A Sip of You (The Epicurean Series) by Sorcha Grace Read Free Book Online

camera and shoot a few landscapes, but I knew I’d have time for that later. William threaded his fingers through mine or rested his hand on my thigh when he didn’t need to shift, and his touch helped keep me warm.
    Finally, William turned into a drive lined with trees. “We’re almost there,” he said. The drive was long and straight, slightly uphill, and the trees formed a canopy overhead until we finally emerged. Set among lush bushes and more trees was a very large Mediterranean-style stucco house with a vivid red tile roof. “This is home,” William said.
    I glanced at him, surprised. This house was the antithesis of everything I’d known of William so far. In Chicago, his penthouse, his office, everything about him was sleek, modern, and minimalist to the point of being cold and impersonal. This place was the exact opposite.
    He was looking at me, so I cleared my throat and tried to think of something to say. “It’s beautiful.”
    “Welcome to Casa di Rosabela.”
    The house had a name? Was I in the Twilight Zone? William owned a house with a name. I don’t know why this surprised me, but it did.
    “It was built in the 1920s,” he said as he slowed the car and pulled around the circular drive to stop in front of the door. “I didn’t name it. The Italian man who built it and established the vineyard here named it for his wife.”
    “That’s so romantic.”
    “It is, isn’t it?” He climbed out of the car and though I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for the door, he was there before I could open it. He helped me out, then rested his hand lightly on the small of my back and guided me toward the house.
    I couldn’t help but stare at the house and manicured grounds and marvel. I wondered how much something like this went for. Ten million? Twenty million maybe? Caught up in my astonishment, I missed half of what William was saying and finally tuned back in when he led me through the front door. “It’s eleven-thousand square feet with about thirty acres dedicated to grapes plus an olive orchard.”
    I nodded, mutely, as he led me by the hand into a large open living room. The floors were tiled and the high ceilings had exposed wooden beams. Huge windows overlooked the sloping vineyard with its perfect rows extending as far as I could see. Beyond them, in the last light of dusk, sat majestic hills, stately sentinels of all they surveyed.
    The entire place was meticulously and very expensively decorated in what I’d call California chic , traditional but with a clean modern flair, and complimented by a gorgeous art on just about every wall. I didn’t know where to look first. William led me on a tour and I saw the screening room, the gym, and the small tasting room, and peeked at the outdoor area, fully equipped with a pool, fireplace, outdoor kitchen, and dining area. William told me there were two guest casitas and buildings for the work of the winery. It was late, and he promised to show me those tomorrow.
    “And this is the best room in the house,” William said, pulling me by the hand. He had yet to release my hand and had smiled and studied my reaction to everything in the house. But for the first time, he seemed to look for my approval. He led me around the corner and through an arched doorway. “This is the kitchen.”
    I laughed. I’d half expected—maybe wanted—him to show me the bedroom. But, of course, William’s favorite room would be the kitchen. And I could see why he loved it. It was a real chef’s kitchen, equipped with all the top-of-the-line appliances Beckett was always going on about. But unlike William’s sterile kitchen in Chicago, this one was warm and vibrant with colorful painted tiles, rich wood cabinets topped with dark stone counters, and gleaming copper pots of all sizes hanging from a big iron pot rack. Still no refrigerator magnets or silly pictures of bicycle-riding chefs, but this room felt warm and welcoming in a way his penthouse kitchen never