows, we harvest them by hand.”
“Got it.” She nodded toward the vine he held. “So how can you tell when they’re ready to pick? They look ready to me.”
A smile curved his lips. “Try one.”
She popped one in her mouth. “Oh. It’s a bit tart.”
“It needs another couple months for the tannins to mature.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t understand those.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s not the easiest concept to grasp. Think of it like the structure our skeleton gives us. Tannins give that to a wine. They’re derived from the skins, stems and seeds of the grapes.”
Finally, a concept that made sense to her.
She shoved another in her mouth, swiping a hand across her chin as a rivulet of juice escaped. “Yep. Can definitely taste it’s not quite ready. Must take skill to know when the exact right time to pick is.”
“Years of practice.” He reached up and swept his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “You missed some.”
The roughness of his flesh, callused by years in the fields, made her lips tingle long after his thumb fell away. Her gaze rose to his. The sexual awareness she saw there made her heart stall in her chest.
A no-touching rule might have been prudent.
Skipping that kiss even better.
His mouth flattened into a straight line. He stepped back, out of her personal space, and she started to breathe again. “Shall we move on to the winery?”
She nodded. Sucked in an unsteady breath. What the hell was wrong with her?
Whacking herself over the head with a big mental stick, she followed him into the winery. Built around the foundation of the original historic building, it gleamed with modern efficiency. Huge stainless-steel tanks in which the grapes were fermented nearly reached the ceiling, lined up one after the other—the scale of it was breathtaking.
“Why do you move the wine to barrels?” she asked. “Why not leave it in the vats?”
“To complete the maturation process and add character to the wine.” He led her into a room that was lined with beautiful, honey-colored barrels stacked three rows high. “These are Chardonnay. Some of these barrels have been used for multiple generations of wine. Each one adds a unique flavor depending on where it’s from—French oak or American, say—and how old it is.”
He took a glass from a shelf and used the tap on the top of the barrel to pour a small amount. “Young wine is usually rough, raw and green and needs to settle,” he told her, handing her the glass. “This one’s done in a French oak barrel to add that oaky flavor you often get in a Chardonnay.”
She took a sip. It was too light and fruity for her taste. “I prefer reds.”
“We’re getting to those.” He led her downstairs to the cool, underground cellars where the premium wines were stored. Dark-bricked, high-arched ceilings supported by columns of stone were complemented by the beautiful dark woods of the original cellar. Quiet and hushed in the middle of the day, the rich, atmospheric space seemed to whisper of years gone by and the historic vintages that had been nurtured there.
“It’s unbelievable,” she whispered as he walked her into a large room with stacks of oak barrels displayed on both sides and a huge rustic table running down the center of it. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. This must be the formal dining room Lilly had spoken of, where the events were held.
Gabe threw her an amused look. “Why are you whispering?”
She shrugged, spooked by the feeling there were souls down here other than their own. “It just feels like there’s so much history in the air.”
The grooves around his mouth deepened. “If you mean ghosts—there are. If you choose to believe the folklore.”
Her skin went cold. If there was anything she was afraid of, debilitatingly, horrifyingly afraid of, it was ghosts. “Do not play with me, Gabe. That’s not funny.”
He picked up two glasses and handed them to her, then took two more and motioned for her to follow him. “The story goes that the original owners, Janine and Ralf Courtland, held a huge celebration in honor of Dionysus one summer night. Half of Napa came.”
She frowned, following him out of the room. “Who is Dionysus?”
“The Greek god of wine and revelry.” He looked back at her. “Didn’t they teach you that in school?”
“Greek mythology at Mission Hill High School?” she murmured dryly. “Not quite.”
“I meant in university.”
“I didn’t go to university.”
“College, then. Wherever.’
Heat swept across her skin, this particular conversation humiliating when it was happening with ever-so-brilliant Gabe. “I pretty much flunked out of high school. They only passed me to get rid of me. It was a relief for all of us, I think, to have me gone. And that’s as far as I went.”
His gaze sharpened on her face. “I don’t get that. You have a razor-sharp brain. You must not have applied yourself.”
She recoiled at the rebuke. “It’s clear I’m not approaching the level of perfection you are, Gabe. But I did apply myself to work my way to the top of the PR industry.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ruddy color dusted his cheekbones. “I was merely trying to understand how such