Page 120 of Wicked Dares
“We age everything in French oak barrels imported directly from Bordeaux. That’s where the spice and vanilla notescome from.” He points toward the winery building farther ahead. “Humidity is controlled carefully. Temperature, too. Winemaking’s half chemistry, half instinct.”
“And one hundred percent obsession,” Ellie Mae adds fondly, casting a glance at her husband.
Arthur points at her immediately and winks. “That’s why it works.”
We follow him farther down the rows of vines while the sun warms my shoulders and the breeze dances softly through my hair.
Everywhere I look feels cinematic.
Eventually, we reach a section where a group of workers move carefully through the vineyard carrying baskets filled with dark grapes.
“Full harvest is not until the event next week,” Arthur points out. “But they’re getting a head start. We havea lotof harvest this year.”
“Sounds good.” Levi nods.
“Come on, let’s go talk and leave the ladies. I want to show you the older section.” Arthur’s smile brightens.
“Oh God, does this mean you’re going to talk my ear off?” Levi jokes.
Arthur swats his legs with his stick. Ellie Mae and I giggle.
“Ouch.”
“Now listen here, son, you could do well to learn a thing or two from a man like me. Come on now.” He cocks his head toward the path.
Levi chuckles and walks ahead, glancing briefly at me before refocusing on Arthur.
“Right, it’s our turn to talk business,” Ellie Mae says, tugging on my arm. “I thought we could talk and have some sweet tea.”
“I’d love that.”
She leads me farther down the winding stone pathway until we reach a white wooden gazebo tucked between the vines at the edge of the hill. Climbing roses twist around the pillars with pale petals that dance in the warm breeze, and ivy trails along the railings in thick green ribbons.
The sight makes me smile.
A small wrought-iron table sits in the center of the gazebo surrounded by cushioned cream chairs. Before we reach, a young woman in a crisp linen uniform appears carrying a silver tray.
The scent of fresh pastries, butter, and warm sugar hits me, and my mouth waters. The last time I smelled anything like this was my last dinner with Aunt Bess.
The woman carefully sets down the tray along with a glass pitcher of sweet tea. When we reach the table, I see the delicious array of pastries. I can’t wait to dive in. There are fresh peach scones, miniature lemon cakes, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and flaky pastries dusted lightly with powdered sugar.
God, who cares about diets when food looks this good?
Ellie Mae smiles at me. “I can see I did good.”
“You certainly did. These look amazing.”
“I baked them all myself.”
I gasp. “What? No way.”
She nods proudly. “I did. Cooking and baking come second nature to me.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“Please sit.” She gestures to the chair opposite hers.
I sit, and she does, too.
