Page 19 of Bordeaux Bombshell (Sunshine Cellars #3)

Nate

The faint smell of new paint wafts out as I hold the door open, combined with a familiar expensive perfume.

Workers have been down here for the last few days, repainting and fixing up a few things, and Mom and Sophie spent yesterday afternoon getting everything tidied up and ready.

There was less work to do than they expected, considering it’s been sitting empty for months.

“Ah, this will do just fine.” Manon’s English was always good, but it’s improved since I last saw her. Or maybe she was always this proficient and was making me work on my French by pretending. It wouldn’t surprise me if that were true. “What a quaint little place.”

She thrusts her purse into my hand while shrugging off her jacket, which also ends up in my grip before she moves further inside.

“Thank you so much for coming, Manon.” Sophie edges past me to join her inside. “Greg—and Nate—highly recommended you for your expertise. Do you often deal with frosts in Bordeaux?”

Manon is wandering through the space, hand trailing across the back of the new leather couch.

When Kel and Maggie lived here, it was full of bright colors against the white and timber walls.

Now it’s redone with gray, navy, and yellow.

It’s fine but lacks the personality it had before.

I can’t help but wonder if Sophie is considering turning the cabin into a short-term rental.

Just what I need—a rotating cast of strangers living next door, expecting me to act as their concierge.

“Oui. Enough to know what to look for and how to help. My father and grandfather have seen many late frosts and taught me.” She waves a hand in my direction. “Nate, too. I am flattered by your desire for my expertise, but Nathaniel knows almost as much as I do.”

I cough, Manon’s flattery sinking like a rock in my stomach. “Your father taught me a lot, but there’s knowledge and then there’s experience. I haven’t seen a frost like this since I was a teenager, and I don’t think I retained enough to be confident in our next steps.”

Against my better judgment, I called Manon the day after the early frost that had left us scrambling, to ask her what to look for.

Really, I’d been looking for reassurance that my instincts were correct, but Theo overheard some of the conversation, and after I explained who she was, he and Sophie insisted on flying her out to take a look.

My opinion on the issue didn’t seem to matter.

And, of course, Manon jumped at the chance.

She’d never miss an opportunity to remind me it was her bed I crawled into in an attempt to forget everything, and everyone, I had left behind. She’d been there when I’d gotten the call about my dad’s fall and insisted on driving me to the airport, even though it was an ungodly early hour.

When I told her I wasn’t coming back, she begged, cried, and argued that I was making a mistake. Her passionate response was so completely different from Sydney’s silence that, in a panic, I offered to pay for her to visit.

But she would never leave Gabriel, or Vignobles Hermouet, and I knew it.

This trip was planned before I could object—too distracted by my game of tug-of-war with Sydney to explain the nuances of our relationship and deter the visit.

When she called to confirm her flight number and that she was staying at the Ridge, I was too stupid with the feel of Sydney’s naked skin still tingling in my fingertips to do anything except agree.

Sophie continues asking Manon questions, so I excuse myself and head uphill to my cabin. There’s a tightness in my chest that could be from seeing my ex-lover or guilt that I haven’t told Sydney about her yet.

Also, if I have to listen to another minute of them discussing my vines and my home as if I’m not there, I’ll say something rude. And believe it or not, I’ve been putting in effort not to be rude to Sophie.

I’ve been trying not to be a dick in general, an idea that admittedly has not been a priority these last few years. But after that amazing night with Sydney, the iceberg in my gut has been melting rapidly.

Kel’s constant good mood these days seems entirely reasonable if this is a taste of what being with the love of your life feels like.

I don’t even care that she rushed me out of her place as soon as I hung up the phone with Manon. She’s flipped moods like that for as long as I’ve known her, so tossing my clothes into my lap and declaring she needed to shower and go to bed and that I should go home wasn’t a surprise.

When Kel asked me to be his best man, I was happy to establish a working truce with her. But now that she’s let me in once, I’m determined to win her back completely.

Maybe not all of my childhood dreams are completely out of reach.

“You did what?” I almost drop the case of pinot in my arms, my mother’s declaration reverberating through me.

“I invited Manon to come to the bridal shower.” Mom’s tone is incredulous. “It would be rude to leave her out.”

I shove the case onto the shelf and turn to grab another from the dolly. “Mom, she doesn’t know Maggie. Or Kel.” I glance over my shoulder at Manon, who’s sipping from her glass, smirking. “You don’t have to go, really.”

“But I want to, ma choucroute. I feel as if Kel and I must be old friends, you have told me so much about him. Besides, it is a celebration of l’amour, no?

I am French, of course I must go.” Manon salutes me with her glass before draining it, a drop of red wine staining the corner of her lip. “Which pinot was that?”

Mom raises an eyebrow in my direction as if the matter is settled, then goes back to pouring for Manon. “That was the Estate.” She pulls another bottle from behind the bar and uncorks it. “This is the Maximilian.”

The name sets my teeth on edge, as always.

The Suttons didn’t rename many of the wines, but trading one that had been named for my grandfather for their dog still irritates me.

They kept the Amelia, for crying out loud.

I wish I could escape the tasting room, but Manon’s professional opinion of my wines means too much.

Even if they are slowly being named after pets.

Like the expert she is, she buries her face in the glass, breathing in deeply. The edge of the glass rests against the bridge of her slender nose, her eyes fluttering closed as she takes it in.

I’d be lying if I said that action, that expression, hadn’t been a huge turn-on when I first met her—homesick, overwhelmed, and eager to learn.

Manon was the opposite of Sydney in so many ways. Unhurried when she spoke, methodical when it came to her work at her grandfather’s vineyard, sophisticated and sensual. She’d taken me in like a stray puppy the first year, poking fun at my stories about the Ridge and Kel.

Drunk on wine and thunderstorms one night, I confessed to her how I felt about Sydney. She laughed that sexy French laugh but kept a respectful distance between us.

It wasn’t until I came back, devastated after my father’s betrayal and determined to leave behind the Ridge—and everyone in it—that she closed that distance.

“So tell me about this wine, Nate.” Manon pulls my attention back to herself with the same teasing tone she used when we first met. “What makes it special?”

“This one used to be called the Edward, after my dad’s father. It’s made from the oldest vines on the property, ones he planted himself.” I give her some more history, even though I’m sure she’s already heard me say it, back when I was young and proud of my heritage here.

“And you were head winemaker this year, oui?” She takes another sip, head cocked to the side as she savors the flavor.

I nod, then busy myself with unloading another case behind the bar. “Yeah. My dad was out of commission most of last year, between his fall and the cruise.”

As soon as he’d gotten the all-clear from his physical therapist, Dad took Mom on a three-month cruise as a fiftieth wedding anniversary gift. Although I’m pretty sure it was also to get away from my grumpy ass.

For the first time in my life, all of this year’s wine release was my sole responsibility. I’m pretty proud of how everything turned out, and if our reviews were to be believed, so were our customers. But Manon practically bleeds cabernet—her opinion holds weight.

“Ma choucroute, this is very nice. I should like to take some home with me.”

Mom pulls out another bottle, glancing between the two of us. “Ma cha-croot? What does that mean?”

Heat flames up my cheeks. “It means ‘my sauerkraut,’” I mutter, snagging another case of rosé to take into the storage room.

Manon’s lilting laugh rings out. “Because he was so sour when he came back.” She pulls her mouth down into a pained expression before imitating what I think is supposed to be me. “‘I’m never going back. If they don’t want me, I’ll stay away.’ He used to mumble this to himself all day long.”

Manon laughs again, Mom joining in half-heartedly. But I can see the tightness around her eyes, the quiver in her lower lip. I need to steer this conversation away from my poor attitude quick.

Clearing my throat, I hand Mom a bottle of chardonnay and push her toward the door.

“So, like I’m sure I’ve told you a thousand times already, we have the Ridgefield cab franc, the Estate and Maximilian pinots, the Sophie rosé, the Amelia riesling, and the Postman chablis-style chardonnay.

Mom, why don’t you take that bottle down to Manon’s and pop it in the fridge for later? I can finish up here.”

I watch to make sure she’s out the door before I turn back to Manon. “Sorry. She still gets upset when we talk about when I left.”

“Désolée, I did not realize—”

She’s cut off when my mom pops her head in the back door. “Manon, you must come to the shower on Saturday. I insist.”

“Oui, oui, Madame. I will be there,” Manon sings out, staring me down. Her long fingers slide up and down the stem of her glass, her body language telling me I’m about to be very sorry I tried to stop her from going.

Silently, I pour out a taste of the rosé for Manon, waiting for her to inhale deeply before taking a large sip. “So?”

“You know rosé is not my favorite. But this is nice.” She sips again. “I do not need to take any home with me, though. One rosé is much like another, no?”

I wait, sure she has more to say. Funny, it used to fill my stomach with butterflies when I awaited her pronouncement on my taste in wine. Now it’s a different kind of nervous—I want her to like them because then maybe my being here instead of France means more possibilities instead of fewer.

“So, tell me, why Postman? All the other names, I understand, but this one I do not.” She drains the glass and pushes it away. “Also, I am hungry from all this tasting. Do you have something I can eat?”

I tuck her glass into the bus bin to wash later and step out from behind the bar. “Theo Sutton’s company is called Mailbox, Inc. He wanted something related but not overt since he and Sophie are determined to keep this separate.”

“Ah, I see. Mailbox is a stupid name for wine, anyway.”

I flash her a smile, the argument familiar. “There are a lot of wines with stupid names. How about I show you what wines we have in the library?”