Bittersweet (True North #1) by Sarina Bowen
His big brown eyes lifted to mine, and they were amused. “I have a degree in organic chemistry because I knew it could come to this.”
“Wow.” Organic chemistry? For some reason I’d thought he was a communications major like the rest of the jocks I knew. But my crush was smart—too smart to get involved with me.
He tapped the top of a growler with his pencil. “So here’s the goal. I have to choose two blends to enter in a competition. Each entry costs three hundred bucks, so it has to be good.”
“Ouch.”
“I know, right? But it’s the American Tasting Society. They’re fancy.”
“That’s intimidating.”
“A little. Winning would be a really big deal. Good for business.”
“I’ll bet. I’ve never won a prize.”
He looked up from the jugs he was arranging on the table. “Culinary prizes are hard, right? It’s a snobby world.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’ve never won a prize in my life. Did you have field day in elementary school? Wait—you probably won everything. It was probably your favorite day of the year. But I never once won a ribbon.”
He gave me a curious smile—the kind you give crazy people. “Field day was good to me. But it was a tiny school, and I was big for my age.”
“Ah. Well. My luck continued into high school. Awards Day at the end of the year was my nemesis. The worst was junior year. My mother took an afternoon off work, which was a Very Big Deal. And we were supposed to go out for sushi to celebrate the beginning of the end of high school. But here’s what happened—literally everyone in my private school class got an award except for me. Best in English, Best at Latin, etc. There were dozens of prizes. I hoped Mom wouldn’t notice, but when it was all over the principal asked everyone who’d won an award to come up on stage for a photograph. And I was the only one in my class who was still sitting in the junior’s row. My mom was so embarrassed. We didn’t even go out for sushi. She said she’d lost her appetite.”
Griff was studying me now, his jaw tight. Ugh. I didn’t know why the man always caused me to babble on like an idiot. “Anyway. Let’s taste some cider.”
“Um…” He looked down at the jugs under his hands as if he’d never seen them before. “Right. Okay. So these five ciders are arranged in order of complexity.” He touched the first one on my left. “From simple and bright—” He pointed at the last one. “—to downright funky.”
“You’ve put them in funk order,” I suggested.
“Yeah. I need to find two winners. And I’m hoping to submit two that taste quite different from one another.”
“Because you don’t know what the judges will be in the mood for,” I guessed.
“Exactly. So let’s taste.” He lifted the second jug in line and unwrapped a piece of rubber tape from around the cap. Then he opened it and poured an inch into each of two glasses. “This is a fairly simple creature. Smell.”
He handed me the glass, and I put my nose inside its bowl and inhaled. I was met with a delicious, fruity, tart scent. “Mmm. It’s grassy. Not as fruity as I would have thought.” I hesitated before taking a drink. “Do you taste and spit?” That was how this sort of thing was done by winemakers—so they didn’t spend all their days drunk. I didn’t want to look like a lush in front of Griff.
“You can spit if you want,” he said. “But we’re not going to taste too many things. So I’m just gonna swallow.”
Okay, then. I took a taste of the cider in my glass, making the delicate slurp that’s taught in a wine-tasting class to maximize both aroma and the contact with my tongue. And wow, it was good. “It’s lovely. I get a nice burst of both tart and sweet.”
Across the table from me, Griff was giving the cider his own taste. He tipped that big burly head backward and swallowed, his Adam’s apple working. He was at least as tasty as the cider. I fought the urge to circle the table and taste the cider a second time right off his tongue.
Watching a hot guy drink good liquor was hot enough. But a hot guy who could make good liquor? Was there anyone sexier in the world? No there was not.
Griff lined up two more glasses and opened the growler on the far left. “Compare it to this one.”
“Happy to help out!” I lifted my glass dutifully and sniffed. “Smells fruity.” I tasted. Then I tasted again.
“What do you think?”
I set down the glass. “I could drink this all day, but it doesn’t shout ‘blue ribbon.’ It’s a little citrusy, and doesn’t know as many secrets.”
Griff tipped his head to the side and gave me a sexy smile. “Good girl. That’s exactly what I think of it, too. You know what? You’re pretty good at this.”
I felt my cheeks grow hot as the unexpected compliment washed over me. Wasn’t that ridiculous? It’s not like he’d praised my ability to perform neurosurgery or disarm Iran. “Well,” I said, hoping to hide how ridiculously happy it made me to hear that I’d done something right. “That brings the number of things I’m good at to two.” I swirled the golden liquid around in my glass. “Cooking and drinking.”
When he spoke again, his voice was like gravel. “I can think of a couple of other things off the top of my head.”
“Griff!” I warned. “We’re working here.” But at least I wasn’t the only one still thinking about the other night. Even if Griff only saw me as his sex toy. I pushed my second glass into line with the first one. “Keep it coming. Let’s taste the funkier stuff.”
He opened the third jug and poured. “Have at it.”
This one had a different nose altogether. I inhaled twice to try to define its scent. “Spicy. Cardamom? And honey.” I took a careful taste. “Interesting! I’m still getting honey. Or…guava, maybe. And there’s a muskiness that the other two don’t have. I think this one is a contender.”
Once again I watched while he let the cider roll around on his tongue. Was there tasting-room porn out there on the internet somewhere? If not, there should be. His dark eyes fell closed as he swallowed.
Wowzers.
“Hmm.” He studied his glass as if he might see visions appear in the liquid. “Let’s try something.” He poured the remaining cider into a measuring cup and then back into his glass. Then he took the second jug and poured some measure of it, dumping that into the glass, too. Then he scratched a little note onto his pad. “You first.”
He passed me the new blend, and I sipped it. “Hey!” I sipped again. “That’s great. It’s softer than the third one all by itself.” I handed the glass over and he tasted it.
“I like it. Okay, that goes in the ‘maybe’ column, too.” He uncorked the fourth one and poured me a shot.
It had a real whiff of…age to it. Like old books in a liquid form. I tasted, and it was nothing like any cider I’d ever had. “Wow. It has quite the bitter finish, but I really don’t mind.”
He tasted, too, while I tried not to ogle him. “Yeah. To me this is cider. This is the real deal. But I could still blend it back a couple of clicks. Now let’s taste one to put hair on your chest.” He opened the final jug and poured. “This one will have you singing ‘Funky Town.’”
“Whew,” I said after a sniff. It was potent. But there was something awfully alluring about that rich, musky odor. It was… I sniffed again. So much like…
“What do you think?” he demanded after a sip. “Too much? It’s musky. Heady. It has a good mouth feel but it’s kind of unpredictable.”
I closed my eyes and tasted. On the tongue, it was a much more typical cider. But the nose was thrillingly deviant. It suggested danger. I inhaled deeply in my glass and then laughed.
“Now it’s funny?”
I shook my head. “You won’t like my tasting notes. You’re going to say I’m crazy.”
“You hate this one?”
“Not at all,” I said quickly. “But the scent, it’s like…” I laughed again.
“Tell me. I can take it.”
“Sex,” I blurted out.
Griff choked on the sip he was taking. “What the hell?” Closing his eyes, he sniffed his glass again. His eyes popped open. “Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve bottled…”
“Fucking.”
Griff shook his head. “Well, that’s a first. Can’t say it’s got any commercial appeal, but…”
“Of course it does! Who wouldn’t appreciate sex in a liquid form? Jesus. And here I thought you were a businessman. You have to enter this one.”
“Why? Because it amuses you?”
“No! Because the judges will be drawn to it, even if they don’t know why. This thing isn’t judged by robots, right? Everybody likes sex, and nobody gets enough of it.”
“Don’t they?” His big eyebrows lifted. “I could help you with that problem.”
“Focus, Griff. We have a contest to win, here. We’re going all psych-ninja on them with the sex blend. It’s stealthy.”
He frowned. “The one thing this cider is not is subtle. Let’s blend it down a little and see what happens.”
Figures. I always came on too strong, too. “Fine.” I picked up the second jug in the line and poured a dollop into the sex brew. Then I tasted it again. “Nope.”
“Too acidic, I bet?” Griff asked.
“Yeah.” I set down the glass. “I know what it needs but I don’t know how to get there.”
He measured out a small pour of the sex cider and swirled it around in his glass. Then he added half as much of the acidic cider, and another portion of the second jug. “Two parts E to one part A and B,” he muttered, making a scrawled note in his book. “Here. You first.”
I put my nose in the glass and inhaled. “Mmm. Smells like a summertime nooner.”
Griffin threw back his big head and laughed. “Interesting observation. Since it’s summertime and…” He checked his watch. “Coming up on noon.”
Thanks, subconscious. I tasted it. The new version tasted more like apples. “It’s fruitier now, which is nice.”
Griff nodded thoughtfully. “That blend should soften it.”
“Totally.” I took another sip. “We’ve eased it back from a hardcore-bang cider to a romantic tryst. And the balance of sweet and sour works. How’d you get that right on the first try?”
“Practice, baby.” He raised a hand to stroke his beard, and now I was staring at his full lips.
Damn. Why did this man have to be so freaking attractive?
I shook off the distraction and handed him the glass. “Taste it already. It’s awesome.”
Once more I got to watch Griffin Shipley in the throes of cider-tasting passion. The deep inhale at the mouth of the glass, the closed-eyed sip complete with pornographic mouth action. He tasted it three times, and then he set the glass down and made another scribbled note.
“Well?” I demanded. “You’re totally entering this one, right?”
“I’ll consider it,” he said, writing.
“What? That’s it? We identified the next blue-ribbon-category killer and you’ll take it under advisement?”
Dark eyes lifted to mine. “Simmer down, princess. Everything gets tasted a second time before I decide. The nose is easily overwhelmed. Tomorrow I’ll pour samples of the three contending blends and taste them again.”
“I knew that,” I said, hopping off the stool. “But I want my picture with the trophy after you win. There is a trophy, right?”
“Probably.” He grinned. “I have to clean up a few things here. Then do you want to go skinny-dipping?”
“What?” The change in topic caught me off guard.
“It’s kind of hot today, and there’s still half an hour before lunch. We could cool off at the swimming hole down the hill. There’s never anyone there, so clothes are optional. You probably don’t have a bathing suit…”
I pictured Griffin removing all his clothes and wading into the water in front of me…
My girl parts quivered. “That’s a tempting offer,” I said quickly. “But I think I need to keep my clothes on when you’re nearby.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He gathered up a half-dozen glasses using the thick fingers of only one hand.
All business, I gathered the ones he couldn’t get on the first pass. “Listen, I know you like me better when I talk less and strip more.”
“That is not even true.” The words were so vehement they startled me. “I don’t like your employer, princess. Never said I didn’t like you.”
I thought that over as Griffin set the glasses down in a giant metal sink and turned on the water. If he didn’t dislike me, why did he look so irritable whenever I showed up? And there was something else. “Look, I get it. We’ve had some fun together. Our, uh, favorite hobby is pretty irresistible. But I have a job to do. And you don’t want people knowing about us. So maybe that means we shouldn’t indulge.”
He slapped the faucet handle down, cutting off the water abruptly. “I don’t want people what?” He turned toward me wearing a typical, piercing Griff frown. It was so potent it should probably be its own word. Griffrown.
I couldn’t take the heat. I looked down at my hands, still holding glasses. “You left your truck at the Goat.” Hell, I was already calling the place by its local nickname. It was a sign that I’d become too attached. “So nobody would know you’re slumming it with your college hookup. I’m not even offended. But maybe that means we should find a new hobby. Like paddle boarding. Or hiking. I hear the hiking is good around here.”
“Hiking.” He said the word the way other people say “root canal.”
I set the glasses down next to the other ones. “It’s just an example.”
He put his wet hands on my bare shoulders. Then he walked me backwards three paces until my back was up against a giant metal cider tank. When I looked up, I found his expression as hot as a blowtorch. “Princess, we’re going to get a few things straight.”
“We are?” Good response, Tawdry. Searing.
“One, I left my truck at the Goat to protect your reputation, not mine. Not everybody likes me around here.”
“Like who? I thought you were related to everyone who mattered.”
He gave a little snort. “Not quite. You bought some pears from Zara’s uncles, right?”
“You heard about that?”
The big beard grinned. “Small town. Zara’s family doesn’t like me too much. I don’t think they would have been so helpful to you if there was gossip.”
I mulled that over. “So you left your truck right where Zara would see it? I’m sure she didn’t appreciate it.”
He winced. “That was unavoidable. She knows she and I are done, though. And Zara won’t talk. She’s good people.”
“But not good enough for you.” That just slipped out.
His eyes blazed. “It’s not like that. Zara and I weren’t a great blend. We were a simple and drinkable brew with no tannins. No complexity. No prize-winning juju.”
I was pretty sure Zara disagreed, which was probably why the next thing I said came out sounding snippy. “I see. I guess a cider maker has to do his share of taste-and-spit on his way to greatness.”
A nanosecond later, Griff’s mouth was on mine, the kiss firm and demanding more.
I leaned back against the tank, hoping to stay aloof, if only on principal.
His full lips softened, brushing over mine. Then he dipped his head and stroked my neck with his bearded chin, the soft hairs teasing my sensitive skin. When he dropped an open-mouthed kiss under my ear, I held my breath. And when he slowly kissed his way along my jaw, I felt myself begin to capitulate.
His demanding mouth landed on mine for a second time, and I folded like a first-timer’s souffle, molding my chest to his, parting my lips to be tasted.
As our tongues touched, he moaned long and low. Then he caught one side of my face in his big mitt of a hand and kissed me deeply. He tasted of cider and male hunger, and I felt that kiss everywhere.
“Okay?” Were we having a conversation? I couldn’t remember.
“And I’m not afraid to say so.”
“Um…” I took a deep breath to try to take in some brain-clearing oxygen.
“Come on.” He took my hand and tugged me away from the cider tank. Then he led me across the room and blinking into the sunny day.
Just outside we ran into Jude and Kyle, both shirtless. The two of them were hosing down giant wooden barrels.
“Good work guys,” Griff said. “And I need to mention how much I like Audrey.”
Kyle shot us a quizzical look, but Jude just pressed his thumb over the mouth of the hose and turned the full force of the water on the next barrel. “Good to know.”
“Very funny,” I mumbled as he led me toward the edge of the orchards.
“Baby, I don’t joke. No sense of humor, right? You said so yourself.”
Fuck me, I had. “Where are we going?” I asked to change the subject. Row upon row of apple trees greeted us in long, orderly lines.
“Hiking,” he said. “Your idea.”
“But… Really?” Me and my big mouth.
He laughed. “I just want to show you the Blue Pearmain trees. Come on. Down here.”
We turned, passing dozens of apple trees, their branches full of greenish fruit with just a hint of ripening blush. “Wow, Griff. Good harvest.”
“Bite your tongue,” he said. “It’s not a harvest until it’s in the bank.”
“Sorry. But there are a lot of apples on these trees. What are those?” I pointed.
“Honeycrisp. We put ’em here because that’s what the people who come to pick want first. They’re trendy for a reason. Great texture and flavor. They ripen slowly, though.”
“Is it a drag having people crawling all over your property every weekend?”
He shrugged. “That’s how it’s been since I can remember. And they bring their checkbooks. We sell a lot of fruit that way, and it picks itself. If we didn’t have the U-pick operation, we’d need to hire more day laborers. Speaking of which…” As we crossed a break in the trees, a group of men and women came into view. They were all wearing a kind of nylon bag on the fronts of their bodies, picking apples off the trees and placing them into the bags. There was a big wooden crate in the middle of the row, half full of apples.