Page 25 of The Pairing

I give mine a baby sniff, swirl it around the glass and whiff it again, slower this time. Damn, it’s intense. Black cherry, crushed pepper, oak, and something else. Something lower, farther backon the nose. What is that? Is it—

“Worn saddle,” I think out loud, and Gérard pauses, his bottle suspended over Kit’s glass. Behind him, Florian perks up.

“Yes, I smell it too with this vintage,” Gérard chuffs. “Good nose!”

I bite my lip, trying not to look too pleased with myself, but I couldn’t be happier if Gérard invited me to move into the château as Florian’s full-time suspenders wrangler. When I lift the wine to examine its color, I see Kit through the glass, funhouse-y and frowning into his wine.

“You got all of that?”

He looks vaguely hurt, as if his nose has betrayed him by not providing the richest possible sensory experience. Instead of answering, I take a sip, and he watches me pull the wine over my palate, turn it over in my mouth, settle its weight on my tongue. His eyes follow my throat as I swallow.

“Hm. Yeah, definitely black cherry on the front.” I lick the back of my teeth. “Dried, though. And some plum jam.”

Kit says gently, under his breath, “C’est quoi, ce bordel?”

The other wine is a younger Pomerol, a round, fruity summer wine that Gérard promises will go perfectly with lunch. This time, Florian pours.

“Hello,” Florian says as he fills my glass, his voice close and warm and earthy.

“Thanks so much,” I say, smiling at him.

It happens so quickly, it’s hard to say if it happens at all. Florian finishes my pour, and then he flutters his eyelashes in what could be interpreted as a flirtatious wink. He moves on to Kit, who says something in French that makes him laugh, and hewinks at Kit too.Before I even have time to summon indignance, we’re whisked out to lunch.

Blankets and quilts spill across the sun-soaked lawn, each with a numbered serving board and our lopsided baguettes. Two more farmhands emerge with platters of meat and cheese and fruit. Kitand I have been assigned to a blanket so small, I have to wonder if Baguette Husband was involved.

We sit one careful inch apart and pile our board with little pots of seedy fig jam, orange crescents of melon, slices of Jambon de Bayonne, and hunks of soft, stinky cheese. Baguette Husband returns to laugh at the dog as she runs happy laps and sniffs everyone’s ham.

Kit procures a tiny jar of cloudy honey from his bag, and I can’t resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Did you really bring your own special honey from home?”

“The restaurant where I bake sources our honey from a lavender farm,” Kit says. “It’s ruined me for all other honey.”

“Oh, sure, we can’t have you eating just any old honey.”

As lunch goes on, Florian stays busy refilling everyone’s wine. When he kneels beside us, I catch a hint of his scent on the midday breeze. Soil and sweat and a bit of thyme.

“Do you like the wine?” he asks me.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” I answer honestly. Then I think about him winking at Kit. I look into his eyes and sink to the bottom of my voice to add, “Structured. Muscular, even. I can tell you work hard.”

Florian stops pouring a second too late. When he leaves, Kit is staring.

I tear a piece of bread off and smear it with cheese. “What?”

“You know what. You were flirting with Florian.”

“So?” I shrug. Kit’s face is unreadable. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” Kit says instantly. “I mean—yes, because he was flirting withmeat the tasting. I thought he and I had something special.”

“Sorry, he’s mine now. Look at this pour.” I gesture extravagantly at my half-full glass. “Maybe if I show a little leg he’ll give me the whole bottle.”

Kit looks down at one of my legs sticking out of my shorts, blinks slowly, then drains his glass.

“Pardon, Florian!”

He says something that must be French forCan you top me off?Florian’s eyebrows say Kit has found a way to make it sound just as suggestive as it does in English.

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