Her thick eyebrows drew together. I liked that they weren’t completely perfect like some of those hand-drawn-looking ones. “I thought you were the proprietor?”
“I am, which basically just means if I screw up, my brothers and sister pay the price. I oversee all the operations, whereas the others have specific positions.”
“Like Neo, the winemaker.”
I looked for the familiar twinkle in her eyes that most women have when talking about my brother. He had clearly been flirting with her on Monday, which I forgot to talk to him about. The no-fraternization policy hadn’t been a problem in a while, but maybe he needed a reminder. “Like Neo and my sister Dominica, who you also met. She manages the Barn and is our events coordinator. And Marco, who you didn’t meet yet, is Grado’s VP.”
“A true family business.” She turned to look in the opposite direction of the estate, toward the lake. “And down there? There are even more buildings on the lake?”
I might have cooled my jets since Monday, but I still had no desire for Brooke to rent a cottage. For one, I lived down there. Unlike Min, who still lived in the house with my parents—the one on the very edge of the property, where we grew up—I stayed in one of the twelve cottages. (Though mine and the others with lakefront views had been upgraded to log cabin homes, we still called them cottages.) Having her as a neighbor was a bad idea.
“Yes, the cottages Neo was going to show you,” I told her, walking back toward the Cellar. “We all live in the cottages except Min, who still lives with our parents. She likes Mom’s cooking way too much. I suspect she’ll stay there until she gets married.”
Brooke chuckled. “Who will feed her while your parents are in Italy?”
“Don’t remind me.” I headed toward a path that led to the back of the Cellar. “She’s leaving next week to join them.”
I peeked at Brooke out of the corner of my eye and noticed the way she was gaping at the view. The back of the Cellar was our premier location on the property, the view from here on par with that of the lakeview cottages. A two-story building, the top floor housed the tasting room, our offices, and an on-site cafe with a massive wraparound deck. Down here, on the ground floor, the view of lawn seats and firepits for colder days led into the namesake of the building.
“This way.” I led Brooke to a locked lower-floor door, and we made our way into the actual cellars.
“Holy shit. It’s like a full-blown factory.”
“I guess that answers my question. Neo didn’t take you down here either?” An image of the two of them wandering the wine cellars blasted unbidden into my brain, making me twitchy. Which made no sense. I hardly even liked this woman, though admittedly she was more tolerable today than usual. Around other people, Brooke lit up like a house on display for Christmas. But not an understated one trimmed with white lights and candles in the windows. She was more like the Griswold family house, flashy and annoying to all the neighbors.
In other words, not for me. On so many levels. Except...she ran her hand along one of the barrels. The gentle stroke was one I’d have dearly liked to see her replicate somewhere else.
So there it was, out in the open. An attraction to Brooke Ellis was a problem I didn’t need at the moment, but one my brother had so kindly laid on my doorstep.
“He didn’t.” She began to wander through the barrel room. “There’s wine in all of these?”
“It won’t be bottled for a few years, but yes. There is. That one you’re touching now is a two-year-old cabernet franc. French oak barrel.”
“French oak?”
“We use both French and American oak barrels.” I pointed to another barrel. “That one is American oak.”
“What’s the difference?”
Brooke was way too close for comfort. Although she seemed genuinely curious, I was ready to move on and quickly explained, “French oak barrels are made from oak trees grown in France, and American oak barrels are made from oak trees grown in the U.S.” I gestured for us to keep moving. “Shall we?”
“Wait,” Brooke said, stopping me.
I all but groaned, having taken a step toward her. At this point we were almost uncomfortably close. Stepping back would have made it obvious I was restless, so I stood my ground. That same vanilla scent wafted toward me.
Today, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I wondered how she’d feel about me grabbing it to pull her head back for better access to her neck, and lower. Undoing just one or two buttons on her crisp white shirt would give me all the access I needed.
Fuck. This was not good.
“That can’t be the only difference.”
Brooke gave no indication that our nearness made her uncomfortable at all.
“It’s not. French oak barrels are known for giving wine more subtle and spicy notes, with silkier textures. American barrels tend to be more potent in their flavor, often described as giving notes of vanilla, cream soda, and coconut, with a creamier texture.”
“Spicy and silky versus vanilla, my favorite scent, and coconut, my second favorite.”
“You forgot creamy,” I said, against my better judgment.