Dez

SIX MONTHS LATER

I rearrange the pillows on the settee. There. That's perfect.

Then I adjust them again, setting the deep green velvet cushions on the diagonal. Now I'm done. It's a good look. They pop against the leather. Really. It's great. Casual, but not sloppy. We don't want to look like we're trying too hard.

I reach for them one more time, but Ian grabs me around the waist, lifting me off the floor. I squeal as he spins me around in his arms, laughing as he presses my body against his.

"He's not gonna care about the cushions," Ian smugly informs me. "You know that, right?"

"You can't be sure of that, Ian." I wag a finger at him. "What if he shows up, prepared to play his heart out, but walks in and is immediately disgusted by this messy arrangement on our couch? Think of the shame, Ian. We'd never live it down."

"You know he lives in a tent in the Siuslaw National Forest for half of the year, right?" Ian's deep chuckle resonates through my entire body. "He's still hoping they'll let him have a permanent campsite someday, as an award for his services to music."

Ian kisses my forehead. "He's not going to care about the cushions."

I'm about to reply when the tasting room door swings open and he walks in. I almost swallow my tongue in excitement.

Frederick Jones III is taller in person than I expected. He's of a similar height to Ian. Dressed in dark trousers, a loose black button down, and a cool as hell black duster, every inch of him looks like the senior statesman of rockstars. Close-cropped silver hair, gleaming deep brown skin, and a badass pair of aviator shades complete the look.

Somehow I manage not to scream out loud, though inside I'm doing cartwheels. Shredrick is in my presence. Less than twenty feet away. I want to run to my bedroom, get all my friends from high school on a group call and giggle into the phone about the fact that I am close enough to see his pores.

(Holy cannoli. He has pores. Like a normal person! My inner thirteen year old is definitely in charge of my brain right now.)

Ian and Shred exchange brusque man hugs.

"Glad you could make it, man," Ian says. His voice is muffled in that way that hints at him having an actual emotion. He'll probably have to lie down later, just to get over it.

Shred pulls back to look at him, before patting Ian on the shoulder. "Anything for you, E.I. You know that."

Daphne, Ian's manager, convinced him to make that documentary after all. It's tentatively titled The Courage to Start Again. It focuses on Ian's efforts to build the winery, but also on the reasons why he had to do so. He had hesitated when she proposed this angle, but in the end, he decided it was worth it to speak out. He wanted to warn people about financial exploitation and how even folks from sophisticated families can be tricked by unscrupulous actors. I've never been prouder of him than when he said helping others was more important to him than saving face.

Of course, the documentary will cover his history with one of the most successful rock bands ever. He's invited Shred, Kyle and JB to come to stay with us. They're not only going to visit the winery, they're also going to spend a few days in Ian's studio to record the song that Ian wrote for me. While I can't wait to see the lot of them stomping grapes out on the tasting room patio, I know the real magic will happen in their sessions. The fans are going to go crazy. I'm going crazy, and I live here.

Shred and Ian let go of each other, and the man himself turns to me.

"You must be Daisy," he says, holding out a calloused hand, framed by a trio of chunky leather and silver bracelets. I stare at it for a second before taking it in my own. "E.I. told me you were stunning, but you put his description to shame."

Ian groans as I blush down to my roots. "Shred, man, you just got here. Give it five minutes before you flirt with my girl, can you?"

"I'm a truth teller, E.I. You can't hold back the truth." The bassist winks at me from behind those shades, and before I can help it, a high-pitched giggle slips out. I haven't made that sound since I was a tween.

Clearing my throat, I pull myself together long enough to ask "Why do you call him E.I.?"

Ian's full name is Ian Edward Christopher Worthington. As a fan, I read every teen magazine article on the band right when it came out — but that nickname was never mentioned.

Shred removes his sunglasses, and his deep brown eyes twinkle at me. "It was about twenty years ago. We were in... Gstaad or some place, right?" He turns to Ian, who nods, before continuing.

"So we were warming up for the show, and he told us he'd bought this winery in the back of beyond. We all laughed, because we thought it was a joke. Then I started messing around" — he mimes playing guitar, while humming Old Macdonald — "and we all lost it when I got to the chorus and sang I-an, I-an-O instead of E.I. From there, it stuck."

"And now look at you. Down on my farm," Ian grins at his old partner. "Will wonders never cease."

And just like that, Shred stops being a rock god, and becomes human. While I'm still in awe of his incredible talent, I see that he's more than his skill with an axe. He's a friend of the man I love, who is supporting him in this new venture as he remakes his life. That makes him real to me.

A while later, Kyle and JB arrive. I try to slip away to let the four of them bond. But Ian won't hear of it, and the five of us have a spectacular dinner under the stars, while they reminisce about tours gone wrong and loop me into the group's stories. At some point, the four of them pull out instruments, because of course they do, and I am treated to my own personal concert with the band that shaped my childhood.

I think I may have died and gone to heaven.

But later that night, when Ian and I are alone, he peels away every stitch of my clothing, and worships every part of me with every part of him. Between his tongue, his hands and his body, I rediscover a whole other kind of heaven between our sheets.

"I love you," he whispers afterward.

"I kind of figured that," I tease. "I think it was the way you kept saying it over and over while you were inside me."

Even though we've barely recovered from our lovemaking, his eyes darken at my words. He leans down for a long, leisurely kiss that leaves me breathless and yearning all over again.

"I love you, too... E.I."

"Oh no, you don't," he laughs. "You'll have to earn that privilege."

I sit up. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

Ian smiles down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way I love so much. "By saying yes."

He reaches under his pillow. My heart races as he pops open a tiny green jewelry box and lets it nestle in the palm of his hand. Inside, a stunning speckled hexagonal diamond sits between a pair of smaller, trapezoidal beveled white diamonds, set in a golden band.

I stare down at the ring, mouth open, heart racing. My eyes flit between the ring and his face, so full of love and warmth and joy.

I hold out my shaking hand. Ian's hands aren't much steadier as he slips the ring onto my finger. My eyes blur with tears as it slides on to my hand.

It fits perfectly, of course. Just like the two of us.

They say never meet your heroes. And at first, I thought that was true. But in our case, discovering the man behind the rock god was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Taking a deep breath, I lean forward, and let the rest of our lives begin.

"Yes."

Thank you for reading Talk Vino To Me! If you'd like a little bit more of Daisy and Ian's story, you can check that out here .