The Ashtons: Jillian, Eli & Charlotte

Three

Two days later, Seth swung his truck into the parking lot beside the Louret Winery building and cast his eyes over the assembled vehicles. Besides the staff cars, he counted one minibus, two rental cars and several out-of-state plates. More than enough, he figured, to keep Jillian busy in the tasting room. Excellent.

The rushed Monday morning run-through hadn’t been nearly enough, not done cold, not with him mindful of getting back for Rachel. He needed to see Jillian at work, to see how she worked, before he could be satisfied with her ideas for the remodel. Structurally, the job would be simple enough, but this type of renovation was about more than knocking down a wall or two.

Inside the tasting room he paused while his vision adjusted from strong afternoon sunlight to the muted interior. Too dark, he decided, despite the number of light fixtures and the one floor-to-ceiling window.

His narrowed gaze swept the room, taking it all in, assessing, seeking…and taking too long to find Jillian. Standing behind one of two tasting bars situated along the side walls, she poured for a group of women who, curiously, all wore red hats. She didn’t give any sign of noticing his arrival.

Bad positioning, bad space planning, bad for business.

Jillian’s design with one bigger bar running smack down the center improved all of the above. Seth, the architect/ builder, needed assurance she’d optimized them. He strolled farther inside, circling around, sensing the instant she saw him.

He waited at the end of the long bar while she excused herself to the tasting group and came to meet him.

“Hello, Seth. I wasn’t expecting you.” Her smile was warm and welcoming. If his unexpected arrival flustered her, she didn’t let it show. “You’ve caught me in the middle of a tasting.”

He tilted his head toward the group at the bar. “Seems like a decent number for midweek.”

“Shannon has another half dozen or so looking through the winery so, yes, it is busy enough. It has been since opening, actually.”

She did this cute little wince, a token complaint since her face glowed with busy-is-good contentment. Man, he liked that. The hint of warmth he wasn’t accustomed to seeing in the cool and restrained lady. The absence of those haunted shadows he was too used to seeing.

And the knowledge that she got off on both galloping her horse and her work.

Work. He stopped staring into her eyes and straightened off the bar. “I’m just here to check on a few things. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You should have called. I’d have said to come later, after I close at four.”

“I wanted to watch you work.” Seth met her eyes, saw them cloud with…circumspection?…and decided he hadn’t worded that so great. “I need to see how your tasting room operates. I’ll just be wandering around. You won’t even know I’m here.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Wandering around, doing what?”

“Some measuring—”

“You don’t need to check my measurements,” she interrupted with a spark of her trademark pride.

“Yeah, I do. That’s my job.” To illustrate that that’s why he was here—work, his job, nothing personal beyond a favor to his brother’s widow—he gestured toward the women in the wine-tasting group. “We’d both better get back to it.”

He went to work, starting down at back, taking measurements for the repositioned doorway between the tasting room and the winery, checking out the storage room she wanted gone, then working his way back down the room. Checking against her—detailed and accurate, he conceded—draft plan, making notations, setting up a work schedule in his mind.

And all the while aware of her voice, like the soft, rich melody of background music, as she went about her business. As he worked nearer, the hum of that voice took on the shape of words, then sentences, then the full commentary, and Seth reached three fundamental conclusions.

She knew her wines. She knew her audience. Her job in this tasting room married the two.

Oh, and yeah—if he took on this job, he was a masochist.

Squatting on his haunches to check the cypress flooring—it was making way for slate tiles and although well-worn, it might be salvageable for resale—he felt the passion for her work and for her wines play over him in warm, velvet notes. Not a good position with all that wine-talk flaring through his body.

Shaking his head, he stood. But being a masochist, he decided to observe for a few minutes, out of her line of vision but close enough to listen in as she finished up the current wine and selected another bottle.

She poured a small measure into each glass as one of the red-hatted crew—who were all dressed in various shades of purple—expounded her knowledge of big California reds.

“I think you’ll appreciate this cabernet sauvignon,” Jillian interjected smoothly when the expert paused to draw breath. “It’s our ninety-eight reserve.”

“My husband says cabernet is a man’s wine,” a woman commented. “And we don’t have the palate to appreciate it.”

“Carol, isn’t it?”

The fiftyish-looking woman nodded.

“Well, Carol, your husband might be interested in the Human Genome Project which showed that women, in fact, have finer palates. As a gender—” she paused to smile conspiratorially at the all-female group “—we’re better at sensory evaluation.”

“No kidding?” Carol grinned back. “I told Jim he was talking horse-spit.”

He watched Jillian temper her smile. “The ‘man’s wine’ comment is interesting since cabernet sauvignon is regarded as the king of red grapes. They make into wines that are big and bold and full-bodied. Some might say those are masculine attributes—others might think that’s a sexist viewpoint. Or simply horse-spit.”

They all laughed, Carol longest and loudest.

“And there are some women who prefer those qualities in their wine,” Jillian continued. “What about you ladies?”

“I like my men big and bold and full-bodied. Does that count?”

More laughter, and since the joker looked prim and ladylike and had to be pushing eighty, Seth grinned, too. Amused by the interplay, intrigued by Jillian’s easy rapport with the group—another facet he’d never been privy to—he leaned himself against a thick vertical support beam, crossed his arms and settled in to enjoy the show.

“Do you like the big wines, Jillian?” another woman asked.

“When I’m in a certain mood, yes. Other times I’m in the mood for something more elegant and refined. Less ballsy, if you will.”

“You must have a preference though,” the woman persisted. “What’s your favorite of the Louret wines?”

Jillian lifted a glass, tilting the angle until the opulent ruby color of its contents caught the light. “You’re about to taste it.”

“So, you’re feeling ballsy today, are you Jillian?” Carol asked.

No, Seth decided, as the warmth of the group’s laughter rolled through him. That didn’t describe her current mood. Ballsy was Monday when she’d galloped that monster horse up the hill. Today she was more relaxed and supple and confident.

“Pinot noir,” he suggested softly.

In his peripheral vision he saw a dozen red hats swivel in his direction, but his eyes were fixed on Jillian as she carefully placed the glass back on the bar and even more carefully turned his way.

“Why pinot noir?” she asked as her eyes met his. No wariness there, more a watchful stillness, as if she held her breath while she waited for his answer.

“My interpretation of your mood.”

Wow. Between the impact of those dark chocolate eyes fixed on hers and the complexities of his answer, Jillian could find no ready response.

Assuming that his pinot noir call wasn’t some off-the-cuff pick-a-wine retort.

Later, she would stew on that. Possibly for days. For now she needed to concentrate, since this tricky group was already firing questions at their new quarry.

“Do you think cabernet is a man’s wine?” Carol wanted to know.

“What’s your opinion on that gender research project Jillian mentioned?” another asked.

“Are you a wine drinker?”

“Have you ever done a tasting with Jillian?”

She really did need to concentrate, since she somehow heard that as “tasting of Jillian.” And the notion of Seth’s mouth on hers, on her body, tasting her…

Oh, boy. Instant dizziness and disorientation. Her mouth turned dry. Her hand shook as she reached for water and took a quick mouthful, washing away the taste of full-bodied wine and the forbidden heat of her thoughts.

Better. Except the women of the Golden Elms Red Hat Social Club looked set to drag Seth over and into their tasting circle. Making a time-out T with her hands, she raised her voice enough to be heard above the hubbub. “Ladies, let’s give Seth a break.”

Thankfully—and surprisingly—they quietened. Enough that when Kitty spoke, her cultured little lady’s voice chimed as clearly as silver on crystal.

“Is Seth your man, Jillian?”

Please, Lord, let me slip through these floorboards and disappear.

Of course the good Lord wasn’t listening. No doubt because of her previous sinful thoughts about tasting. And because she couldn’t look anywhere near Seth until her face stopped flaming, she focused on the faces in front of her as their interested observation turned to speculation.

I have to answer here. Let me do so with some coherence and dignity.

“Seth’s a builder. An architect and a builder, actually.”

Heartened because—hallelujah!—her voice did work, she chanced a glance his way. He didn’t look embarrassed. In fact, leaning against that beam with his sleeves rolled up to reveal dark forearms folded across his broad chest, he looked…like the embodiment of Eli’s ninety-eight reserve cabernet.

Big and earthy and full-bodied.

Good Lord, she did not mean that! She meant he looked less serious and intense than usual. Not exactly smiling, although there might have been a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“He’s helping me,” Jillian continued, looking to distract the women and herself, “with my plans to renovate the tasting room.”

“You’re changing this room? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“I hope you’re going to lighten the decor with some pastels.”

“You can’t be serious, Linda! I love all the timber. It’s part of the ambience.”

Much diverted by the notion of a design and decor makeover, the women were off and running. They asked questions, but didn’t wait for answers. Suggestions and counter-suggestions swirled in a debate as lively and colorful as their own purple-suited, red-hatted attire.

After several minutes, she tried to bring them back on topic but failed. She shook her head and directed a helpless shrug in Seth’s direction. His full mouth crooked into a smile and for a beat of time Jillian just stared.

Completely mesmerized.

And it struck her that she’d never seen Seth Bennedict smile, or at least not right at her. Her heart stuttered and her skin tingled with warmth. Her internal sensors sounded a danger-danger warning, but she could not look away until the quietest of the group—Helen—touched her on the arm, breaking the spell.

“If you need to go talk to your man, Jillian, it’s fine with us.”

This time she let the “your man” assumption slide right by. It wasn’t worth explaining all over again. “I do need to have a quick word about the renovation plans.”

“Then vamoose. We’ll still be here when you’re done.”

That’s what she was afraid of. But she excused herself, they waved her off, she went…although not quickly enough to miss Kitty’s whispered comment about big, bold and earthy.

The wine. Of course she meant the wine, since they’d all lifted their glasses and taken a first sip of the ninety-eight reserve she’d poured.

It was a very big wine.

Still, her cheeks bloomed with heat as she slipped out from behind the bar. Who knew if Seth had overheard? He wasn’t smiling anymore, just standing there watching her approach in a way that made her nerves and her pulse lollop all over the place.

To compensate, she held herself erect, shoulders straight, and strived to make her smile polite and businesslike. “I have a few minutes if you want to talk about my plans, now you’ve had a decent look at the place. Why don’t we go over by the window?”

“Where it’s a bit more private?”

She glanced back over her shoulder and, sure enough, they were being watched.

Still, Seth seemed to be taking it in good humor, so she smiled and shook her head as they made their way to the far end of the room. “I’m not used to such a fascinated audience.”

“Not your typical tasting group?” he asked.

“Hardly. I don’t know if I could handle someone like Kitty several times a day!”

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t the full disarming dazzler of before, but an attractive near-smile that made him look more relaxed. Not that it completely relaxed Jillian. When she took the chair he offered at the setting by the window, she tried to sit back and enjoy the sensation of resting her feet for the first time since breakfast. But then he leaned his hips against the table, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and goodbye relaxation.

“I don’t think there is any ‘typical’ group,” she continued, looking out over the vineyards, a safe alternative to other, closer, scenery. Right at eye level, actually, not that she was noticing. “We get all kinds through here, although I would say less drop-ins and more of those who seek us out.”

“People who are serious about their wines?”

“Yes, we get plenty who know exactly what they want. They might ask for a specific flight of wines or a vertical, say, of cabernets.” She predicted the next question and explained. “That’s a tasting of one wine’s various vintages, youngest to oldest, as opposed to a horizontal, which is the same vintage from several wineries.

“Anyway, that’s the enophiles but they’re balanced by groups like this one.” Turning from the window, she gestured toward the group at the bar.

“You mean groups with odd dress sense?”

“I take it you’ve never encountered Red Hatters before?”

“Not in numbers,” he muttered. “Scary.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “Only if you’re scared by women of a certain age who aren’t afraid to have fun.”

“They’re an organization?”

“A disorganization, according to these ladies.”

And she only hoped that one day she’d have the chutzpah to wear purple and red together. To look toward the future and laugh about the past. Even to indulge the hormones that had hummed to life in her blood.

“They’re having fun,” he commented, “but they’re also keen to learn.”

“Yes.” She looked back up at him, found him watching her with interest. Not so threatening, that quiet intentness, when it focused on her work and when he got it so absolutely right. That made her confidence hum in perfect tune with her hormones. “That combination makes them my favorite kind of wine tourist.”

“The way you run your tasting—” he looked back at the group as a chorus of laughter rattled the window “—it’s different to what I envisioned.”

“Different how?”

“Your focus isn’t taste-and-buy like some other places I’ve seen. You’re giving them a whole lot more.”

Insanely pleased that he got it and unable to hold all that satisfaction inside, Jillian smiled. Deep inside she straight-out grinned. “Our philosophy is to provide a wine experience and education, without being too stuffy. I think we’re succeeding since we get a lot of traffic through word-of-mouth recommendations.”

“I imagine you do,” he said slowly, his eyes serious as they held hers. “You’re good.”

A small compliment should not create such a dizzying effect, but Seth’s did. It went to her head as swiftly as a good red straight from the barrel. She should not have felt the schoolgirlish need to push for more, but she did. “Not stuffy?”

The ladies laughed again, more raucously than ever, and Seth simply cocked one dark brow. Answer enough.

“Is that your focus with the refit? Not stuffy?”

“That’s one of the reasons I want to open the place up and bring in more light. That, and because to really show the differences in appearance and color of the wines you need natural light.”

“I’ve been thinking about the light problem.”

Seth pulled those long legs—which she hadn’t been noticing—under him and stood. When he moved along the wall, touching, inspecting, contemplating, she was intrigued enough to get back on her tired feet and follow.

“What would you think about arched windows, both sides of the room?” he asked.

“How big?”

“Floor to ceiling. Modeled on your entrance doors. Same shape, same width.”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” Jillian breathed, containing the excitement that cannoned around inside—he’s going to do it! He’s taking on the job!—by pacing out that width of window and nodding her satisfaction. “Arches are perfect, Seth. A reflection of the shape of the wine barrel, the bottle, the glass. Will knocking that shape into the walls be a problem?”

“Not for me, but the windows have to be custom-made. They won’t come cheap.”

“I’ll figure out a way to sell them to Cole.”

“I could talk to him—”

“No!”

She cut him off too abruptly, given the way his eyes narrowed, but she felt a strong need to keep control of this project. To let him know she wasn’t the weak basket case he’d had to rescue from Jason’s mess.

“There’s no need for that,” she added in a more reasonable tone. “Cole should be getting used to my additions and changes.”

“Yeah?” The focus of that narrow-eyed interest shifted. “What else have you changed since Monday?”

“Uniforms. These—” she held her arms out a little, showing the claret polo shirt all the tasting-room staff wore “—have to go.”

“Too stuffy?”

“And not individual enough. The marketing campaign is based around Louret’s individual hands-on approach and attention to detail. So, Mercedes and I decided we needed non-uniform uniforms. We’ll have a range of separates—tops and bottoms—in the same palette of colors, but every one different according to our own tastes.”

Seth nodded, seemingly impressed. She was impressed that his eyes hadn’t glazed over as Cole’s and Eli’s had when she pitched the idea to them. Not that they weren’t interested in the tasting room’s vital function at Louret, more that they weren’t interested in wardrobe choices.

Plus they’d both been distracted lately by the ongoing legal meetings over Spencer Ashton and the Lattimer estate.

“So, you’re after a bright and relaxed atmosphere and a functional, comfortable work space.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly!” Seth Bennedict didn’t only understand her plans but the reasoning behind them, and that set him apart from every other builder she’d spoken to.

That and the fact that he was here, tape measure and notebook in hand.

“So.” She drew a slow breath in a bid to steady the nervous let-this-work-out churning in her stomach. “Does this mean you are going to quote?”

“Yes.”

Yes! But she contained the urge to punch the air, needing to ask one more question. The biggy. “Is this a serious quote, Seth? Do you really want the job or are you only humoring me because I practically begged?”

He looked at her strangely. “I’m sorry. Did I miss the begging?”

“The other morning, at the stables.” She waved a hand in that general direction, but she did not want to go back there. She did not want to remember the desperate edge of panic that had driven her to swallow her pride and ask, straight out, for his help. “You said you’d take a look, no promises. What changed your mind?”

For a second he looked right at her, and something in his eyes made her draw herself back, as if that might deflect the impact of all that dark intensity. Then he hitched a shoulder and answered ever so casually. “Like you said, it’s a small job. And I’ve decided to take the opportunity to get my hands dirty.”

Oh, my Lord, it would be Villa Firenze all over again. The dangerous glint in his eyes. The masculine scent of hard work and hot muscles. The glimpse of his skin, glistening with sweat. Her own unaccustomed reaction, part fascination, part run-like-hell terror.

Jillian swallowed. “You’re going to do the work yourself?”

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”

“But you said you were booked solid right through summer. ” She scrambled to bring order to her thoughts. “How will you fit this in?”

“By juggling and overtime. Will working at night present any problems?”

Yes, no, probably not. Frowning, she considered the situation. If he worked nights, there’d be less disruption. Less bitching from Eli about builders under his feet. “No, that would work,” she said slowly. “But what about Rachel?”