"How terrible and selfish." And then to be dropped here to be the subject of even more blame, bitterness, cruelty, and exclusion. No wonder he was so guarded.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" he asked, a small smile of wry amusement on his lips.
I released a breath. "Yeah, I guess we are." I bit my lip considering our stories. "Funny how much we have in common."
"We don't balance each other at all, do we?"
I laughed softly. "Not at all. We're all wrong together."
He moved in front of me and turned around so I was forced to stop in my tracks. He took my face in his hands and smiled down at me. "Not all wrong," he murmured, bringing his lips to mine. His mouth was soft, his kiss slow, but it spread sensation through my entire body just as his kisses always did. He pulled away too quickly, leaving me gazing dizzily up at him, my hands flat on his hard chest. His smile was slow and filled with male pride, and I couldn't help but smile back at him. I shook my head in exasperation while I did it.
"Come on, dragon," I said, pulling on his hand. "I'm going to find out what you do in the depths of that dark cave you inhabit so often." He laughed, following me the rest of the way.
When we opened the door to the stone building at the bottom of the hill, Grayson called out, "José?"
"Back here," I heard José call.
The room we entered was large with overhead skylights that lit the entire area with shafts of sunlight. There were several large machines that stood to either side of the doorway and what looked like huge stainless steel barrels behind those.
Grayson walked over to the nearest machine. "This is a sorting belt where the grapes go when they first arrive after being picked. They're sorted by hand to remove any undesirable-looking fruit, any leaves." He walked along the enormous piece of equipment, past conveyer belts, and finally pointed up to what looked like a small escalator. "That's the destemmer. The stems come out right there," he pointed to a metal receptacle, "and go back into the vineyard soil." He moved along and I followed him. "This is the second sorting table," he explained, pointing to another table with room for at least eight people to stand at. "It moves the fruit past the workers, and they pick out any final pieces of stem or undesirable fruit by hand." He gave me a look filled with charm and a note of self-mocking. "Here at Hawthorn Vineyard, we believe the quality of the wine comes from the quality of the fruit. We spend a lot of time ensuring the fruit is sorted with care and diligence."
I gave him a smile, raising one eyebrow. "I have no doubt. How many people did Hawthorn Vineyard employ when it was in full running order?"
"A hundred seventy-five."
And Grayson had six employees: only one full-time, three part-time—one of whom was mentally slow—and two who were old and more family than staff. If I hadn't realized exactly how much he was struggling before, I sure did now.
He showed me the stainless steel fermenters and then walked me into a second large room where there was similar-looking equipment. José looked to be installing something and was focused intently on what he was doing. He gave us a quick nod and then went back to work. Instead of stainless steel barrels, this room held what looked like very large wooden fermenters at the back of the wall. As he took me through the room, I listened as Grayson described the varied functions of the equipment, paying attention to his descriptions, but also noting the enthusiasm emanating from his entire body. He loved this. I wanted to stand back and simply watch him as he moved, his eyes bright with pride and his broad shoulders held high. He seemed to be alive with energy.
"José is installing a new shaker berry sorting machine," he said. "One of the first things I ordered with the generous Dallaire investment."