Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(11)

“Got it.” She lowered the glass and peered into it. “So am I supposed to sniff this first?”

“You can, sure.” I watched her stick her nose inside the rim and inhale. “What do you smell?”

She picked up her chin and looked at me, her expression concerned, like she was figuring out a math problem. “I don’t know. Something fruity? I’m not good at this.”

Smiling, I swirled the wine in the glass. “You’re not wrong.”

“What do you smell?”

“Orchard fruits like apple, peach, apricot. A little honey. Maybe a little petrol.”

“Petrol!” She looked horrified.

“It’s normal,” I assured her with a laugh.

She sniffed again. “I don’t smell that at all, and how the heck do you pick out individual fruits like that?”

“Training. Experience. I also happen to have a very sensitive nose. I’m good at picking up different scents. Now taste it.”

She took a sip, and her eyebrows rose. “It’s actually so cold I can’t taste anything.”

“Yeah, the cold numbs your taste buds. Try this—don’t swallow it right away. Keep the wine in your mouth for a few seconds. Let it warm up on your tongue.” I hadn’t intended for it to sound suggestive, but her cheeks grew a little pink.

“Okay.”

We sipped at the same time, giving the wine a moment to lose its chill in our mouths, and I found myself thinking about her tongue. If I kissed her right now, I know exactly how she’d taste.

Ashamed, I pushed the thought from my head.

“So what do you think?” I asked, stepping back from her slightly. “Can you detect any specific flavors?”

She swallowed and waited a second. “Maybe citrus?”

“Very good.”

She beamed, lighting up the entire room. “Yay! I got one right!”

Laughing, I sipped again. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. And how cool that these grapes were grown right outside!” She pointed in the direction of the vineyard.

“It is cool—at least, I think it is. What you’re tasting is totally unique to the soil here, to this vineyard, to the way we make wine. And what we’re tasting this year will be different than what we taste next year from the very same vines. Wines tell a different story with every vintage.”

She looked surprised, then delighted. “I love that—the idea that wines tell a story.”

“That’s how I look at it.” I couldn’t help feeling excited to have someone to talk to about what I did—someone who wanted to listen and learn. “And it’s a story you don’t just read—you need more than just sight to really understand and appreciate it. You need smell, taste, touch—the feel of the wine in your mouth is just as important to the story as its scent or flavor.”

“Wow.” Sylvia blinked at me. “You’re really good at this. You make tasting wine sound very . . . um, sensual.”

“It should be sensual. But sorry.” I laughed self-consciously, shrugging my shoulders. “I tend to get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize, I love that you’re so passionate about what you do.” She lifted the wine to her lips again, finishing the glass. “This is really good. I can taste it better now that it’s warming up a little. And I’m sure I’ll need plenty of wine to get through all these Cloverleigh holiday parties. Can’t say I’m looking forward to all the questions about my ex.”

I finished my glass too. “I hear you on that. I’m tempted to skip them altogether.”

“Don’t you dare!” Her expression was outraged. “Don’t make me be the only freshly-divorced person there. We can hide out together if it gets bad.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“I don’t know. The attic. The basement. The roof! We’ll watch for Santa Claus.” She frowned with pursed lips. “Although I don’t know that he’s speaking to me these days. Pretty sure I’m on the naughty list.”

“Why is that?” I could not imagine this woman being naughty in any way, shape, or form.

Well, I could, but I was trying not to.

She bit her bottom lip. “I got drunk at this event at our country club called Breakfast with Santa. I stole Santa’s microphone. I said ‘don’t be an asshole’ to everyone in a room full of kids.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”

She sighed, looking into her empty glass like she hoped more wine would magically appear. “It was not my finest moment.”

“Well, everyone has to let off steam now and again. Want a little more wine?”

She grinned and nodded, rising up on her tiptoes. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

I refilled our glasses with a small pour and handed hers back.

“What about you?” She took a little sip. “Throw any public tantrums lately?”

I laughed. “Can’t say I’ve thrown any public tantrums, but every couple days I beat the hell out of the heavy bag at the gym. That seems to help.”

“I get that. Punching things probably feels pretty good.”

“I can confirm that it does.”

“Do you feel like . . .” But then she shook her head. “Never mind. I should stop bothering you and go home.” She lifted her glass to her lips.