"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."
I laughed softly. "A good investment, it seems." I studied him for a moment. "Your father would be proud of you, Grayson."
Very suddenly, an expression came over his face that made him look like a little boy—shy and vulnerable. He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I think he would have been," he said softly, finally smiling back proudly. "Do you want to see where the barrels are stored for aging?"
I smiled and nodded realizing how very much he was still affected by his father's judgment of him. I understood it more than most, but for some reason, it made me incredibly sad. Grayson took my hand and led me to a door at the back of the room. The air was suddenly cooler and there was barely any light. Grayson took my hand and I followed him down a long, cement hallway of sorts. The hallway opened up and there were rows upon piled rows of barrels. The air smelled of pungent wood. I inhaled, drawing the damp earthy air into my lungs.
"These are burgundy barrels, made with burgundy wood from France," he explained.
"Hmm," I hummed. "How long do you age the wine?"
"This wine has been aging five years. It's almost ready to be bottled. Which, again, thanks to the Dallaire investment, can now happen." So it was put in barrels right after his father became ill. One of the last things accomplished here at Hawthorn Vineyard. Until now.
"You bottle it here?"
"We will," he said, "once my new bottling machine arrives."
"I never knew so much went into the process," I mused, looking around at the barrels.
"I've just shown you how the fruit is processed. Even more goes into the winemaking itself. I'll show you that someday, too." Someday . . . and yet, my days here were numbered. Before I could dwell on that, I realized Grayson had moved closer to me. I sucked in a breath, noting the look of intensity on his face. Even in the dim light, I could see the fire in his eyes. I took a step back and pressed my body into the cement wall behind me. His hands came up on either side of my face and he leaned toward me. The air in this room was so cool, and his lips against mine felt especially warm and so very soft.
"You're so warm," he murmured, obviously having had the same thought. Leaning back in, he ran his tongue along the seam of my lips, and with a groan, I opened for him. He brought his hands up to my face, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him so I didn't slide down the wall. Why did his kiss enflame me the way it did, and yet relax every muscle in my body at the same time? His kiss was filled with confidence, his body so very warm and solid as it pressed into mine. He ran his tongue everywhere: along the sensitive ridge at the roof of my mouth, the inside of my cheeks, along my teeth, and then back to tangle with my tongue as if seeking to know every part of my mouth. I tried to hold back the moan that came up my throat, but it was a wasted effort. Pressing into him, I moaned yet again, my heart beating insistently between my legs, my sensitive nipples rubbing deliciously against his hard chest.