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shoved another in her mouth, swiping a hand across her chin as a rivulet of juice escaped. “Yep. Can definitely taste it’s not quite ready. Must take skill to know when the exact right time to pick is.”
    “Years of practice.” He reached up and swept his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “You missed some.”
    The roughness of his flesh, callused by years in the fields, made her lips tingle long after his thumb fell away. Her gaze rose to his. The sexual awareness she saw there made her heart stall in her chest.
    A no-touching rule might have been prudent.
    Skipping that kiss even better.
    His mouth flattened into a straight line. He stepped back, out of her personal space, and she started to breathe again. “Shall we move on to the winery?”
    She nodded. Sucked in an unsteady breath. What the hell was wrong with her?
    Whacking herself over the head with a big mental stick, she followed him into the winery. Built around the foundation of the original historic building, it gleamed with modern efficiency. Huge stainless-steel tanks in which the grapes were fermented nearly reached the ceiling, lined up one after the other—the scale of it was breathtaking.
    “Why do you move the wine to barrels?” she asked. “Why not leave it in the vats?”
    “To complete the maturation process and add character to the wine.” He led her into a room that was lined with beautiful, honey-colored barrels stacked three rows high. “These are Chardonnay. Some of these barrels have been used for multiple generations of wine. Each one adds a unique flavor depending on where it’s from—French oak or American, say—and how old it is.”
    He took a glass from a shelf and used the tap on the top of the barrel to pour a small amount. “Young wine is usually rough, raw and green and needs to settle,” he told her, handing her the glass. “This one’s done in a French oak barrel to add that oaky flavor you often get in a Chardonnay.”
    She took a sip. It was too light and fruity for her taste. “I prefer reds.”
    “We’re getting to those.” He led her downstairs to the cool, underground cellars where the premium wines were stored. Dark-bricked, high-arched ceilings supported by columns of stone were complemented by the beautiful dark woods of the original cellar. Quiet and hushed in the middle of the day, the rich, atmospheric space seemed to whisper of years gone by and the historic vintages that had been nurtured there.
    “It’s unbelievable,” she whispered as he walked her into a large room with stacks of oak barrels displayed on both sides and a huge rustic table running down the center of it. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. This must be the formal dining room Lilly had spoken of, where the events were held.
    Gabe threw her an amused look. “Why are you whispering?”
    She shrugged, spooked by the feeling there were souls down here other than their own. “It just feels like there’s so much history in the air.”
    The grooves around his mouth deepened. “If you mean ghosts—there are. If you choose to believe the folklore.”
    Her skin went cold. If there was anything she was afraid of, debilitatingly, horrifyingly afraid of, it was ghosts. “Do not play with me, Gabe. That’s not funny.”
    He picked up two glasses and handed them to her, then took two more and motioned for her to follow him. “The story goes that the original owners, Janine and Ralf Courtland, held a huge celebration in honor of Dionysus one summer night. Half of Napa came.”
    She frowned, following him out of the room. “Who is Dionysus?”
    “The Greek god of wine and revelry.” He looked back at her. “Didn’t they teach you that in school?”
    “Greek mythology at Mission Hill High School?” she murmured dryly. “Not quite.”
    “I meant in university.”
    “I didn’t go to university.”
    “College, then. Wherever.’
    Heat swept across her skin, this particular conversation humiliating when it was happening