Page 29 of Bordeaux Bombshell
I don’t even care that she rushed me out of her place as soon as I hung up the phone with Manon. She’s flipped moods like that for as long as I’ve known her, so tossing my clothes into mylap and declaring she needed to shower and go to bed and that I should go home wasn’t a surprise.
When Kel asked me to be his best man, I was happy to establish a working truce with her. But now that she’s let me in once, I’m determined to win her back completely.
Maybe not all of my childhood dreams are completely out of reach.
“You did what?” I almost drop the case of pinot in my arms, my mother’s declaration reverberating through me.
“I invited Manon to come to the bridal shower.” Mom’s tone is incredulous. “It would be rude to leave her out.”
I shove the case onto the shelf and turn to grab another from the dolly. “Mom, she doesn’t know Maggie. Or Kel.” I glance over my shoulder at Manon, who’s sipping from her glass, smirking. “You don’t have to go, really.”
“But I want to, ma choucroute. I feel as if Kel and I must be old friends, you have told me so much about him. Besides, it is a celebration of l’amour, no? I am French, of course I must go.” Manon salutes me with her glass before draining it, a drop of red wine staining the corner of her lip. “Which pinot was that?”
Mom raises an eyebrow in my direction as if the matter is settled, then goes back to pouring for Manon. “That was the Estate.” She pulls another bottle from behind the bar and uncorks it. “This is the Maximilian.”
The name sets my teeth on edge, as always. The Suttons didn’t rename many of the wines, but trading one that had been named for my grandfather for their dog still irritates me. They kept theAmelia, for crying out loud. I wish I could escape the tasting room, but Manon’s professional opinion of my wines means too much. Even if they are slowly being named after pets.
Like the expert she is, she buries her face in the glass, breathing in deeply. The edge of the glass rests against the bridge of her slender nose, her eyes fluttering closed as she takes it in.
I’d be lying if I said that action, that expression, hadn’t been a huge turn-on when I first met her—homesick, overwhelmed, and eager to learn.
Manon was the opposite of Sydney in so many ways. Unhurried when she spoke, methodical when it came to her work at her grandfather’s vineyard, sophisticated and sensual. She’d taken me in like a stray puppy the first year, poking fun at my stories about the Ridge and Kel.
Drunk on wine and thunderstorms one night, I confessed to her how I felt about Sydney. She laughed that sexy French laugh but kept a respectful distance between us.
It wasn’t until I came back, devastated after my father’s betrayal and determined to leave behind the Ridge—and everyone in it—that she closed that distance.
“So tell me about this wine, Nate.” Manon pulls my attention back to herself with the same teasing tone she used when we first met. “What makes it special?”
“This one used to be called the Edward, after my dad’s father. It’s made from the oldest vines on the property, ones he planted himself.” I give her some more history, even though I’m sure she’s already heard me say it, back when I was young and proud of my heritage here.
“And you were head winemaker this year, oui?” She takes another sip, head cocked to the side as she savors the flavor.
I nod, then busy myself with unloading another case behind the bar. “Yeah. My dad was out of commission most of last year, between his fall and the cruise.”
As soon as he’d gotten the all-clear from his physical therapist, Dad took Mom on a three-month cruise as a fiftieth wedding anniversary gift. Although I’m pretty sure it was also to get away from my grumpy ass.
For the first time in my life, all of this year’s wine release was my sole responsibility. I’m pretty proud of how everything turned out, and if our reviews were to be believed, so were our customers. But Manon practically bleeds cabernet—her opinion holds weight.
“Ma choucroute, this is very nice. I should like to take some home with me.”
Mom pulls out another bottle, glancing between the two of us. “Ma cha-croot? What does that mean?”
Heat flames up my cheeks. “It means ‘my sauerkraut,’” I mutter, snagging another case of rosé to take into the storage room.
Manon’s lilting laugh rings out. “Because he was so sour when he came back.” She pulls her mouth down into a pained expression before imitating what I think is supposed to be me. “‘I’m never going back. If they don’t want me, I’ll stay away.’ He used to mumble this to himself all day long.”
Manon laughs again, Mom joining in half-heartedly. But I can see the tightness around her eyes, the quiver in her lower lip. I need to steer this conversation away from my poor attitude quick.
Clearing my throat, I hand Mom a bottle of chardonnay and push her toward the door. “So, like I’m sure I’ve told you a thousand times already, we have the Ridgefield cab franc, the Estate and Maximilian pinots, the Sophie rosé, the Amelia riesling, and the Postman chablis-style chardonnay. Mom, whydon’t you take that bottle down to Manon’s and pop it in the fridge for later? I can finish up here.”
I watch to make sure she’s out the door before I turn back to Manon. “Sorry. She still gets upset when we talk about when I left.”
“Désolée, I did not realize—”
She’s cut off when my mom pops her head in the back door. “Manon, you must come to the shower on Saturday. I insist.”
“Oui, oui, Madame. I will be there,” Manon sings out, staring me down. Her long fingers slide up and down the stem of her glass, her body language telling me I’m about to be very sorry I tried to stop her from going.
