“Very mod,” Eli agrees.
“But then there’s this backbone—yes, I know it’s ridiculous to use words like ‘backbone’ when describing wine, but I’m doing it and I’m not sorry—that’s got this earthiness, this minerality, that tastes ancient. It’s timeless, really. A reminder of the bigger story we’re all a part of.”
Greyson nods, swallowing a sip of wine. “I’m not sorry either. I can totally taste what you’re talking about. That sense of…” He pauses, thinking. Takes another sip. I can almost see the light bulb going off in his head. “Continuity.”
“How essentially human and right it is to enjoy good wine with good food and good friends. We’re taking part in an ancient tradition, getting fucked up with the people we love,” Eli says.
Luke rolls his eyes. “You been hangin’ out with a writer or something lately?”
“Married her.” Eli turns to me and grins. “I’m a huge fan of my wife’s torrid, kinky romance. Just like I’m a huge fan not only of this wine but of your storytellin’ too, Miss Crawford.”
I refill more glasses, wishing I could pour for events and people like this every day.
What if I made that happen? At a place like Blue Mountain Farm, anything is possible. I could bring in winemakers like Carmen. Organize whole weekends around regions, varietals, vineyards. Introduce guests to wines they would’ve never otherwise given a shot, expanding their horizons while giving them a good excuse to, as Eli so poetically put it, get fucked up with their people.
I can bring people together. At the end of the day, that’s what I love most about wine.
“Please, call me Emma. And I love a good story, clearly. All the better if it’s torrid. I actually just downloaded one of your wife’s books—My Enemy the Earl. I’m always looking for titillating new adjectives to use to describe wine.”
“You’ll definitely find ’em in Olivia’s romances,” Ford Montgomery says. “They’re very…descriptive.”
“I’m game,” I say. “In my line of work, being able to access the right vocabulary is just as important as being able to pour correctly.”
People are buzzing and plates are licked clean. There’s laughter. Conversation. Heat from the fire, relief from the breeze. Looking around the table to make sure no one needs another pour before we start the next course, I see smiles. The guests are enjoying themselves, especially the one dude at the far end who keeps laughing.
He also keeps looking at me, which makes my enjoyment dim ever so slightly, because I get the feeling I’m the one making him laugh. Not because I’m witty, but because I’m ridiculous. In his eyes, at least.
It’s totally not okay for someone to laugh at me that way, but it’s an unfortunate reality of my job. Over the years, I’ve learned that the sooner you stay away from people who just don’t get it, the better.
Also helps to keep their water glass full and their wineglass mostly empty.
Making a mental note to keep his pours light from now on, I look away.
My gaze lands on Samuel, who’s staring at me from the other side of the table. My stomach dips at the softness I see in his gaze. When he’s looked before, it’s been wolfish. Like he wants to eat me.
But this—this is open and honest and interested. Like he wants to know more.
About what? Wine? Me?
And why are butterflies taking flight inside my torso?
Chapter Twelve
Samuel
Fuck me, she’s on fire.
Emma’s burning with real, ardent passion, pride too, and I can’t stop staring.
“She’s incredible,” one of the guys at the table murmurs to his neighbor.
She’s better than that. She’s extraordinary. She’s knowledgeable and relatable and funny and warm.
She makes you feel something about the liquid in your glass that, on any other day, would just be wine. But today? Today the stuff is a story. A bridge between the past and present. A way to connect with people we love.
It’s the meaning of life itself.
I have never, in all my years drinking the world’s best wine, felt so much about a glass of grape juice, as Hank calls it. And I’m not even drinking it. I’m watching everyone else soak up the flavors while listening, rapt, to Emma’s explanation of why it’s important and what makes it special.
All the while thinking it isn’t the wine that’s the star here.
I should be threatened. Scared. I know this script all too well. She’s stealing the show. My show. The one I’ve poured years of my life into perfecting.
Only, I’m enthralled.
More. I want more of this, whatever it is. Her bravery, maybe? She’s taking a deep dive into wine and nuns and history, wearing her heart on her sleeve as she gives the table full access to who she is and what she loves.
She’s allowing them to know her in a way I never, ever let people know me. And I’m witnessing, firsthand, how the table connects with her vulnerability, and how it allows her to genuinely, joyfully connect with them.
This is what I’ve been missing.
Holy shit, how did I not see it sooner? I’m protective by nature. I’ll protect my family at any cost.
I guess I’ve been protecting myself too. I thought I was doing the right thing, pasting on a smile so I could get through life without being pummeled again.
Beau once told me it’s natural to want to protect yourself when you’re a pro athlete, because the world—the media, the fans—believe nothing about our lives should be private. Like being an elite athlete means you aren’t entitled to freedom anymore or something.
Is that why I’m so reticent?
Unlike Emma. Lord, does she make being open—transparent—look good.
She makes being known look like happiness. The kind of happy I saw in my parents’ faces when I was young and times were good.
I want that. So damn bad. What if I trusted her and tried it on, her vulnerability? Dropping the bullshit smile and showing the world something else? Something real? I just—yeah, I’m scared shitless. Opening yourself up to joy also means opening up to pain.And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.
Speaking of pain—I’m about to visit some on that prick at seat fourteen. He’s been sneering at Emma all damn day.
Maybe the wine does taste like history. Or maybe it just tastes like tomorrow’s hangover.
What’s with the bun? She think she’s got a real job or something?
Emma’s not letting it ruffle her feathers, but I can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen every time he makes a snide comment that it bothers her. Eli and the other guys seem to be too absorbed in their own conversations to really notice.
But I notice. And that dickbag is one minute from getting hauled out of here by his hair.
Thankfully, the rich, starchy smell of the paella distracts him. Checking my watch, I glance at Chef Katie, who gives me the thumbs-up.
We’re on time, which means the paella course is almost ready.
I glance at Emma who, like the veteran restaurant employee she is, glances back and forth between Chef and me.
I nod. Emma nods back and heads for the table on the other side of the pavilion serving as our makeshift service station.