Angela batted that away with one hand. ‘But almost as good. I know his family’s wines from Piacenza. They are good. You should marry him and start a dynasty.’
It was lucky Holly didn’t have a mouthful of wine, or she would have lost it.
Franco was still scowling. But at her, not Angela. What the hell was that about?
‘Franco’s going home to Italy soon,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you, Franco? So unfortunately it would be a very short-lived dynasty, Angela.’
She shrugged. ‘You can’t tell young people. Now, this is your party. You go and have fun. I have to see to this lamb.’
They could have headed inside, where the bulk of the partygoers were, but somehow, without a word uttered between them, they drifted instead to a covered pergola area strung with coloured lights, tall gas burners taking the edge off the cold. They stopped at the timber railing and Holly breathed in the air, taking a moment to reflect upon the land that she loved and that had been so good to her. Out there, under the crisp darkness of the night, lay the sleeping vineyards, waiting for spring to wake up and burst once more into life.
But the air she breathed held something more, for it also carried this man’s scent and it occurred to her that she would miss it when he was gone.
She sighed, her moment of reflection over, and looked up at him, and whatever was bothering him before must still be bothering him, because he still looked serious.
‘Well, you sure look like you’re having fun.’
‘I’ll never understand you, Holly.’
Whoa, was that a compliment or not? She guessed not. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You don’t know? How about the way you’re dressed?’
She looked down at herself. Clean shirt—reasonably pressed pants. She’d even washed her hair and treated herself to a lick of make-up. She thought she looked okay.
He gave a rough, rasping sigh. ‘This is a party for you, Holly. A party. All these people are here for you, to celebrate what you have achieved, and you look …’ He gazed down at her, a look of utter disbelief on his face. ‘You look like you’ve just come in from a day’s pruning in the vineyard. Couldn’t you have made an effort?’
Something in her jaw tightened. ‘I thought I had.’
‘You seem to work extraordinarily hard on making yourself look ordinary.’
She laughed, false. ‘Well, I guess it’s good to excel at something—’
‘That wasn’t a compliment, Holly.’
She leaned her elbows down on the railing and turned her gaze out over the dark vineyards. This wasn’t going at all the way she’d hoped. ‘You’re very good at not giving me compliments when it suits you.’
‘And I seem to remember you’re good at taking them as compliments all the same.’
She shrugged and tightened the grip on her glass of wine. She’d given him space this week, hoping he might come around. But was he still determined to punish her for what had almost happened between them? Was he trying to find fault with everything about her to make himself feel justified?
‘Does it really matter what I wear? These people—my friends—are here because I grow good wine. This is what I wear when I grow wine, so why should I pretend to be something I’m not?’
‘Because you’re a beautiful woman, Holly Purman, and you should stop pretending that you’re not. You don’t have to hide your beauty under a scraped-back ponytail and a serviceable uniform. What you wear working in the vineyard, for your work, is one thing. What you wear the rest of the time, for the other part of your life, is another. But don’t sell yourself short.’
She blinked. Had this man just called her beautiful?
‘Why are you so afraid to make something of yourself? What are you scared of—that someone might actually pay you attention? Because you sure do your best to look invisible.’
Did she? She shrugged. ‘I’ve always dressed this way. I grew up practically wearing a Purman’s logo somewhere or other. That or a school uniform.’
‘Always?’
She remembered the glass of wine in her hands and took a sip. ‘I guess Pop didn’t know what to do with a girl, especially after Nan died. But he did the best he could, and I guess I was bound to grow up more of a tomboy.’
He thought about what she must have looked like as a little girl, and maybe with pigtails instead of a ponytail, but no doubt much the same. So different from the way Nikki had looked, with her mother’s insatiable need to dress her up so she’d looked like a five-year-old going on fifteen, like she’d been her little sister rather than her daughter. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her in long pants that weren’t tights, come to think of it.