Page 101 of Rafferty's Rules
‘We won’t melt,’ he murmurs, standing in front of me. ‘Let me put this inside you.’
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe that’s exactly what he has in mind.
Or...
Maybe I just have a dirty mind, as he takes the pile of laundry from my hand.
‘L-let you put this inside?’
‘Yeah. What did you think I said?’
‘Nothing, I must’ve just zoned out for a minute,’ I call after him as he disappears inside.
‘Do I need to change?’ I ask as he reappears seconds later. My gaze follows his as it travels to my feet.
‘No.’ As he looks back up at me, his brilliant blue gaze darkened, he adds. ‘You’re perfect just as you are.’
Doesn’t he realise how difficult he’s making this for me?
I’m surprised as he takes my hand, and surprised once again when we don’t turn towards the car, instead heading in the other direction, walking past the big house. Under Rafferty’s guidance, we take a shortcut through the rows of vines and come out by the creek on a little path overhung with feathery leaves. The air is heavier now, the clouds in the sky foreboding, and I begin to think we’re about to be soaked to the skin as a heavy drop splats on the parched grass by my feet.
‘This way.’ Rafferty pulls out a set of keys, directing us to a nearby stone building.
‘This is the cellar door, right?’
‘Yeah. It’s just undergone refurbishment. The building work is done, it just needs the final touches, the hiring of staff. That kind of thing.’
We quicken our pace as heavy drops of rain begin to fall and end up jogging for the protection of the overhanging tin roof as it really starts to come down.
‘Just in time.’ A bead of water clings to his cheek but I just about resist reaching up to brush it away. With a rattle of keys, the heavy wooden door creaks open and we call inside.
The interior is dark and cavernous, the air cool. Rafferty ducks behind the bar in search of the lights as the rain begins to lash against the windows quite violently.
‘Gosh, it’s really coming down,’ I murmur, rubbing my suddenly cold arm. A couple of lights come on, my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room.
From what I’ve gathered at the dinner table, Riposo lines are highly commercial and the business has been largely focussed on selling outside of the region, the local tourist trade ignored until lately. But that’s about to change with the input of Amber who, I understand, has ambitious plans.
‘This one is my favourite.’ Rafferty’s deep voice echoes though the large space as he appears from behind the bar, which is little more than a cross section of a tree trunk polished to a high shine. He places the bottle on the wood to open it, pouring an inch into a pair of sparklingly clean glasses.
‘I like the smell in here.’ As he hands me my inch of wine, my eyes drink in the space; the bar and the shelves beyond, the leather chairs, half hanging out of packing and stacked in corners, the bare stone walls. The effect is rugged and masculine, even half finished.
‘That’s ’cause it smells like wine. And wood. All things old and good. They used to store the wine in here back in the day.’ Picking up his glass, Rafferty scratches his cheek, the rasp of his finger against his stubble audible, despite the hammering rain,
‘Before Byron was in charge, you mean?’
‘Before my dad was even a twinkle in his father’s eye.’
‘The wine is good,’ I say, examining my glass, ‘but I think it’s the sawdust.’ Cut grass and fresh sawdust reminds me of my grandparents place, though they’ve both been gone a long time. ‘Do you have a favourite smell?’ I ask, watching as he swills the contents of his glass, bringing it to his nose to identify the aromas.
You don’t visit a lot of winery’s in the Hunter Valley without picking up a thing or two, andthisis one of the two things I have picked up. The other is that I like my wine wet and in a glass.
‘You should be here for budburst.’
‘What’s that?’
‘During spring. It’s quieter here. There are less tourists, and no backpackers looking for jobs. No pickers or pruners, or tractors trundling. It’s when the focus is on wine and not grapes, and when Byron has his head deep in a barrel. That’s my favourite time. And my favourite smell.’
‘Budburst,’ I repeat softly, swirling the liquid in my glass like he has. ‘What is it you like best about it?’
