The Spark Between Us by Stacy Travis

Chapter Twenty-Two

Braden

Weather in Carolwoodand the surrounding areas was perfect for growing wine grapes, which had resulted in a slew of amateur winemakers buying property, planting varietals, and establishing small labels. Many did it purely as hobbyists, producing a few dozen bottles a year to drink or give to their friends.

But some of them went on to be more prominent winemakers with tasting rooms and tours. They supplied local wine shops and restaurants and maybe even competed with wine produced in the much larger Napa Valley region.

I was a minor player who’d lucked into a fertile plot of land that allowed my winemaking operation to grow quickly into something I never imagined when I bought some cuttings from a local winemaker and started growing my own varietals. That was over a decade ago, and even though the operation was still tiny, now I made more money from the winery than I did at my job.

All in all, I had ten acres of vines and a small tasting room that was on a winetasting route which pretty much guaranteed a steady flow of visitors. I’d hired a part-time employee to run the tasting room and a couple of guys to tend to the vines a few times a month. The rest of it was automated—drip irrigation and some sprinkler watering on timers.

In the two years since Ellie moved out, I’d never taken another woman to the winery. There were too many memories of us wrapped up in the place, and if I’m honest, I wasn’t ready or willing to replace them with thoughts of someone else.

Sarah was different.

She made me want to share this part of myself with her because I knew she’d appreciate the work that went into every part of the process. She wouldn’t just look at the winery as an opportunity to get drunk on free wine, which, unfortunately, was what a couple of my dates had proposed after I mentioned my winemaking hobby.

So I’d stopped mentioning it.

“Oh my God, I love this place,” Sarah purred after she’d finished running down one of the lanes in the vineyard with Bella. After less than an hour, Bella was yelping like she’d been cooped up for a month, racing through the fields. Her ball was lost somewhere among the vines. Maybe we’d find it later. Maybe not. There were probably a dozen lost balls out there. “When did you get into winemaking?”

“About ten years. You probably noticed there are vineyards everywhere. So it’s not an obscure hobby. I had to wait until I had a little time and money to spare before I bought the property and worked out how many of the existing vines to keep and how to introduce new ones. I’m still learning about viniculture, but each year’s crop teaches me something new. It’s like a living laboratory.”

She smiled at me and nodded. “See, you pretend to be this gruff, burly fireman guy who carries hundreds of pounds of equipment into burning forests, but underneath all that, you’re a scientist.” She bounced on her toes, excited.

“I never said I wasn’t interested in the science. I told you I study burn patterns and fire behavior. That ain’t fingerpainting.”

She held up a finger. “Yes, but on top of that, in your spare time, you’re geeking out over grapes and the way different soil makes the wine taste. You’re a science nerd, Braden. You just happen to be a nerd in a smoking hot body with a face that should be on a billboard. Frankly, it’s a little unnerving.”

She was too much. If I wasn’t careful, I would break all of our rules and have fun doing it.

Danger. Do not do that.

“Talk science to me, fireman. Tell me about viniculture.” Her voice was a throaty whisper near my ear. It would have taken zero effort to pick her up and take her any which way I wanted, and I knew she wouldn’t complain. But she deserved a tour and a whole lotta science talk if she wanted it, and I intended to deliver.

“Let’s walk.” I reached for her hand. Her fingers twined with mine, and we strolled down one of the vineyard lanes under a sunset sky, the weather gods doing us a favor with the pink and rose-colored clouds hanging in the distance.

“This area is pretty close to the Mediterranean climate you’d find in big wine-producing regions like Italy and France. Hot days, cool nights, coarse soil with gravel for good filtration, and enough rain to satisfy deep the roots of older vines.”

“How old are these old vines?”

“Some are pretty darn old, planted by Robert Carolwood himself.”

She stopped walking. “Wait, there’s a Robert Carolwood? How did I not know this?” She poked me in the chest like I’d been holding out on her with crucial information.

I shrugged. “You’re not from here, for one thing. The town was named after a British guy who jumped off a ship and ended up here, married a Mexican citizen and inherited a ranch, and started planting vines instead of olives and fruit orchards like most people were doing.”

“Cool info, Braden. You impress me constantly.” The warm sun bathed her face in pink light as she smiled at me, and I felt like I’d saved an entire town from burning to the ground.

I felt myself losing the battle against more than temporary feelings for her, and it scared the shit out of me.

“I might be able to impress you a bit more,” I said, leaning to whisper into her ear. “I know someone with a property that has some of the vines Carolwood planted in the mid-eighteen hundreds.”

Her eyes shot to mine. “Seriously?”

“Yes, and the wine’s incredible. I may have a bottle at the house you can try.”

“Awesome. But tell me more about this place. Where are your vines from?”

I plucked a bunch of purple grapes from one of the vines, pulled a few of the grapes into my hand, and held them out for Sarah to taste. She grabbed two, and I tossed the rest in my mouth. “Mmm, these are delicious.” It warmed my entire body to hear her moan with delight.

“These vines descended from a crop that came from France originally—from cuttings taken from a pretty prestigious vineyard at a chateau there. I got lucky. That’s probably why I’ve been able to turn this hobby into more of a side business. The wine is crazy good.”

I led her to another row of vines with white grapes and we sampled them.

She pointed to the vine. “The grapes taste good, but I guess I don’t have a very fine palate. How do you distinguish a grape that’s going to make crazy good wine?”

“Time, practice, trial and error, luck . . . then so much of it is the process, the enzymes, the temperature regulation and the fermentation time. Again, trial and error, a lot of luck, a lot of tasting and spitting out bad wine.” I couldn’t pretend to know everything. “I’m still learning about this stuff, batch by batch, tweaking things, trying new things.”

She nodded. “That’s exactly what I do every day in the lab. My welding project isn’t going to produce something that tastes as good as wine, and I sure need a lot of luck, but . . .” For the first time, I saw the concern in her face that maybe she wouldn’t make her milestones or get the outcome she hoped for.

That vulnerability tugged at a part of me that desperately wanted to help her get there, even if I knew nothing about friction stir welding. “How about we go grab dinner and talk it through? I’ve been meaning to ask where you are with the project. You haven’t talked about it.”

“Only because my head’s stuck in the middle of it. But sure, I’d love to tell you.”

“Do you like Italian?” I figured the odds were good—who didn’t like Italian?

“Love it. But don’t think I’m leaving here before I taste some wine from your fancy French grape children.”

“I wouldn’t let you.” I pointed to the small stone building near the entry to the vineyard. “The property owner used to live in the loft of the tasting room, and it makes for a pretty cozy sleepover. I already stocked it with several types of wine we can have after dinner.”

Sarah wrapped her arms around my waist and leaned her head on my chest. “We’re sleeping in a loft? I love that.” Stroking her hair, I leaned down and rested my cheek on the top of her head.

There nothing about this moment I didn’t love. It was going to get me in trouble—I could just feel it.