Chapter 7
“I eat here every week,” Esteban said in answer to Savvy’s blank expression.
With a graciousness that would put some of the most sophisticated men of her acquaintance to shame, he continued without pointing out how elitist she was to be surprised that he, a mere truck farmer, was also a regular at one of the valley’s finest eateries. “It’s hard to get fresh abs without driving over to the coast or down to the city. Unless I dive for them myself.”
“You dive for abalone? I hear that’s really dangerous.” She owed him her polite consideration after her faux pas, yet her interest was real.
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “They lose a couple of divers every year. Riptides. Exhaustion. Guys get stuck in a crevice and panic. It happens.”
“You risk your life for a sea snail?”
Raoul slapped down a matched set of silverware rolled in white linen. Savvy smiled gratefully at the guy next to her who offered up his chair to Esteban so he didn’t have to eat standing. A moment later, their abalone arrived on a bed of romaine, garnished with kelp, lemon slices, and a purple blossom.
“I’ve never tried this,” she confessed, eyeing the dish uneasily.
“Don’t feel bad. They’re almost extinct. It’s illegal to harvest them in a lot of places: South Africa, Australia, even Washington state.”
“Looks like raw chicken.”
“Bodega gets all their abalone at Salt Point. The suckers don’t make it easy. First you’ve got to find one hidden among all the seaweed, then you gotta sneak up on it before it torques—twists itself and clings fast to the rocks—and then, hold your breath long enough to pry it loose and bring it to the top.”
“Hold your breath? You don’t use an air tank?”
He shook his head. “There’re strict rules. It’s against the law to use scuba to hunt for abalone.”
She lowered her nose to her plate to take a cautious sniff. If it smelled like fish, it wasn’t fresh. All she could smell though was clean, fresh ocean.
She watched Esteban unroll the cloth napkin, fold it neatly in half across his lap, pick up his knife and fork, and slice one, precise stroke across the raw flesh of his sashimi. It was the simplest of gestures, so why had her lungs stopped working? What was that mysterious sensation inside her? An urgent impatience . . . but for what?
Some women raved about six-packs; others, butts. Savvy had a thing for hands. Bad ones were a deal-breaker. But it wasn’t only their shape. Poor grooming was a turnoff too. In her book, not even Joe Manganiello could get away with more than a sliver of white on the tips of his nails.
Worst of all was clumsiness. Watching Esteban, though, there was no ham-handed fisting of his fork, no inept sawing back and forth with his knife. He had the most masculine hands she’d ever seen, yet he used them with the elegance of a dancer. To hell with her prep-school manners. She cocked her head and stared at the ballet on the bar.
With his left hand, he inverted his fork, resting his index finger along its spine as he made another incision. Laying his knife along the plate’s edge with a muted clatter, he smoothly transferred the forkful of creamy flesh to his right hand and slid it between white teeth.
“Mm.” He closed his eyes, relishing it.
Savvy swallowed along with him, though her mouth was empty. When he opened his eyes and shot her a look of pure pleasure, her heart leapt into her throat.
She gulped again and shifted her gaze to her wineglass to collect herself, though in her mind’s eye she still saw him. Clearly, Esteban Morales had missed his calling. He should’ve been a hand model . . . for Tractor Supply Company. Because though he used them with the finesse of a brain surgeon, his hands were super-sized, good for hefting axes or reining draft horses.
He lifted his fork in the next bite, snagging her attention again in spite of herself.
What would it feel like to be touched by hands like that? The whole side of her head would fit in his palm. His fingers could span her waist from rib to hip. The deep ache grew more compelling . . . demanding satisfaction.
“I’ll take you there sometime,” he was offering.
“Sorry, where?”
“Salt Point.”
Now, balanced on his thumb and middle finger, he held out his fork to her mouth. “Here. Taste.”
Savvy tensed. She wasn’t the one who’d ordered raw mollusks. She didn’t make snap decisions, especially where vomiting and diarrhea might be involved. She weighed pros and cons, considered costs and benefits. Besides, her appetite for food had dissolved, replaced by a different kind of craving.
In the end, it was the hand that convinced her. How could there be anything bad at the end of those fingers? She remained fixated on it, acutely aware of his eyes intent on her mouth, watching as she closed her lips around the tines while he slowly drew them out. The seafood tasted both sweet and salty, with a scallop-like texture. “Mmmm!”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He took another bite, his gaze still on her mouth. Simultaneously, they savored each other’s pleasure . . . the raw flesh melting like lemon butter on their tongues. He lifted his eyes—crinkled at the corners from a life spent outside—to hers in a triumphant grin. The total effect was like sunshine pouring down on her.
Savvy was having way too much fun. Being with Esteban whirled her away into another world, a world without conference tables and briefs. She sucked in a steadying breath. Indulging in frivolous pleasures wasn’t the way to reach your goals.
“Go back. Tell me about lavender.”
“S’got a ton of potential,” he replied easily, while they ate. “Ornamental, for starters. I could sell plants to nurseries or go the direct route, straight to the consumer. Then there’s culinary. Everyone’s heard of lavender in sweet things like cookies. It makes a great syrup for fruit, with sugar. And it’s good in drinks. Now it’s being used in place of rosemary and thyme in foods that aren’t sweet, too. The most valuable thing, though, is the oil. It’s used for perfumes, bug repellent, natural medicine—you name it. But it has to be extracted, and that means investing in equipment . . . learning how to use it.”
“Can you make a profit?”
He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, refolded it, and laid it back on his lap while she tried not to stare at those hands.
“It’s kind of a rogue industry. It’s hard to find good information, especially about wholesale pricing. Technically, there is no established lavender industry in the U.S. I’ve looked at retail prices in catalogs and on websites, and the numbers are all over the place, depending on the quality.” He chuckled. “Everyone says theirs is the best, but who knows, when there’s no regulation? No standards?”
“There have to be regulations,” she said.
He shrugged. “Look it up. If you can find a law about growing lavender somewhere, I’d like to see it.”
“I would be very surprised, but anyway—what do you have against grapes?”
“Not a thing, except I only have five acres. Maybe if I had more ground and all the time in the world before I needed to make a profit. Grapes have a long lead time, though. They need a big investment before you see positive returns, let alone payback. Then there’s the processing. Who’s going to make the wine?”
“You could just sell the grapes to a processor.”
“Look.” He swigged his beer. “I get what this investment company wants to do. Five more acres tacked on to hundreds already planted in grapes makes perfect sense for them. Not for the little guy like me, though. Besides, there’s something about seeing a thing through from start to finish. Like Madre’s pepper jelly. I like knowing something went from seed to finished product all on our farm, crafted by our hands.”
“This lavender scheme—sounds like it’s still a pipe dream.” She had to be sure.
He made a face. “I’ve been experimenting for three years. I’m still looking for the variety that will thrive in our terreno.”
She shot the last swallow of wine in her glass. All that was left on their small plates now were the garnishes.
“One-point-six million,” said Savvy. “And I need to know by tomorrow.”