It was one thing to put your hands all over a woman when you were in private. But this was a public event for the Bellini family with outside guests and Brenna could tell that Honor was uncomfortable with the groping.
“Who the hell is that guy?” Owen asked as he stepped up beside Brenna.
“Colt. Some cowboy Honor’s been dating.”
“Uh-huh. A little publicly familiar with Honor’s—parts, isn’t he?”
Owen didn’t look any happier about it than Brenna was.
“I’ll say,” Erin said.
Owen let out a disgusted grunt. “Would you like me to have a talk with him? Or maybe knock him down?”
Brenna smirked. “No, I think Honor can handle him.” Hopefully.
“Fine. But I’ll keep a close eye on him. Hey, good to see both of you.”
“You, too, Owen,” Erin said. “We’re glad you’re here.”
Owen shot her a smile. “Thanks. It’s good to be here.”
Brenna watched as Owen trailed after Honor and Colt.
“Well, that was interesting, don’t you think?” Erin asked.
“What was?”
“Owen was pissed about Colt getting handsy with Honor.”
Brenna shrugged. “He’s always been protective of us.”
Erin gave her a half smile. “Maybe.”
What the hell did that mean? She started to ask, but then someone needed her, and Erin ran off, so she didn’t get the chance. She quickly fell into the routine of the day, and her mind was back on her grapes.
Admittedly, her grapes were her babies—as well as Red Moss Vineyards’s biggest moneymaker. Having people who weren’t well versed in handling them made her nervous. But between her, Dad and the staff, they kept a close eye on the pickers and made sure no one abused the grapes. Not that they would. They always had repeaters who showed up every year to pick and they loved the grapes nearly as much as Brenna did.
The system was flawless, and as she watched the bunches being placed in the buckets and carried to the stomping bins, she couldn’t help the thrill of excitement. Her grapes were on their way.
As she moved from station to station, she caught sight of Finn directing staff, carrying buckets and bins or stopping to help when someone asked a question. No matter where she was, he always seemed to enter her line of sight, sweat pouring down his face on this warm day, his muscles straining from the effort of carrying full buckets of grapes by himself.
She sighed. That man was something. And he made her heart do flippity-floppity things.
She stopped for a while to watch as several people—men, women and children—stomped the grapes. It always drew a crowd and Brenna was thrilled to see that a couple of the local television crews had showed up today. She had her mom to thank for that.
What she hadn’t expected were those microphones stuck in her face.
“We hear this is an annual event here at Red Moss Vineyards,” one of the reporters said. “What are your planned activities for the day?”
Fortunately, Brenna was able to think on her feet, so she outlined the day’s activities, then added, “If you’d like to take your shoes off, you’re welcome to stomp some grapes. And we’re including champagne brunch at the end.”
The reporter knew a good angle when she saw it, so before long she was stomping grapes in one of the bins, with the camera person getting a great shot while the adorable reporter gave a blow-by-blow of the process. All in all, some awesome publicity for the vineyard.
“How about you, Ms. Bellini?” another reporter asked. “Will you be stomping the grapes?”
She laughed. “Oh, no. I leave that fun for our guests.”
Finn came up to her and took her hand, smiling at the camera and the crowd that had gathered. “But don’t you think she should?”
A round of applause followed Finn’s suggestion. Since they were on camera, she couldn’t shoot him a venomous look. Instead, she grinned and said, “Of course. I’d love to.”
She kicked off her sneakers, dipped her feet in the wash bucket, then held Finn’s hand while she climbed into one of the bins, whispering to him as she did.
“I’m going to kill you.”
He just laughed in reply and said, “Have fun.”
She slid into the bin. It had been years since she’d stomped grapes, but she’d done this so many times she hadn’t forgotten the rhythm. Up and down, moving over the entire bin to be sure she mashed every grape. She’d forgotten how much fun it was and since the cameras were on her, she explained the process, how this was the old style of mashing grapes, how the liquid was collected underneath and how different it was from the more modern mechanical methods of extraction.
“You can imagine how much longer it took our ancestors to yield grape juice,” she explained. “How hard they had to work, compared to how quickly we can get juice with today’s machinery. But this is so much more fun, and an incredible amount of exercise, too.”
Everyone laughed, and when the cameras turned off, she climbed out of the bin, rinsed and dried her feet and put her sneakers back on.
Since Finn was still nearby, she went over to him. “You set me up.”
“Actually, your mom did. She’s the one who suggested it.”
“Oh, really.” She looked over at her mom, who was sitting at the table under a shade tree running grape totals. She happened to look up at the time, smiled and waved.
“You looked totally hot out there stomping those grapes. And I don’t mean weather hot, either.”
She looked up at him. “Thank you. It was fun. You should give it a try.”
“Oh, you know, I think I hear your dad calling my name.” He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “See you later.”
“Coward.”
He laughed and dashed off and Brenna shook her head, then a moment later realized he’d kissed her—in public, and she hadn’t shied away from it. In fact, her mom had been right there. She looked around to see not a single person paying the slightest bit of attention to her—to them.
She sighed, realizing that maybe her having a relationship with Finn was only a big deal to her, and not a single person was freaking out about it.
What did that mean?
It means you need to chill, Brenna.
Okay, then. She’d relax. A little. Maybe. Eventually.
Half the day was gone by the time picking and stomping was through. The bins were loaded up and driven to the warehouse for processing, and all the volunteers were directed to the barn where brunch was going to be served.