Page 17 of Love on the Vine
She didn’t seem to notice how quickly I moved away and continued in a rapt voice, “The village is postcard perfect. That gorgeous fountain in the town square! All those narrow stonepassages leading out from the ramparts! And the market square with its ancient columns. If I had your talent for photography, I’d be out there every day.” She peered at me from lowered lashes. “Of course, you don’t need to me to describe the charms of your own village.”
“Hmm,” I mumbled. Sadly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a leisurely stroll through the village or the market. Chantal did all my shopping and cooking these days, though I used to enjoy it.
“I went a little crazy at the market.” She waved her hand over the sliced tomatoes, ruby red and glistening beneath a sprinkling of sea salt. “It was like Christmas in July. Just look at these tomatoes! They taste like candy.”
“And here I was worried that you’d be bored.” I found myself smiling at her infectious enthusiasm. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad experience after all. “Do you still want to try some wine?”
“Yes! I’ve been looking forward to it.” And weirdly, now so was I, if only to watch her experience the wines I used to love for the first time.
There was something in her enthusiasm that made me want to try to taste again. That made me want to say yes rather than no.
* * *
“Watch your head,” I said as I ducked under the stone arch at the bottom of the cellar stairs and flipped on the light switch.
“Wow,” Olivia breathed behind me as the dim golden light glinted off the bottles lining the walls. There were hundreds of them—the fruit of years of investment, of traveling to vineyards, and tasting countless vintages. “When you said wine cellar, I wasimagining a couple of those fancy refrigerators people keep in their garage.”
She was so busy staring at the rows of bottles that she tripped on the last step. I caught her before she fell and held her slim body against mine, her breasts pressed to my ribs, my leg between hers. Her tiny gasp of surprise made my entire body stiffen. As if in slow motion, she looked up at me through the dark tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face. Her eyes were the same intense blue as the cluster of forget-me-nots that grew outside the house.
I gently pushed her aside. “You okay?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears.
“Sorry, I’m so clumsy.” Almost reluctantly, she stepped away into the middle of the room. “How many bottles are down here?”
“I don’t know. That’s what you’ll be helping Jin with—updating our inventory database.”
I expected her to balk at the idea. I mean, who wanted to spend their summer in a dusty cellar? Instead, she grinned as if I’d handed her a present. “I can do that! I spent most of last year archiving legal studies. This will be much more interesting.”
She wandered over to the glass case that protected the most expensive bottles. “What’s in here?”
“That’s where we keep the most valuable stock. The oldest bottle is from 1945.” I reached past her and pulled out a bottle of Romanée-Conti from 2013. “And this is the most expensive—25,000.”
“Euros?” Her mouth dropped open. “Do people drink this wine or is just meant to be displayed like fine art?”
I smiled. Even though I was in the industry, I was still dumbfounded at times by how inflated the market had become. “It depends. Some people invest in wines—you’d be surprised at the number of hedge funds with whole cellars full of wines like these. And then some people are just plain obsessed.”
“Are you?” She trailed her fingers over the tops of the bottles, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Obsessed?”
“Nah. That’s not my style,” I said even as my gaze moved down her body, hidden behind the loose cotton dress she wore, to her long, shapely legs.
“I do occasionally open some of these wines. When the time is right.” I nodded at the bottle in front of her, a 2001 Chateau d’Yquem that I’d bought last year. “That one, for example. It’s a sweet wine, not usually what I prefer. But for the right occasion, I know it’ll be magical. And, as they say, the anticipation only heightens the pleasure.”
“Oh.” The air suddenly felt charged, and I struggled to redirect my straying thoughts to the task at hand. Clearing my throat, I strode over to the crates we’d received the other day and chose two bottles for this evening’s lesson. “These should do for our purposes.”
Back upstairs, I set out four wineglasses on the kitchen table and, using the small blade of the wine opener, peeled back the foil covering the cork of the first bottle. Olivia’s eyes were laser focused on my hands, her full lips parted as she watched me.
“Do you know how to open a bottle?” I asked.
“Not with one of those. I’ve seen waiters in fancy restaurants do it with one hand and I’ve always been impressed. The few times I’ve tried, I managed to break the cork.”
“Come here. I’ll show you how it’s done.” She slid next to me, and I showed her where to position the screw. “You don’t want it dead center or too off to the side. Right here.”
Her fingers curled tentatively around the corkscrew, and she pursed her lips. “I don’t think I can do it while you’re watching. I have performance anxiety.”
Without thinking better of it, I moved behind her and guided her into position, turning the top of the screw a couple of times until it was securely in the cork. Too late I realized that thisput her backside against me. Her silky hair tickled my face as it fell to the side, exposing the smooth flesh of her neck. Inhaling sharply, I stepped away before she felt the evidence of the effect she was having on me.
“Not too deep. There you go.” I showed her where to balance the edge of the lever on the lip of the bottle and press down. “Okay, now pull.”
She bit her lip in concentration and, as the cork left the bottle with a tiny pop, her face brightened. “I did it!”
