He pulled to the side ahead of her on the roadway and got out of the car. In jeans and a pale gray crew neck, his male charisma was devastating. Those black eyes played over her.
“You’re still alive,” he murmured in that deep voice she lo
ved.
She smiled. “Barely.”
“That’s honest at least.”
“You did warn me.”
His hands went to his hips in a totally male stance. “Then I suggest you get in my car now to reserve your strength.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“Not at all. I can’t allow word to get around that one of our new pickers has been worked to exhaustion after her first day.”
She laughed gently. After hoping she’d see him today, she didn’t dare let this precious opportunity get away. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, monsieur.”
“My name is Dominic.” He opened the passenger door for her so she could get in carrying her backpack. He’d just thrown her a lifeline to get to know him better.
The interior smelled of the soap he used, teasing her senses. In a minute he’d climbed behind the wheel and they were off to the terroir in the distance. “I pass by here several times a day checking on the carriers. If ever you need a ride, just let me know.”
Encouraged by the offer, she said, “I might take you up on that since by the end of the day I’m quite sure I won’t have enough strength to climb in one of the trucks. You weren’t kidding when you said I’d need painkiller.”
“The pain will pass.”
“I hope so. I’ve never appreciated the kind of hard work involved. While I was cutting grapes, I marveled to think of all the care needed to keep the vineyard healthy and thriving. No one should complain about the price of wine. Ninety-nine percent of the world has no clue what goes into making it.”
He darted her an amused glance. “That’s quite a testimonial. What’s your favorite kind?”
“I don’t have one. I dislike the taste of wine and much prefer to eat the grapes.”
A burst of deep male laughter came out of him.
“I know that sounds crazy, especially when you work for a vineyard, but I just don’t care for it, and I really despise the sour white wine they serve at the Guinguet.”
“You mentioned that yesterday.”
Did it bring back memories of being there with Antoinette?
“That’s right. One of the workers suggested I go there to relax, so Friday evening I drove there and looked around before driving home. Monsieur Cortier saw me and asked if I’d like to try their famous sour wine.” She shook her head. “It was awful. He said it comes from the Fontesquieu winery, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to drink it.”
“I don’t like it either.”
“You’re not offended by my frank speaking?”
“Not at all.”
Too soon they’d arrived at the terroir. Afraid he would realize how much she was enjoying their conversation, she got out of the car. “You saved my life giving me this ride.”
“It was my pleasure. I’d like to get to know you better—why don’t I come by at noon to take you to the winery for lunch? Since you don’t like wine, it ought to be an interesting experience for you to see how the other half lives.”
His smile thrilled her. “You’d do that?”
“A man has to eat. I’d rather have company.”
“So would I.”