Page 8 of Hart Breaker

We tap glasses, and I figuratively cross my fingers as I close my eyes, bring my glass toward my face, and inhale.

The first note I catch is the warm sweetness of wildflower honey. Its richness gives me a cozy feel. Next, the fruity floral scent of sweet white grapes, soft and lovely. The malt scent is mellow, and I catch just a tiny hint of spice from the fermentation process.

The first sip is a gentle, honeyed sweetness. Smooth and rich. The sweetness of the Cayuga grapes settles its influence.

It’s perfect.

I open my eyes and see them all staring at me.

I set my stemless wine glass on the bar and smile. “It’s …” I stop myself from going on and on about the taste and look at my sister. “What do you think, Lo?”

“Tastes like communion, but with fresh bread.”

“What?” Syd asks, hand to throat.

“You left the pearls at home today,” Mags jokes.

Iz snorts before covering her mouth.

Lo takes another sip and nods. “The honey. Soft bread with a hint of caramelization.” She nods to Syd since she’s in the business of all things sugar and sweetness. “The grapes sweeten it even more.” She smiles at me. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s perfect,” I agree and pull her into a hug.

She laughs. “There’s just one problem.”

I lean back. “What? What’s wrong?” I reach for the glass, and she grabs my hand.

“The name, Mixed Tape.”

Now I’m hand to throat.

She rolls her eyes and explains, “I loved the last three just as much. Mixed Tape should be the line. We should give each a?—”

“Genre.” I clap.

She nods. “Exactly.”

“Next year’s blends could be artists.” Mags grins as she reaches for the bottle.

I grab it away. “Your parents okayed tastings, not for you to get shitty.”

“Buzz kill.” She rolls her eyes.

The door opens, and I swing my gaze to it.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Iz shakes her head as she points toward the door. “This is a meeting for women only. Take”—she waves her hand up and down—“all your football-ness and leave the empoweresses alone.”

Hudson Hart is the epitome of, as Iz says, football-ness. Even in plain clothes, he’s confidence and power. His fitted, long-sleeved T-shirt stretches across his incredibly broad shoulders and well-defined chest; there’s no way of hiding the athleticism underneath. His arms are bulging, veiny, toned muscle, the kind you can vividly imagine effortlessly hoisting you up and slamming your back against a wall.

His legs are like tree trunks, showing power through even the relaxed pair of jeans he’s wearing. The way he normally moves—controlled, purposeful, with the kind of fluidity that says he’s ready to sprint, jump to catch a pass, or dodge a tackle at any moment—gives way to the laidback way he runs his fingers through his dark, silky waves with that boyish smile on his godlike face. He’s everything a girl should avoid but should definitely sample.

Lo kicks me under the bar, and I glance at her, receiving her scowl.

It’s deserving.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this powerhouse collective of …” He pauses, and I can’t help but smile inside, knowing he’s fighting his natural impulse to say something that will be interpreted as sexual. His eyes meet mine as if he’s looking for help, and all I can do is laugh. He throws his hands up. “Lily lost her Lovey and is currently at my place, screaming so loud I bet the fish have jumped out of the lake, risking their lives just to get the hell out of there. Boone thought it was dropped in the parking lot—it’s not—so I just want to look around if that’s okay with the Blue Valley Queens.”

“What is a Lovey?” Sydney asks, sliding off her stool.

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