Dez

T he buzzing of my phone echoes loudly in the early morning silence. I quickly slip my running shorts on and dive to catch the device before it dances off the bed.

"Good morning, Olivia," I sing.

"How did you know it was me?" My boss sounds amused. "Surely I'm not the only person who calls you."

"At five in the morning, you are."

"Oh, shoot." Her voice turns apologetic. "I got the time wrong. I was just talking to my cousin who lives in Minnesota, and it's already seven there — anyway, I should let you get back to sleep."

"Don't worry about it. I'm up getting ready for my run. What's going on?"

"I wanted to check in, since I know I dropped this on you at the last minute. I wouldn't have, except that Ian is a family friend."

"It's fine," I reassure her. "Things are going fine."

"That's too many fines in a row, Daisy." I can practically see her raised eyebrows through the phone. "Now I know something's up. Tell me."

Ugh. Darn her for knowing me so well.

However, I am absolutely not telling her.

Liv never takes a vacation. Getting her out of the office practically took an act of Congress. I'm not gonna mess that up. Not when things really are going well. Just because there's this slight romantic tension between Ian and me, and he asked me out, and I may have had utterly filthy sex dreams about him and his massive…guitar for the past three nights — that doesn't mean a thing. It's nothing I can't handle.

"Don't be so suspicious," I say, imitating her stern tone. "Things really are going just fine."

"Really?"

I slip through the sliding doors of my bedroom and out onto the walking path behind Ian's house. "I think Ian is doing great. Or he's making progress, at least. Even if he does tend to mock the Connor Group's Employee Manuals. He called the FAQs a bunch of ‘corporate horse shite.' and swore the person who wrote them was a flaming idiot."

Olivia's warm laugh echoes through my headphones.

"All right," she says, amusement returning to her voice. "Now I believe you. That sounds exactly like him."

"So you're telling me he's been cantankerous from birth."

"Pretty much," she agrees. "Cranky, but disciplined. It's how he's gotten so successful. If you'll forgive the pun, he's always marched to the beat of his own drummer."

As if on cue, I hear the strains of a guitar floating through the air. We're deep out in the country, and there are no neighbors close enough for us to hear. It must be Ian. Olivia sighs happily.

It's the first time I've really listened to him play since I've been at the house. I expected something more rock and roll but he's playing a piece I don't recognize, though I can tell it's in a classical Spanish style.

"So beautiful," Olivia murmurs." He's always had a genuine gift."

I make a noise of agreement. It's simply the truth. Ian has an incredible talent. And he's only gotten better with time. If I weren't already an enormous fan of his, listening to him play right now would have made me fall irrevocably in like.

Olivia and I say our goodbyes. I want to stay and listen to him, but we've got a lot to do today. I'm hoping to get my exercise in before the weather turns hot.

I tuck the phone away and stretch for a few minutes. The view here is so magnificent. All this gorgeous foliage, in shades of green and brown... it soothes my soul in a way I didn't expect. I'm going to miss it when I return to my condo in the Pearl.

My phone rings again, and I laugh out loud. That's Liv. She has such a habit of remembering "just one more thing" after we've spoken.

"Okay, boss lady, what's the one more thing?"

"Daisy? It's me."

Shit. Shit shit shit. What was I thinking? I never just answer the phone — and this is the reason why.

"Daisy?" He still sounds someone took a file to his vocal cords, even though I know he gave up the cigarettes years ago. Frankly, I think it's a miracle he's still got vocal folds at all.

"Roger," I grit out. "What can I do for you?"

"Aww, Daisy G," he wheedles. "Come on. Don't be like that. Do I have to want something to talk to my beautiful girl?"

"I don't have time for this game. You only call when you want something. What is it?"

He sighs, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. I roll my eyes. He needs to get to the point already.

"Your mother tells me you're working with Courage these days."

Meaning he's following Mom on social media, and he correctly interpreted her cryptic post about my new assignment. I know that's what happened, because she's only allowed to post about me after I've approved the wording.

"Something like that," I confirm. He gets as little information as possible. "What about it?"

"What about —" he laughs, like I've said something hilarious. "Baby, it's Courage. They're still huge. People love them."

"I know." It's my job to know. Unlike him, I keep track of the things that matter to me.

"So you know I'm opening the bar in a few months."

"I can't get you a discount on the wine." Unclench the jaw, I tell myself. Straighten the spine. Breathe normally. You're fine. You can survive this.

Roger laughs, like I'm the funniest person ever. "That's not what I'm looking for."

"Then what is it? I have things to do."

"I need a real splash for the opening night. Having Courage playing for it would bring in tons of people and incredible publicity —"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Come on, baby girl. Don't do me like this."

"You are the most delusional human I've ever, ever dealt with in my entire life. Why would I — you know what? No. I'm not doing this with you."

"I'm not asking for the moon —"

"This is my job we're talking about. My literal job. I am not going to risk my livelihood for your insane fantasy."

"You won't even have to ask. Let me do it. Just get me in front of him."

"Goodbye, Roger. Please don't call again. Not about this." I disconnect the line and try to will myself back into a state of calm, but it's useless. Damn him. He's bold as brass and his head's twice as hard. I curse until the air is practically blue. It doesn't help.

"Ouch. That's the first time I've seen you be anything other than a pure ray of sunshine."

"Ahh!" I cover my mouth to stifle the scream that automatically erupts from me at the sound of his voice. Ian's eyebrows shoot upward, but he doesn't flinch. I'm impressed. Most people find that my level of freaking out freaks them out.

"Sorry I startled you." He doesn't look sorry in the least, but I appreciate his attempt at politeness. It's much better than the surly attitude I got from him when Daphne dropped me on his doorstep. "I'm simply impressed that you do occasionally lose your temper."

"Of course I do. I'm human, like anybody else."

"I'll concede the first part of your statement, but Daisy, you have to know. You are nothing like anybody else."

Our eyes meet. While my body was hot with anger before, an entirely different kind of heat snakes through me now. We're in dangerous territory. I'm already far too attracted to this man, despite my need to keep my professional distance. But all I want to do is get closer to him. No matter that it's a fool's game.

"Probably no one else would be so excited to take a winery tour," I say lightly. "Today's the day you get to run me through it."

Ian's knowing look tells me he's letting me get away with changing the subject. But we both sense that something changed between us the day of the photoshoot. We've seen what's behind each other's masks, and we didn't flinch. Neither one of us is in a rush to put those masks on again.

"Let's go."

We walk back to the house, and hop into one of the golf carts that takes us over to the tasting room. Once we're there, Ian runs through the tour with me as if I were a customer. While the staff will normally be the ones to conduct these tours, it's important for Ian to know how to lead them as well. So the two of us walk through the fields, and he demonstrates how they care for the vines and when the perfect moment is to pick the grapes. He teaches me all about terroir, and what makes the Willamette Valley such a perfect place to grow the notoriously tricky pinot noir.

Ian is the perfect host. He doesn't come across as some spoiled celebrity; instead he's charming, engaging, and knowledgeable. If I weren't already a fan of his, I would be after this talk. He's nothing like Roger, with his sense of entitlement to my time and my professional contacts. I can't believe he had the nerve to ask —

"What do you think?"

"Hmm?"

"About putting a guitar-shaped spaceship on top of the barrels?"

"I'm sure that will be fine —" My brain catches up to my ears. "Wait, what?"

"Gotcha." Ian's eyes are sparkling. "Someone is definitely not listening."

"I'm sorry." A sigh slips out before I can stop myself. "My mind is elsewhere."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Absolutely not."

"Sure?"

I nod. I don't trust what will come out of my mouth if I speak. Though his offer is so, so tempting. Ironically, if anyone in the world could understand, it's Ian.

I can almost feel him wrapping his arms around me, pressing my body against his. I'd throw myself into his embrace and spill my guts. He'd hold me tight, stroking my back, and murmuring soft words as I let it all out.

But I don't dare give in to the impulse.

I'm supposed to be a professional. That's how Ian needs to see me. Not as a potential... whatever he wants from me. It's better for us both if I keep my distance.

"All right then. Time for this tour to go off script," Ian says. I narrow my gaze at his charming half smile.

"Whoa. What? What does that mean?" I cross my arms over my chest. He gently peels one hand away, gripping it firmly in his. I want to protest — professionals don't hold hands with their clients — but I'm too distracted by his mysterious mission to make a fuss. Besides, if I'm being honest... I don't hate the feel of his hand in mine. His callouses from years of playing are surprisingly smooth against my softer skin, and his grip is cool and sure.

"It means you're still unhappy with whomever was on the phone, and you need something to take your mind off of it." Ian opens a door onto the south patio of the tasting room. "Besides, I wanna test out an optional offering for the tour."

Curious, I let him lead me over to an area of decking where a trio of half wine barrels sit. They look weathered, as if they've been outside for a while. Although it's early, the sun is already warming the air, and I can smell the sticky rich tang of grapes from here.

"First thing's first," Ian says. "Come sit."

"Why?"

"Trust me," he says, giving me that same smile. Heaven help me, I think I do. Is it foolish of me? Maybe. Probably. But I'm intrigued and want to see where this goes.

"All right, what do I have to do?"

"Let's give yourself a quick wash, eh?"

Ian gestures to a small stool to the left of the barrels. I strip off my shoes and socks, then step into the half barrel full of sun warmed water. I take the brush and give my feet a brisk scrub until I'm satisfied they're clean.

"Right. Now hop on in to the barrel of grapes."

"Huh?"

"Trust me. You'll enjoy this once you get into it." At my raised eyebrow, his half smile turns devious. "Unless you're chicken."

I'm not falling for that childish game. Nope. Ian can bait me all he wants, but I am not giving in. It doesn't matter what he says; I refuse to let him get to me. And yet…

Ian grips my hand tightly as I slide my left foot, then my right one into the barrel. Plump grapes pop and squish beneath my heels.

"Oh God." A full body shudder hits me as I squeal at the sticky juice running across my skin. "Ew. No. I'm getting out. This is such a bad idea."

"Give it a chance before you pass judgment," Ian says. "This kind of crushing is called pigeage."

"Are you seriously going to sell foot wine, Ian?"

"Not every batch, but a selection, yes." My eyebrows reach for the sky at his words. He laughs. "It's traditional. Pigeage helps control the ratio of tannins of the wine much better than when the grapes pass through a machine."

The stark rays of the sun behind him turn the corona of his dark hair an almost burgundy red. It's like the opposite of a halo. I hold back a laugh; I'm definitely not telling him that. Bad enough that devilish smile of his lingers around his mouth.

"I'm in, I guess. What do I do?" I ask. More grapes pop as I shift my weight, trying to keep my balance. The flow of juice beneath my feet is like nothing I've ever felt before. It's a strange, almost ticklish sensation.

Ian cues up some music. I laugh out loud when I recognize the old Brothers Johnson song, a disco tune literally called Stomp! He shrugs, as if to say he's admits it's on the nose, but he's leaning into the cheese of it all.

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Shift your feet around in the barrel and press down. You can go faster as you get comfortable."

I do as he says. It still feels so bizarre. But as I watch the grapes turn from plump globes to softly mashed slurry, I find a rhythm and get into it. My ankles and calves turn red as I stomp, smash and twist. I dance all over the fruit. When I hit a particularly fat cluster, I hold on to Ian's shoulders for balance.

I can't help it. I'm laughing and stomping and dancing and having the time of my life when I slip. Instantly, Ian's hands are there, gripping my thighs so tight it makes me gasp. My own grip on his shoulders tightens, and his chin rests on my stomach.

Heat blooms in my core as his hands press into my thighs, just beneath the lower curves of my ass. Those callouses I noticed earlier rasp across my hypersensitive skin as his hands glide slowly down the backs of my thighs. It's almost hypnotic as he repeats the motion, over and over, sliding down to my knees and up again.

I can't help the sharp intake of breath when Ian's hands go to my waist, and he bodily lifts me out of the tub of grape slurry. He places me feet first into the tub of clear water.

"That's probably good for a first try," he grunts. His voice is tight, like he can barely speak. I don't say a word.

Ian kneels beside me and reaches for the brush. At the first touch of the damp bristles on my skin, my mouth goes dry. Other parts of me, however, become very, very wet.

"You don't have to — I can —"

"Shh," he whispers. "I want to. If that's all right?" He looks up at me, an eyebrow half raised, a soft curve on his lips.

His quirked brow slides back down at my nod. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. I can't watch.

But oh, I can feel.

Each brushstroke heightens the tenderness of my skin. The prickliness of the bristles, then the slow sluice of the water, trickling down my legs, then the rasp of his hands following after. Brush, slide, stroke. Brush, slide, stroke. Ian repeats the motions with endless patience, hands reaching higher and higher up my legs, until he's far above my trembling knees.

But he keeps working, with steady patience. My breasts and core ache as Ian's hands continue their exploration of every inch of my skin. My legs fall apart, and a soft curse leaves his lips.

I shift restlessly in the chair. Wanton and wanting. Desperate for relief from the throbbing ache in my center, yet unwilling to break the spell.

When my left foot grazes the seam of his jeans, my eyes fly open. He grunts as I discover the very obvious evidence of his arousal. Our eyes lock, and it's as if we forget to breathe for a moment.

Then we're both moving at once, and our mouths come together in a blaze of lips and tongues and desperate, dangerous desire.

I thought I'd been kissed before, but this ... this is everything. His mouth moves over mine, seeking, tasting, devouring me in a way I never knew was possible. I moan into his kiss, needing more of him, of this heady, unreasonable, outrageous deliciousness that sets my blood on fire.

Ian's hands are everywhere all at once. Touching breasts, my hips, my ass. He rubs and strokes, lighting up every part of me. But he doesn't touch me where I need him most.

"Ian. Please," I beg, nails digging into his biceps. Not entirely sure what I'm begging for. But he knows.

"Shh," he whispers against my lips. "I've got you." And he does, because those strong, sure fingers slip inside my shorts and underthings, until he finds the core of me and plunges inside. His thumb works my clit, gently teasing strokes that contrast with the steady thrust of his fingers in my desperate, aching pussy.

"Yes," I groan, over and over. "Yes."

My cries make him thrust harder and harder, urge him to work my clit faster and faster, spreading the wet slickness over and over that sensitive spot until I fly over the edge, calling out his name as my body quakes.