Chapter 4.

Isabella watches Edward's retreating form with her lip between her teeth. She doesn't know whether to be amused or upset by the assistant winemaker's hasty exit. And she's definitely not paying any attention to the broadness of his shoulders, or the curve of his arse, or the flex of his calf muscles as he stalks out of the barrel room.

Esme's chuckle rolls over the top of Carlisle's guffaw, drawing Bella's attention. She looks from one to the other—they seem to be having a silent conversation over her head, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Um." Isabella doesn't really know what to say, but she feels the need to remind them of her presence. She coughs and scuffs the sole of her sandal against the concrete floor.

"How about we show Isabella the cottage?" Carlisle suggests, his eyebrows lifting as he smiles down at his wife.

"Oh! Yes, of course." Esme places a hand on Isabella's shoulder. "I'll drive up, though, so you don't have to carry that pack over. And I had all the stuff you shipped over put in your room already."

Isabella's first thought when she sees the cottage is that "cottage" might be an overstatement. The place is tiny. It's cute, certainly, with its wrap-around porch, and the white paint and forest green trim, and the star jasmine crawling around the balcony rails. But it's tiny. She wonders how Carlisle and Esme fit in there with Jasper—let alone how they can possibly have a spare room for a basically-stranger visiting from the U.S.

"Our place is over there," Esme tells her, pointing past the cottage to the enormous brick house that Isabella had somehow failed to notice. It is, perhaps, five hundred metres to the north of this little cottage.

Isabella's relief is short-lived, replaced with confusion.

"We have a spare room in the house," Esme tells her, her eyes dancing, "but I thought you might like your own space. Of course, you're welcome to join us for all meals, but I thought you might like the privacy—and not having to share a bathroom with Jasper."

Isabella blinks, looking back and forth between Esme and the little cottage. She points, "I – you … This is where I'll be living?"

Esme frowns, her hand over her eyes to block the sun's glare. "Is that – I mean, if you'd rather stay up at the hou–"

"It's perfect." Isabella shakes her head, her eyes closed. She opens them warily, like she half-expects the tiny house to have disappeared. "Thank you, Esme. This is – this is too kind of you."

Esme startles as Isabella throws her arms around her, still mumbling her gratitude.

Just as quickly, she pulls back, her cheeks flaming. "Sorry, I'm just overwhelmed. This is so much more than I expected. Thank you, really."

"You're welcome, sweetheart. It's only small, but–"

"It's perfect."

"Well, come have a look inside, hey?"

The cottage is small—one bedroom, a small bathroom, a pokey little laundry, a lounge room, and, at the end of the hall, a combined kitchen and dining area.

"Perfect," Isabella repeats. She can smell the newness of the paint, and she worries Esme has gone to too much trouble on her behalf. When she voices this concern, Esme shakes her head and tells her she had been meaning to fix the place up for years—Isabella's arrival was just the excuse she needed.

After suggesting Isabella have a nap, Esme starts to excuse herself to finish up a few chores and start getting dinner ready.

"Oh," she says. She stops short at the screen door, and Isabella narrowly avoids walking into her. "By the way, I should tell you—if Edward's hanging around, it's because of these vines out here–" she waves a hand "–and not 'cause he's a creepy stalker."

"O-kay."

Isabella follows Esme onto the porch as she explains that the rows of dead-looking vines in front of the cottage are an experiment Edward is running; a new varietal he's hoping will grow well in this climate. As she speaks, Isabella catches a glimpse of faded blue cloth and golden skin—Edward is making his way through the rows, stopping here and there, ducking down to inspect something.

Esme puts her fingers to her lips and lets fly a piercing whistle. Edward straightens up and waves.

"I'm just telling Isabella you're not a stalker, okay?" she calls, her voice ringing clearly across the fields.

Isabella snickers as Edward shakes his head, his hands planted on his hips. The plot he's tending starts perhaps the length of a hospital corridor from her front door.

"He's a good guy," Esme tells her, her voice normal volume. "I imagine Carlisle will get him to train you when you start on the Cellar Door. For a young bloke, he knows heaps about wine."

"Okay." Isabella silently shoos away the butterflies in her belly.

"Anyway, get yourself settled, sweetheart," Esme says, patting her arm. "We'll see you about six-thirty for dinner."

A loud banging pulls Isabella from a heavy sleep. She sits up, bewildered by the darkness cloaking the room. Fumbling beside the bed she finds the lamp switch, blinking at the warm, yellowy light it casts across the walls.

The cottage.

She took a nap.

"Shit," she mutters, picking up her watch. It's seven o'clock. She was supposed to have dinner with Esme and Carlisle half an hour ago.

She climbs out of bed and glances at the puddle of clothes on the floor beside her bed. She groans, running a hand through her hair as she realises she's shucked all her clothes in her sleep—again. She starts to redress, and is pulling her jeans back on when she realises the banging hasn't stopped.

Rubbing her eyes, she makes her way to the front door, flipping on every light in the cottage as she goes.

"Hey." Edward stands on her porch, holding a bottle of wine and a plate covered in tinfoil.

"Uh, hi." Isabella says, speaking through the screen door. "I was just – I need to – I forgot about dinner. I–" she breaks off, covering a yawn with her fist.

"Esme figured you were tired," he tells her with a wink. "So she sent me down with your dinner."

"Oh. I should call – I have a cell phone …" Isabella looks around, as though she expects her phone to sit up and wave at her.

Edward chuckles, and Isabella shivers at the way the sound seems to tumble across her skin. "She said to tell you not to fret, that she'll drop by in the morning, and to kick me out if I'm being a pain in your arse."

"Is that a likely scenario?" She swings the screen door open.

"Huh? Oh!" Edward's eyes are dark and shining with laughter as he stands in the light spilling out the door. "Of course not." He extends the arm holding the plate. "Hungry? Esme's a bloody good cook. And this is our Reserve Shiraz from oh-six. Lovely drop." He waves the bottle of wine.

"Thanks." Isabella smiles, taking the plate and the wine. "Do you – um, do you want to come in?" She's a little surprised at herself as the offer slips out, and she feels her cheeks heat.

"Uh," Edward hesitates. Isabella looks at her shoes, and he wonders whether she feels obliged to offer, and if she's actually hoping he'll decline.

"I mean – if you have somewhere to be, don't – don't feel like you–"

Edward smiles as she looks up, licking her lips. She has pretty eyes, he decides. He thinks they're brown, but can't be sure in the limited light. It's not the colour that makes them pretty, though. It's … well, it's something about the way they shine. Edward shakes his head at his thoughts—shiny eyes, really?

Isabella takes the movement as him declining her offer. "That's oka–"

"I have to be up heaps early, but let's have one glass."

A slow smile lights her face, like she's surprised that she's glad he accepted. "Okay." Isabella steps out of the doorway. "Oh. I don't even know if I have glasses or a corkscrew."

"I'm almost certain Esme will have stocked wine glasses," Edward tells her as he closes the screen door and follows her down the hallway. "And we seal everything under screw cap, so you won't be needing a corkscrew."

Isabella removes the tinfoil from the plate, revealing what looks like roast beef with gravy, roast potatoes and pumpkin, broccoli and green beans. She slides it into the microwave whilst Edward opens and closes the kitchen cupboards, looking for glasses.

"Told you," Edward says as he sets two wine glasses on the counter. He unscrews the bottle and pours a generous splash of the dark red liquid into each glass.

With a smile, he hands Isabella a glass and raises his own. He likes the way she smiles shyly, but maintains eye contact as they clink glasses. She takes a sip, humming appreciatively. She tucks a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear, and Edward follows the movement, his eyes tracing the curve of her ear and down her neck, down to the dip in the front of her t-shirt that shows him just the tiniest hint of cleavage.

"This is really nice," she says, lifting her glass.

Edward nods, then realises he has no idea what she's talking about. He blinks.

"The wine," she clarifies. "It's really nice."

"Oh. Yeah." He drags a hand through his hair, and Isabella watches the kitchen light dance on the strands that have been bleached white-blond by the sun. At least, she assumes that's the sun's doing—Edward doesn't exactly seem the type, what with his blue singlets and his mud-caked boots, to spend a few hours in a hair salon having his hair lightened. She smiles at the mental image of him sitting in a hairdresser's chair with a head full of foils.

"It's our flagship wine, you know, so …"

It's Isabella's turn to realize she's not hearing what Edward is saying. "What?"

"The wine," he says, smirking. "This is the wine we're known for."

"Oh." Isabella takes another sip, and spins the bottle so she can read the label. It's simple, understated—white with black lettering.

Cullen Family Estate
2006 Reserve Shiraz

"Did you – I mean …" Isabella hesitates, wondering if she's about to make a fool of herself. "Did you make this?" She nods at the glass in her hand.

"Nah," Edward rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "I think oh-six was Carlisle's first vintage after he took over."

Isabella nods, grateful when the microwave beeps, signaling her dinner is ready. Plate in hand, she frowns, looking at the small dining room table. "Do you – have you eaten?"

Edward nods. "Yeah. You go ahead." With a grin, he pulls a chair out for her.

He slouches into the chair opposite her, his eyes on his fingers as they trace the base of the wineglass.

Isabella expects it to be awkward, eating dinner whilst Edward watches, but he seems to sense her unease, and fills the quiet with friendly chatter. He tells her about the estate, how the cottage and Edward's plots—as well as some of the other vineyard blocks—were purchased in more recent years from an ageing neighbour who didn't want to sell to one of the big multinationals that are buying up large tracts of land in the region.

"Anyway," he says, as Isabella puts down her knife and fork and shifts her plate out of her way, "you're probably lucky you slept through dinner tonight."

Isabella tips her head, curious. He's spoken so admiringly about Carlisle and Esme that his statement shocks her a little.

"Jasper," he says, shaking his head. He drains the last of his wine. "He was in a foul mood."

"How old is Jasper?"

"He'll be seventeen soon, I'm pretty sure." Edward shrugs. "He works hard around here, it's easy to forget he's still a kid—until he throws a tantrum. He wasn't happy that Esme invited me to stay for tea."

"Oh."

Edward places his hands flat on the table, pushing himself to his feet. "Don't worry, he'll behave himself around you. He's just got a weird grudge against me."

Isabella wonders if Jasper's jealousy stems from the relationship between Edward and Carlisle. Though she hasn't even met Jasper, she can hear the obvious respect and affection Edward has for his boss.

"Anyway, I should head. Got an early start."

"Oh, okay. Um, well, thanks for bringing down my dinner—and the wine." Isabella follows Edward to the front door.

"You're welcome." Edward grins. "I've got the next few days off, but I think Carlisle wants me to start training you next Monday morning."

"Great."

"I'll see you then." The screen door swings closed behind Edward, and as she listens to his footsteps cross the porch and thump down the steps, Isabella can't help the smile that stretches across her face. She's looking forward to Monday already.

Come Monday morning, Edward feels a curious sense of anticipation as he pulls the rack of tasting glasses from the dishwasher and dries them carefully, sliding them into the racks that hang above his head. He tries to tell himself it's simply the excitement he feels at sharing knowledge, at the opportunity to teach his favourite subject, that it has to do with the several dozen bottles he's collected for the morning's tasting. It has nothing at all to do with the fact he'll be spending the next two days with that pretty, distracting, American girl.

Isabella walks through doors with a shy smile, her hands twisting together in front of her. Carlisle and Esme took her on a tour of the winery and vineyards over the weekend, and she immediately fell in love with the slated floors and dark timber in the cellar door. The walls are lined with abstract paintings in deep reds and pale yellows—the colours of the wines being tasted—and rows of tasting glasses hang upside down over the bar, light bouncing off them like a strange, rectangular chandelier.

Watching Edward move around behind the bar for a moment, Isabella notices he is wearing a white t-shirt. She hasn't seen Carlisle, Jasper or any of the guys who work on the vineyard in anything but those blue singlets, and she's almost surprised to see Edward wearing something else—until he reaches for something and she sees the telltale outline. She swallows a giggle. "Hi."

Edward looks up at the sound of her voice, smiling at her from behind the bar. "Hey. How are you?"

"Pretty good, thank you. And you?"

"Not too foul. Are you sleeping well? Any jet lag?"

"It kind of just hit this week, actually." Isabella shrugs, and she finds the end of her ponytail, twisting hair around her index finger. "I was keeping crazy hours when I first landed, but now that I'm trying to find a routine it's hit me hard for some reason. I was up at about four this morning–"

Edward chuckles, and Isabella rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes. You're an early riser, I'm sure. Or do you just not sleep? You're too tough to need rest, right? You're just like a machine or something that keeps going all night?"

Edward's eyes widen and his cheeks heat, but he swallows his retort, shaking his head.

Isabella frowns in the silence his witty comeback should fill, before she realises the unintentional double meaning to her words. She swears under her breath, and looks around the empty room. "So, what do you want me to do?"

Edward tries to shake away the images flashing through his mind. "Um. We're–" he scratches his head, still trying to gather up his wits, which seem to have been scattered across the slated floors "–going to taste some wines … Obviously. I mean – shit. Can you set out some glasses—two rows of six? We'll do sparklings first, okay?"

Isabella nods, and joins Edward behind the bar. She smiles, her hips twisting to squeeze around him in the narrow space, and busies herself with setting the tasting glasses into two neat lines. Edward pulls six bottles out of the fridge and starts removing their muselets.

"We don't need flutes?" Isabella wonders, watching him pour a small amount of wine from the first bottle into the first glass in each row.

Edward repeats this process with the second bottle, shaking his head. "S'long as they're all the same. Consistency is the most important thing, you know? Reduce the number of variables." He chuckles. "And these are the only glasses we have in here, so they'll have to do."

Isabella watches him fill the glasses, surprised by the variation in colour between the wines.

Setting the sixth bottle aside, Edward ducks down and grabs two silver buckets. He sets one in front of Isabella with a grin. "Spit, don't swallow."

Isabella chokes on a laugh and nods, and Edward grins, pleased he's not the only one thinking dirty thoughts. Scratching the back of his neck, he addresses the glasses in front of them. "As fun as it would be to get sloshed with you, this is work. Plus, it'll dull your senses."

"Okay."

"Right." As Edward picks up the first glass, Isabella can almost see his professionalism slip over him like an apron. "We'll taste first, talk after, okay?"

He nods at the notepad and pen on the counter. "You'll want to keep notes." He tucks his own pen behind his left ear, and picks up the first glass. "Describe the colour, what you smell and taste, how it feels in your mouth."

Isabella closes her eyes and breathes deep, trying to get a grip on her thoughts. Focus on the wine, she tells herself. Copying Edward, she examines the colour of the fizzing liquid, smells it, tastes it, and then looks towards the silver bucket. She hesitates, really not wanting to spit in front of Edward, and chances a quick glance at him. He sees her looking, and even though his lips are pressed tight while he swishes liquid around his mouth, Isabella can see the laughter in his ocean-coloured eyes.

Isabella swallows the wine down, and Edward wags a finger in her direction. Leaning over his own bucket, he spits out his mouthful of wine. "You get used to it," he tells her, his voice free of the taunting tone that usually lingers. "It is kinda gross."

"Uh-huh."

"Try it."

Isabella blows out a breath, and takes another sip of wine. She swirls it around her mouth, eyes closed as she concentrates on the flavours. Mentally squaring her shoulders, she picks up the spittoon and forces the liquid between pursed lips, hoping like hell she doesn't miss—or end up dribbling the wine down the front of her shirt.

"See? You're doing fine."

Jotting notes down as she goes, Isabella quickly forgets about the handsome guy slurping and spitting beside her, and moves determinedly through the flight of wines, her senses focused on the colours, aromas, tastes and textures before her. Occasionally, she backtracks, picking up a glass she had already contemplated as she tries to figure out what makes each wine different.

For Edward, much of the sensory analysis he's performing is almost automatic, so he has a small portion of his attention free to observe his new colleague as she sips the wines before her, swishes them around her mouth and then expectorates them. He hides a smile behind his own glass as she tastes the fifth wine—he sees her eyes widen and her nose scrunch up, and he mentally high fives her for her good taste.

"You done?"

"Yes. Uh, I think so."

He grins. "It's okay. There's no exam … today." He snickers at the look of panic that crosses her face. "I'm kidding, Izzy-Bella."

"Ass." Isabella slaps at him, snatching her hand away when she feels the warmth of his chest seeping through his singlet top and into her palm. The ease she feels in his presence, the playfulness he brings out in her confuses her a little, but she decides not to over-think it. It feels nice to just be.

Smile wide, Edward points at the glasses in front of her. "Which one did you like best, and why?"

He's pleased that she considers her answer for a moment.

"I think this one."

Edward is impressed, but decides to tease her. "'Cause it's pretty and a little bit pink?"

Isabella giggles. "Of course." She straightens her shoulders and picks up the glass, sipping it again. "It's very interesting. There's raspberry, yes? But it's—I don't know how to describe it—chalky? And kinda spicy?"

"What kind of spices?" Edward doesn't look at her as he sniffs his own glass.

"Um," Isabella smells the wine again and looks at her scrawled notes, "maybe, like pepper, and ginger." Her voice rises in pitch with her uncertainty.

Edward shakes his head, but can't help the smile that overtakes his face. "Can you taste more than raspberry? Any other fruit?"

"Apricots—no, peaches. And there's a nutty kind of smell, too."

Edward sets his glass down and looks at the ceiling, his fists closing. He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and makes a strange hip thrusting movement that is as bewildering to Isabella as it is sexy. If he notices her confusion at his peculiar victory dance, he doesn't let on. For a self-confessed novice, Isabella has just demonstrated acute sensory perception. "This is what's called a Blanc de Noir. It's a sparkling wine—Champagne in this case—made from Pinot Noir grapes."

"Aren't pinot noir grapes red?"

Edward nods. "Black, yes. But the colour—in most red varietals—is mostly in the skins. So this–" he points at his glass "–hasn't spent any time in contact with the skins." He goes on to give Isabella a quick lesson in sparkling wine production, the varietals most commonly used, and the methods of carbonation.

Isabella jots down notes as he talks her through each wine, explaining how the production has influenced what appears in the glass. They compare their notes, and Isabella feels relieved that Edward's notes, whilst far more detailed than her own, are quite similar.

They move from sparkling wine to a flight of eight Rieslings, then four Pinot Gris. Isabella is setting out eight glasses for Sauvignon Blanc, when Edward declares it time for a break. "Smoko."

"You smoke?"

He chuckles. "Fuck, no. Ruins your palate. Come on."

His fingers close around her elbow, and he leads her out of the tasting room and into the small kitchen. "Probably not a good idea to drink coffee right now," he says, indicating the shiny chrome espresso machine on the bench, "but you like tea, right?"

"I'm learning to."

"Good."

The sun is sinking low in the west, painting the sky in streaks of orange and lavender, when Edward locks the doors to the tasting room.

"So, reds tomorrow?" Isabella asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Yeah. Sweet stuff, too, if we get to it." Edward scratches his head. "We might need a couple days extra. I want to take you through our range, too."

"Oh?" Isabella wants to stomp on those ridiculous butterflies that have taken flight in her belly again, but it's harder now. Now that she knows how easy it is to spend a day in Edward's company, their conversation moving from serious sensory analysis to the exchange of giggle-punctuated anecdotes without any awkwardness.

"Yep. I'll talk to Carlisle about it." He rolls his shoulders and tips his head from side to side, grimacing at the muscle tightness he's feeling. "Come on, then."

Isabella tilts her head at him. "Um, where are we going?"

Swinging a set of car keys around his forefinger, he chuckles, and Isabella can almost feel the air around them vibrating with his laughter. She wonders if she could've absorbed some alcohol without actually swallowing it.

"Brewery. We need pies … and chips and beer."

"We do?"

"Absolutely. Gotta reset that palate."

Isabella can't imagine why pie would be served with chips—or beer—but she's not going to pass up the opportunity to spend more time in Edward's company.

"You want beef and Guinness, chicken and veg, or steak and cheese?"

Isabella has no idea what Edward's asking her as he stands beside her, arms folded across his chest, so close that her shoulder is pressed against his bicep, and she can smell the spice and sweat clinging to his skin. "Um, beef?"

"'Kay. You grab a table, I'll order."

Isabella reaches into her bag for her wallet, but Edward's hands, warm and still lined with purple pigment, land on her shoulders. Turning her away from the counter, he gives her a squeeze and a slight shove. "My shout."

When he joins her in the small booth a few minutes later, he's carrying two glasses of a pale-coloured beer and wearing a broad smile. "I was going to get us a paddle," he says as he slides onto the seat beside her, "but we'll do that another time when we're less palate-fatigued."

"Uh, sure."

He slides one of the beers in front of her. "It's their pale ale. It's good."

The clink glasses and Isabella grins as she brings the beer to her lips.

"It is good," she decides. "I usually prefer darker beers, but this is really nice."

"I thought you were bringing me to get like, apple pie." Isabella says. She attempts to point at Edward, but aims her forefinger at the space to his left. She picks up her fourth—or fifth—beer and swallows the remains.

He giggles, his cheeks red and his smile slippery on his lips. "I want apple pie! And ice-cream." He frowns. "But why would we have apple pie for tea?"

"You said we were getting pie!"

Edward blinks and waves a hand over his plate, which is empty but for a few stray chips, pastry crumbs, and smears of gravy. "Pie! Ta-da!"

"This is … It has meat. It's pot pie. Pie is apple. Or cherry, or banana cream."

"Apple pie is apple pie, Izzy-Bella." Edward chuckles at his clever observation. "Come on. I think it's time to go home."

He picks up his wallet and Isabella's handbag, and slides out of the booth, pausing as he stands, like a sailor who has set foot on dry land for the first time in months. He looks at the ground suspiciously, as though it's responsible for the slight swaying of his legs.

Isabella laughs as Edward tucks his wallet into his back pocket and slides her bright orange bag over his shoulder. "That's really your colour."

"Do you think so?" He grins down at her as he helps her to her feet, his breath hot on her cheek, damp and heavy with beer and whisky.

"Yep." Isabella has forgotten what she's agreeing to as she stares up into his eyes. In the low-lit bar, they're colourless, but the smile creases and thick lashes that frame them seem to trap her in their depths.

Edward sways slightly. He is as unable to look away, his blurring gaze taken captive by the soft light that bounces off Isabella's pale face and makes her seem almost luminescent. Her skin reminds him of the blushing, peachy colour some Pinot Grigios develop. His alcohol-soaked brain is convinced her kiss must taste of pears and honey, of white flowers—honeysuckle or jasmine, perhaps—supported by that flinty, minerally backbone so characteristic of the Italian-style Grigios.

Only the strains of Cold Chisel playing over the sound system stop him from testing his hypothesis. He wants to sample her mouth slowly—analyse the taste, the texture of her lips, her tongue—and he wants to do it thoroughly, without Barnsey screaming in the background and the smell of stale beer and old potato chips hanging in the air.

A crash and the shattering of glass startles him from his reverie.

Someone shouts, "Taxi!" amidst the rowdy laughter and talk that fills the pub.

"Taxi," he agrees.

"Huh?" Isabella looks up at him, lips pursing.

Stop looking at her lips, Edward tells himself. "We need a taxi. Can't drive." He waves a hand between them. "We're a bit drunk."

"Oh. Okay." Isabella looks around the pub, her brow creased.

Edward snickers. "The taxis are outside," he whispers.

Isabella tries to punch his arm, but even drunk, he's quick on his feet.

"Come on, then." He guides her outside with a hand on the small of her back and a sleepy smile playing on his lips.

"Singlet" = tank top, wifebeater, A-shirt. If Bella used any of these words, she'd be corrected pretty quickly. Well, wifebeater is used here, but a lot of people, myself included, find it distasteful.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing and all that good stuff. It means heaps to me.

My girl, BelieveItOrNot is all kinds of wonderful. She teaches me heaps about writing, and characterisation, and she picks up all my goofy mistakes. Thanks, old Phoebe.

Shell x

Pssst ... Believey also as a wonderful witfit that she's writing, called "Something True." She updates daily ('cept for Sundays) which I think is pretty amazing, and her characterisations knock me out, every time. You can read it here: s/9103200/1/Something-True (it's in my favies if ffn eats that link).