Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 529

Chapter 529

Gwen’s POV

Nick glanced at me, then at the girl, and answered in a voice that sounded… tired.

“I’m coming, Paula.”

I watched the interaction between them. The way she said his name. The familiarity in her tone. The way he answered without hesitation. Something uncomfortable twisted in my stomach.

Jealousy?

Was I jealous?

Paula nodded, satisfied with his response, and said, “Good. The tourists are already waiting for the tour.”

Then she turned and walked away, heading back toward the main villa with confident, determined steps. I watched her go, noticing the way her ponytail swung, the certainty in every movement. The way she seemed to belong there in a way I clearly didn’t.

I wanted to ask who she was. I wanted reassurance that I had no reason to feel jealous. That she was just an employee. Or a friend. Or anything that didn’t feel like a threat. But at the same time, it felt pathetic not to remember such basic things about my own life.

Maybe they were siblings or she and I were best friends and I’d just forgotten. Maybe she was his cousin, or neighbor. Or an ex-girlfriend who’d become a friend, or a longtime employee who had the

freedom to talk to him like that.

There were too many possibilities for my scrambled brain to process.

So I ignored the uncomfortable feeling and changed the subject.

“A tour?” I asked, turning my attention back to Nick.

He bent down and grabbed the T-shirt he’d left hanging on a nearby branch. He started pulling it on as he explained, and I couldn’t help feeling a small stab of disappointment as that incredible torso disappeared.

“Yeah. Every afternoon we offer guests a tour of the property’s winery. An immersive experience, you know?” He tugged the shirt into place. “You get to see the vineyards, learn about our winemaking process, and finish with a tasting, of course. As our guest, it’d be my pleasure if you joined us.”

I couldn’t help thinking I’d rather be having a very different kind of pleasure with him. One that involved the two of us alone in one of those rooms. No clothes. No interruptions. No scrambled memories getting

in the way.

Still, I nodded.

“Sure. Sounds interesting.”

We started walking side by side back toward the main property. The path sloped slightly upward, and the

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packed snow made every step a little dangerous. Nick naturally offered me his arm, and I accepted, feeling his warmth through the fabric of his sleeve.

We reached an area near the parking lot where a vehicle was waiting. The only way I could describe it was a safari truck, winery edition. Open sides. Bench seats in rows. A perfect view of the surrounding landscape. A few guests were already seated, chatting animatedly.

Nick helped me climb up, gripping my hand firmly as I balanced on the high step. I settled onto one of the middle benches, and that was when I noticed.

Paula was in the driver’s seat.

She adjusted the rearview mirror, checked something on the dashboard, then glanced back and met my eyes for a split second. She didn’t smile. Just turned back around.

Great. So we definitely weren’t friends.

Nick took his place standing near the front, holding onto a support bar, clearly slipping into tour guide mode. When all the guests were settled, he tapped twice on the roof of the cab, signaling Paula to go.

The engine rumbled, and we started moving, leaving the main courtyard and heading down a dirt road that cut through the property.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Nick began, and his voice had completely changed. It wasn’t the awkward, confused tone he used with me. It was confident. Warm. Engaging.

“Welcome to Valemont Estate. My name is Nicholas, but you can call me Nick. And today, I’ll be guiding you through our small but proud family winery.”

He kept talking as we passed through the vineyards, explaining the different grape varieties they grew, how the region’s terroir influenced the flavor of the wine, the importance of altitude and sun exposure. His passion was evident in every word. Every gesture. This was clearly a man who loved what he did.

I watched the rows of dormant vines, their dark, twisted trunks standing out against the white snow, and tried to imagine what it would look like in spring. Covered in green leaves. Heavy with ripe grapes.

“Can anyone tell me,” Nick asked suddenly, pulling my attention back, “what the main difference is between red and white wine in the production process?”

A few guests murmured uncertainly. An older man ventured, “Different grapes?”

“Good try,” Nick said with an encouraging smile. “But actually, you can make white wine from red grapes. The main difference is-”

“In the contact time with the skins,” I heard myself say, clear and confident. “In red wine, the must ferments with the skins, seeds, and sometimes even the stems, extracting color, tannins, and complexity. In white wine, the skins are removed immediately after crushing, leaving only the juice to

ferment.”

Silence.

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Everyone turned to look at me. Including Nick.

His green eyes were wide with surprise.

“Exactly,” he said slowly. “That is… perfectly correct.”

I blinked, confused by myself.

Where had that come from? How did I know that?

Nick continued the tour, but I could feel his gaze drifting back to me now and then. Evaluating. Curious.

We passed the pressing area. The shed where oak barrels were neatly lined up. The small stone chapel that, apparently, Nick’s great-grandfather had built. At every stop, he told stories and cracked jokes. He kept the guests engaged.

He was very good at this.

Finally, we reached the wine cellar. The air inside was cool and damp, carrying an earthy, slightly sweet scent of fermented grapes. Wooden barrels lined the walls. Dusty bottles rested on shelves. In the center stood a rustic table where Paula was already setting up glasses for the tasting.

“And now,” Nick announced with a smile, “the best part of the tour.”

The guests laughed and gathered around eagerly. Paula began pouring, filling each glass with practiced

movements.

I picked up mine and, without really thinking, started evaluating the wine.

I held it by the stem. Tilted it toward the light, observing the deep ruby color. Gently swirled it and brought it to my nose. I closed my eyes, identifying layers of aroma. Red fruit. Spices. A hint of

earthiness. Vanilla. Oak.

I took a small sip, letting the liquid roll over my tongue.

“Mmm…” The sound escaped without my permission.

It was really good.

For a small, artisanal production, it was surprisingly well-balanced.

“Sangiovese with a touch of Canaiolo,” I commented out loud, barely realizing I was speaking. “Aged in French oak for… eighteen months? Maybe two years. The vanilla notes are distinct but not overpowering. Good structure. Soft tannins. Balanced acidity.”

When I opened my eyes, Nick was staring at me.

It wasn’t the same confused, worried look from before.

This was different.

More intense. More… intrigued.

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stopped right in front of me.

“How do you know so much about wine?”

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