“Okay. Meggie,” he said, a grin spreading his lips and making his eyes shine and sparkle. “Good thing, because I would have slipped, you know.”
“I know,” she said, sighing like it bothered her even though it didn’t—not even a little bit, which was so surprising, she couldn’t help giving him a small, bemused smile. “What I don’t know is whether or not you like Pinot Noir.”
He winked at her. “I do, in fact.”
She gestured to the living room with an open palm, looking at him from under her long lashes. “Then make yourself comfortable, and I’ll pour you a glass while we wait for Geraldo.”
As she poured the glasses, her hand trembled a little, and she rested her palms on the kitchen counter for a moment to catch her breath.
What had just happened? Had she just willingly made amends with her lifelong tormentor and triple-secret crush? Her heart raced as she wondered what this meant. She’d reached the ripe old age of twenty-nine perennially at odds with Cameron Winslow. She didn’t even know what a truce between them would look like.
But it felt . . . like flying. Like soaring. Like something worth hoping for.
Reaching for the wineglasses, she pushed through the door to the dining room, her boots across the parquet floor warning him of her approach. She found him standing in front of her sofa, looking at an oversize picture book entitled Grapes, which had a gorgeous cover picture of a Tuscan vineyard at misty dawn.
“Nice book,” said Cameron, placing it back on her coffee table.
“It’s my favorite,” she confessed, handing him his glass.
“That’s what you did, isn’t it? When you were in Europe? Didn’t I hear somewhere that you studied wines?”
She nodded, swirling the dark red goodness in her glass, ridiculously pleased when he unconsciously did the same. If he’d guzzled a giant sip without showing any respect, it would have told her something important about him and crushed something delicate and hopeful.
“I loved learning about wine—drinking it, making it. Almost more than anything. I think I’m more at home at a vineyard than I am anywhere else. In fact, I have a, well . . .” Her excited voice trailed off. She was about to tell him about The Five Sisters, but she didn’t know what he’d think about her owning her own vineyard, and it would hurt her feelings if he laughed at her dreams of becoming a local vintner.
“What do you have? Tell me.”
“Promise you won’t make fun?”
He nodded, his eyes almost tender. “I promise, Meggie.”
A new warmth sluiced through her from his use of her nickname: now that he had permission to use it, she found she savored the sound of it. She grinned up at him. “I have a vineyard. That is, I own one.”
“In Italy?”
“No. Here. I mean, here in Pennsylvania.”
“Where all world-class wines are born,” he teased.
“You promised,” she warned him.
“I’m sorry. Tell me more.”
“It’s only a small place. Ten acres. But that’s enough for a couple different kinds of wine.”
“And you make them? Yourself?”
“I will. I will make them. I’m still getting the place up and running. It was pretty rundown when I bought it last fall. When it’s ready, I want to have events there too: weddings, parties, tastings. I want it to be a destination, you know? A fully functional vineyard and winery. It’ll be heaven.”
“You’re full of surprises.” He shook his head, grinning at her with wonder. “I never would have guessed you were most comfortable out in a vineyard . . . in the great outdoors.”
“Why not?”
His eyes rested on her hair for a moment, then dropped to her bespectacled eyes. “Um, no, uh, no reason.” He asked quickly, “What’s the name of it? Your vineyard?”
Aside from her sisters, she hadn’t told anyone the name yet. She had yet to decide on a logo, so she hadn’t had a sign or labels made, but for whatever reason, she heard herself telling Cameron, “The Five Sisters. The Five Sisters Vineyard and Winery of Newtown, Pennsylvania.”
He nodded, laughing softly, a deep, marvelous rumble that made her toes curl in her boots. “That’s awesome.”
“Thanks,” she said, blushing with pleasure. “It doesn’t have a sign yet, but it’s the vineyard next door to Harrell Reserve. Have you heard of them?”
“Harrell wines? Sure.”
“They’re decent, but mine will be better.” She smiled at him, raising an eyebrow saucily. “Did you know I’m actually a trained and certified sommelier?”
“Are you? No. I had no idea.” He gestured to her with his wineglass. “Impress me. Tell me all about this one, Mademoiselle Sommelier.”
“Ah, this one,” she purred, moving around the coffee table to sit down on the edge of the couch, watching as he did the same, his denim-covered knees turned toward her, but not close enough to touch. “This one is . . . bellissima!”
“Sì, signorina. Ma perché?”
“You speak Italian,” she murmured, her insides clenching with a hot wave of lust.
“Just a little,” he said. “So? Tell me why it’s so beautiful.”