Sounds nuts, I know. I’m never one to gush random bullshit when I’m drinking. But two sips in, and I already know this wine is really, really special. It’s telling me a story—telling a version of my story back to me—making me sort through my memory to nail the exact feeling I get when I drink it.
Above all else, it makes me think of my past, which makes me think of Daddy.
My heart twists. Lungs clench. I set down my wine and reach for my water.
This little buzz I’m starting to get it is putting me in a weirdly poetic mood, and I am not here for it.
“You okay?” Emma asks. There’s a knowing warmth in her eyes. I don’t like that either.
“I’m fine. This is, uh, something new. The wine. Something I haven’t had before I don’t think.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Beauregard.”
“I don’t like it when you call me that.”
“I don’t like it when you don’t give credit where credit is due.”
She doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t try to win me over with flattery and respect and deference, the way the rest of my employees do.
She just does and says what she wants.
I get that. What I don’t get? Why she puts up with my rudeness. My scowly, shitty attitude. I want her to give up already, but she won’t, and it’s driving me up the goddamn wall.
Whatever. She’ll break eventually. I’ll just keep at it. So I chug my wine and clean my plate, bringing my blood back down to a simmer.
We finish that course. Dive right into the next one, and the next. All reds, all shit I’m pretty confident I know. Some are better than others. I fully expect a hearty, spicy red to go with our oxtail course, but I’m surprised when I’m served an inky Grenache (I think?) that, much as I hate to admit it, is juicy in all the best ways.
Emma keeps asking questions. I keep replying with one word answers, praying she’ll take the hint.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes flick to my fingers several times. So Emma here’s clearly got a thing for my hands. Interesting.
Not that it matters. The sooner this girl is gone, the better.
Although the dessert wine she picked—yeah, I don’t hate it.
Chapter Six
Emma
It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for all night: the reveal of the wines I’ve selected.
I resist the urge to rub my hands together with glee. I’m never one to gloat. But putting this guy in his place is going to be so, so satisfying.
“Thank you,” I say to Xavier as he lines up all six bottles on the table. Their labels are still covered by serviettes, some of them damp on account of the old-school ice buckets I like to use for my sparkling and white wines.
I glance at Samuel. He’s checking his watch. It’s a different one tonight: a yellow gold Rolex that’s a flashy pick against his (relatively) subdued navy-blue suit. As much as I hate to give him a win, this look is his best yet.
“Make this quick,” he says, shooting his cuffs like the arrogant prick he is before settling his elbows on the table. “I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.”
I’m about to turn into something much more interesting than that. Not that a blockheaded bully like him would appreciate it, but still. Victory calls for a special kind of celebration.
“First wine: the sparkling.” I settle my first two fingers over the throat of the bottle. “What did you think?”
“Prosecco. Two to three years old, Italy. Garbage,” he says with a smug smile.
I uncoil the serviette from around the bottle. I resist the urge to giggle like a kid in front of her birthday cake as I watch Samuel’s smile flatten. His blue eyes widen in genuine shock.
“No,” he blurts, grabbing the bottle. It looks laughably tiny in his enormous hands.
Those hands. They’re this combination of nimble and thick that makes my mind short circuit.
I look away. “Oh, yes.”
It’s one of his trophy bottles—a 2002 Dom Perignon listed on the menu for north of eight hundred bucks—that I thought was pretty delicious.
I knew he’d hate my picks, no matter what they were. Testing that theory was unnecessary, but I’m glad I did it. Seeing the frantic look on his face as he pours what’s left of the bottle into an empty glass to taste it again was worth the trouble.
I watch him swallow it down, heart thumping. He’s gotta give in, right?
I really, really want this guy to give in already. Because maybe then he’ll finally view me not as a threat but as a partner. I’m not here for a hostile takeover.
I’m here to help.
“That’s not the wine I tasted,” he tries.
Crossing my arms, I spear him with a look. “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”
“The bottle must be skunked.” Samuel sniffs the mouth of said bottle, wrinkling his forehead. “Whatever. Next one?”
My heart thumps again, this time for a different reason. Something weird happened when Samuel sampled the Spring Mountain Riesling I served for our second course. He got this look in his eyes, the one people usually get when a wine does something to them. When it not only touches something essential inside them but rearranges it too. Cracks it open. Makes it new.
It’s the look of love.
Interestingly, Samuel quashed that look as soon as it appeared. But at that moment, his eyes had softened, and I’d almost felt a kinship with him. See? I’d wanted to say. See how giving something new a chance pays off?
Not all men are as evolved as MyBoyBlue, I guess. One of the five hundred reasons I prefer internet sex to the real-life version.
I grab the second bottle and hold it out to Samuel.
A spark of curiosity lights up his eyes. The firm line of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t want to show interest. Appreciation. He’s fighting it. But it’s there, and it’s the kind of reaction I live for as a sommelier.
“Riesling,” he says. “Napa Valley? It’s too dry for an old-world Riesling. I’m thinking 2015ish. 2017 maybe.”
I could continue my gloating. But that would just give Samuel an excuse to replace that interest with annoyance, which would defeat the whole purpose of this tasting. So I try a different tack.
Unwrapping the serviette, I reveal a 2016 Riesling from the Spring Mountain district of Napa Valley.
“Well done,” I say, holding up my hand for a high five. “One of the best wines I’ve had in the past five years. Different but totally delicious, right? And it retails for under thirty-five bucks a bottle. Not exactly a steal, but for a wine with this kind of complexity, it’s still a great bargain.”
Samuel glances at my hand. Glances at the bottle.
He leaves my high five hanging. But he does glide his glass forward—those fingers, Jesus—and raise his eyebrows.
“I’ll have a little more.”
I watch him taste it, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. He knows his wine, that much is clear, but I could tell at the start of our meal he wasn’t as well versed in tasting. He wasn’t smelling the wine correctly, and he gulped his wine instead of savoring it. Now he’s shoving his nose into the glass like a pro, taking his time as he drinks to contemplate the Riesling’s gorgeous flavor profile.