Our two families sharing a meal in public was going to be the talk of the town for weeks, if not years. It thrilled me to think that the town would finally have something positive to say instead of avoiding the thick, dark clouds that seemed to hover over us at every turn.

With my hand intertwined with James’s, we walked in step toward the barn. He pulled open the door and ushered me inside as I looked around at the light-filled space. There wasn’t a boxing ring or a boxing bag in sight.

Confused, I turned to face him. “If you don’t box in here, then what do you really do?”

“I’m sorry I lied to you at dinner when you asked. I just …” He walked quickly, and I followed right behind him, heading for the brightest area in the barn. It was in that moment that I saw the various easels, canvases, and paints set up. “Not many people know I do this, and I wasn’t ready to tell you.”

There were so many paintings—landscapes, grapes, still life, and objects. All done beautifully with a whimsical touch. Each one looked like it sparkled.

“You did all these?” I asked in awe. I’d had zero idea that James Russo could paint.

“Yeah. Are they stupid?”

He bit his bottom lip, and I wanted to wrap him in my arms and tell him that the last thing they were was stupid. How could he question how amazingly talented he was?

“Stupid? They’re beautiful. They should be labels on every bottle of wine you sell,” I said before leaning in close, admiring the way they shimmered, the sparkle catching your eye as you moved away from it, therefore drawing you back in. “They’re magical, James.” I turned to look at him, my hands cupping his face. “Seriously. Magical. And eye-catching. How do you get them to shimmer like that?”

“It’s a technique I’ve always favored. I kept at it until I mastered it. You really like them?”

“Yes.” I nodded like a bobblehead for emphasis. I couldn’t nod fast or vigorously enough to make my point. “They should be labels. If you don’t rebrand all your wine, they should definitely be on at least the limited-edition bottles. You could even market them as James Russo exclusives and sign each one.” My mind raced with all the possibilities.

“Think you could help me with that? Sell the idea to my parents?”

“Of course! And, if they say no, we’ll do it ourselves.”

It was my turn now to convince James that what we had wasn’t ending. We’d started a partnership I had no intention of leaving.

“We’ll do what ourselves?”

“We’ll make our own labels for a wine we create together,” I said with a smile.