“Oh, wow. There’s ice on the tanks.” She took off her mittens and hat, shoved them inside her coat pockets, and fluffed her hair a little.

“Yeah.” Momentarily distracted by the feminine gesture and all that golden blond hair, I paused for a second before recovering. “This is what’s called cold stabilization, where the wine is stored just above its freezing point.”

“Really? Why?” Then she grimaced. “Sorry. I’ll just warn you now, all my questions will probably sound stupid to you. I love wine, but despite growing up here, I’m pretty ignorant about the process.”

“That’s okay.” I turned the spigot on one of the tanks and filled one glass halfway, handing it to her. “I’m happy to teach you about it—you just have to let me know when I’m getting boring. I could talk forever about making wine. Renee used to—never mind.”

She put a hand on my arm. “No, tell me. Renee used to what?”

I filled the second glass, sorry I’d opened my mouth, but at the same time thinking how nice it was to feel her touch. “She was just over it after a while. She got sick of hearing me talk about what I do.”

“But you love what you do.”

I exhaled as I straightened. “It was part of a bigger problem. Anyway, I’m happy to answer your questions. If you start to snore, I’ll stop talking.”

She laughed. “That won’t happen.” Lifting up her glass, she looked at the riesling, which was pale yellow and slightly opaque. Her fingers were slender and graceful on the stem, her fingernails painted a soft pink. “Why do you have to keep it so cold?”

“To prevent crystallization of the bitartrates—what we sometimes call ‘wine diamonds.’”

“Wine diamonds.” Her plush lips curved into a smile. “That actually sounds beautiful.”

I laughed. “Maybe, but you don’t want them in your glass. Next week we’ll filter this and get it ready for bottling.”

“Got it.” She lowered the glass and peered into it. “So am I supposed to sniff this first?”

“You can, sure.” I watched her stick her nose inside the rim and inhale. “What do you smell?”

She picked up her chin and looked at me, her expression concerned, like she was figuring out a math problem. “I don’t know. Something fruity? I’m not good at this.”

Smiling, I swirled the wine in the glass. “You’re not wrong.”

“What do you smell?”

“Orchard fruits like apple, peach, apricot. A little honey. Maybe a little petrol.”

“Petrol!” She looked horrified.

“It’s normal,” I assured her with a laugh.

She sniffed again. “I don’t smell that at all, and how the heck do you pick out individual fruits like that?”

“Training. Experience. I also happen to have a very sensitive nose. I’m good at picking up different scents. Now taste it.”