"Because she was planting the day my mother—the woman my father cheated on her with—showed up to drop me on their doorstep. She never ceased telling me that the fragrance of these flowers reminded her of the worst day of her life: the day she'd discovered she’d been betrayed, and that every time she looked at me she’d be reminded of that fact."
My heart froze and then thrummed painfully in my chest. "Oh," I breathed, taking his hand and squeezing it as we walked. "That's . . . I'm so sorry. How cruel."
You must favor your mother, I'd said. Yes, to everyone's dismay, he'd answered. Oh, Grayson. Now I understood his bitterness, and also his . . . deep loneliness.
He smiled over at me grimly. "She actually tried to have them ripped out several times, but they just wouldn't go away. Kind of like me, she’d said." He smiled again, as if unaffected. It must have wounded him deep inside his heart, though. Impossible that it hadn't. I squeezed his hand again and moved closer as we walked, offering the comfort of my presence if he wanted it. The thought of the beautiful man walking next to me being unwanted and unloved by anyone made my heart ache. But at the same time, I couldn't help but feel honored. He was such a private person, and usually so reserved. And yet he'd shared something deeply personal with me.
"My stepmother was involved in so many charities in Napa, I could barely keep track. I think she was mostly in it for the ladies' luncheons." He chuckled, but it held little amusement.
I looked up, studying his profile, understanding suddenly that initially, he had judged me to be like her. "I guess there are different types of generosity. I'm sorry your stepmother couldn't find the generosity of heart to show more kindness to a little boy who wasn't hers."
He looked over at me, the expression on his face almost shocked. "It's all in the past, I guess." No, I didn't think it was.
Hesitantly, not knowing how far he would open up to me, I asked, "Will you tell me about your mother?"
"My mother?" His brows knit together. "Truthfully, I don't know much about her other than she was a ballet dancer. She was a member of the New York City Ballet when she met my father. They had a one-night stand. She got pregnant. Because of her pregnancy she was asked to leave the company. She had trouble supporting me, blamed me for the ruin of her career, her body, and decided she couldn't look at me anymore. She dropped me here with my father and left. I never heard from her again."
"How terrible and selfish." And then to be dropped here to be the subject of even more blame, bitterness, cruelty, and exclusion. No wonder he was so guarded.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" he asked, a small smile of wry amusement on his lips.
I released a breath. "Yeah, I guess we are." I bit my lip considering our stories. "Funny how much we have in common."
"We don't balance each other at all, do we?"
I laughed softly. "Not at all. We're all wrong together."
He moved in front of me and turned around so I was forced to stop in my tracks. He took my face in his hands and smiled down at me. "Not all wrong," he murmured, bringing his lips to mine. His mouth was soft, his kiss slow, but it spread sensation through my entire body just as his kisses always did. He pulled away too quickly, leaving me gazing dizzily up at him, my hands flat on his hard chest. His smile was slow and filled with male pride, and I couldn't help but smile back at him. I shook my head in exasperation while I did it.
"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."