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I shook my head even as I squeezed his hand. “No, Nash. I have to deal with this myself.”
“I’m quite good at leveling the playing field.”
I smiled at him, trying to take the sting from my rejection. “You’re ruthless. But this is my battle, and I plan to see it through.”
He grumbled, his eyes narrowed, and I could tell he was playing out scenarios in his head.
“Nash?”
“What?”
“I can’t lean on you forever.”
“Why not?” But then he sighed. “Okay. I get where you’re coming from.”
I raised our joined hands to my lips and kissed his. The bruising had faded, turning a sickly chartreuse and purple. Soon he’d be able to play his guitar again, something he’d missed this week. I was glad he hadn’t had any gigs because the discomfort, had he insisted on playing, would have been fierce.
“Tell me about our afternoon,” I said.
He glared at me for one more moment before he let the matter with my father drop. “I’m taking you to Becker Vineyards.”
My smile widened. “Really? The one with all the awards?”
“One and the same,” he said with a smile. “And I’m catering lunch there for the staff and us from one of the local restaurants.”
I scrunched my shoulders toward my ears, excitement thrumming through my body. “Yum.”
We pulled into the smoothly graded dirt parking lot. It was large—and empty.
I raised my eyebrow. “You rented the place out?”
“Sure did.”
I would have shaken my head, but I was coming to understand the constancy of pressures Nash faced from the press. He deserved this break, and I wanted him to myself.
“Not just for you,” he added. “Though that’s a benefit.”
“Why, then?”
“Because we’re going to film a video here, and I’m having Hugh and the vid team go over possible locations on the property while I wine and dine you.”
I chuckled. “I love the two-birds-one-stone approach.”
“I didn’t want you to think too highly of yourself.”
I laughed.
He waited for security to open his door before he turned and offered me his hand. I glanced up at the estate, charmed by the yellow rock and pitched metal roof surrounded by long, red outbuildings. Definitely not a chateau I’d see in the Seine Valley, but it had its own Texas charm.
We entered the tasting room to find a smiling group of staff, including the head winemaker. “I’ll be pouring your wines while you eat,” he announced.
I practically bounced in excitement. Sure, I’d attended society dinners, but to have lunch with wine pairings explained by the man who made them? What a fantastic experience.
My enthusiasm caused Nash to chuckle. A staff member locked the front door and led us to a secluded table toward the back, already set with gleaming silver and white linens. There were six wine glasses in front of me, along with a water goblet, seeping moisture down its sides.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to sample the wine? I don’t have to—”
Nash clasped my hand in his. “You don’t have to change your life just because I can’t stop after a drink.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand. “I’ve thought a lot about this. Touring is a free-for-all of sex, booze, and pills. I’ll have to manage being around it.”
