“Ah. I see,” he murmured with a grin. Her heart hammered and to her surprise, she found herself smiling back at him.
“And I’m not threatening to attack you,” she hastened to add, the humor slipping from her expression as she remembered her purpose for being here, and how badly she wanted to keep this well-paid, outdoorsy job. “I’m just asking you to respect the rules of the vineyard and leave.”
Regret tinged the words. She must be losing her mind to actually wish that he could stay and keep her company.
He didn’t move.
She tried not to be glad.
“There are some vines near the cellar door that are for guests to walk through.”
“I see.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “Would you take me there?”
She hesitated, turning and looking over her shoulder. She’d been working since sunrise and without more than a brief break to freshen up every few hours, despite the fact she’d been told to take lunch hours ago. She stretched her neck, rolling it from one side of her shoulders to the other, letting the muscles relax.
“I suppose I could take a quick break,” she said, infusing the words with an impatience she definitely didn’t feel. “Anything to get you out of these vines,” she added, for good measure.
The slight curl of his lips showed that he saw through her statements.
Heat flushed her cheeks so she looked away, before he could catch the telltale blush.
“This is a very physically-demanding job,” he pointed out, as they began to walk, slowly, towards the graveled road that cut through the estate. It was for staff use only, but that didn’t stop opportunistic tourists from driving in to grab their perfect photograph amongst the famed vines.
“For a woman?” She responded archly.
His eyes slid to hers. “Are you now accusing me of chauvinism, Miss…” he let the words hang in the air, prompting her for her name.
She hesitated, wishing she could offer something a little grander than Smith. She was immediately ashamed of that, though. Even when her mother had remarried and her step-father’s far grander name had been offered to her, on its own or as a double barrel, she’d declined. She’d been so angry at her mother for moving to Sydney, for leaving the farm, she’d wanted to retain any link she could to her father. “Skye Smith,” she said after a beat.
“Miss Smith?” He responded, apparently not judging her name one way or another.
She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
His laugh was a soft, hoarse sound that was instantly addictive. She wanted to hear more of his laugh. The thought stuck in her throat.
“You are suggesting I am a chauvinist.”
“Oh.” Their previous conversation came back to her. She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes wide and curious. “Well, isn’t that what you were suggesting?”
“No, in fact, I was simply stating that it is a very physical job – for a man or a woman.”
“Not really.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I mean, I’ve done a lot of farm jobs in my time. This is somewhere in the middle of difficulty.”
“What other jobs have you had of this nature?”
Skye wasn’t sure why she was talking to him like this. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun, or the magic of the vines and the view, or simply the nearness of this true-life Adonis, that was making her respond to his questions as though they were old friends. Or maybe it was the security of knowing they had only a few minutes together, and then they’d never see one another again.
“Oh, lots,” she waved her hand through the air. “Most recently, a deckhand in the Med. That was fun.” She wiggled her brows. “But very, very physical. Before that, I was a milker on a dairy farm in Scotland.”
He stopped walking and stared at her, his lips compressed in a line that spoke of an emotion she couldn’t understand.
She guessed, though. “You don’t approve?”
He shook his head slowly. “I—am not often surprised.”
She batted her eyelashes. “Which is why I asked if you’re a chauvinist.”
Another laugh. “Okay, you got me there. It is not that you’re a woman,” he hastened to add. “So much as that you’re—,”