Page 30 of Bordeaux Bombshell
Silently, I pour out a taste of the rosé for Manon, waiting for her to inhale deeply before taking a large sip. “So?”
“You know rosé is not my favorite. But this is nice.” She sips again. “I do not need to take any home with me, though. One rosé is much like another, no?”
I wait, sure she has more to say. Funny, it used to fill my stomach with butterflies when I awaited her pronouncement on my taste in wine. Now it’s a different kind of nervous—I want her to like them because then maybe my being here instead of France means more possibilities instead of fewer.
“So, tell me, why Postman? All the other names, I understand, but this one I do not.” She drains the glass and pushes it away. “Also, I am hungry from all this tasting. Do you have something I can eat?”
I tuck her glass into the bus bin to wash later and step out from behind the bar. “Theo Sutton’s company is called Mailbox, Inc. He wanted something related but not overt since he and Sophie are determined to keep this separate.”
“Ah, I see. Mailbox is a stupid name for wine, anyway.”
I flash her a smile, the argument familiar. “There are a lot of wines with stupid names. How about I show you what wines we have in the library?”
Sydney
Awaveoffemalevoices washes over me as I slip inside the venue. Pausing, I take in the sea of pastel floral dresses. Everyone is sipping from delicate teacups and snacking from tiered serving dishes on each table. Between the women and the wallpaper, it’s as if an English garden was dropped into the middle of downtown Portland.
I may be late, but I did help find a kick-ass venue for Maggie’s bridal shower. Although, apparently, I missed the memo about attire, my black leather jacket and solid navy dress sticking out among the pastoral scene.
“Aunt Sydney!” Olive dances her way between tables to grab my hand. “I’ve been saving you a seat. Come sit with me and Ava.” She tugs me toward a table off to the side, occupied by a gaggle of middle and high schoolers I don’t recognize.
“Who are those girls?” I wave to the table where Mom and Jackie are currently sitting. There’s an empty seat at their table,advertising my tardiness like a neon sign, but I shrug at Jackie’s raised eyebrow and follow Olive’s determined pull.
Maggie is floating around the space in a white sundress, beaming at everyone as they enjoy the high tea set out for them.
Olive pauses beside her, tugging on the hem of her dress until Maggie pauses her conversation with June to look. “Mama Maggie, Sydney is sitting with me, okay?”
I reach out to give her a brief hug. “Sorry I’m late. You look beautiful.”
She squeezes me back. “Olive, you know there’s a seat for her with your grandma. Lexi is coming after ballet class. She’ll be here to sit with you soon.”
They negotiate while I look around at the party. The room is filled with Maggie’s family and friends, although I don’t recognize everyone. If I’m being honest, there’s a small part of me that’s jealous of my future sister-in-law. I don’t understand how she has so many women in her life. I’ve never been good at it. Somehow, I always say the wrong thing or flirt too much with their brothers, or exes, and end up generally viewed with suspicion.
Becoming friends with Payton was by pure chance when we were assigned as roommates freshman year at college. The only reason I think we’ve stayed friends is because she’s hotter than me and we have wildly different tastes in men—namely, I can’t get away from Nate, and she likes them tall, blond, and preppy. Our relationship is built on mutual enjoyment of a night out and Girl Scout cookies, not whispered confessions over a bottle of rosé, or whatever it is normal women do.
“You really don’t have to sit at the kids’ table, Syd,” Maggie leans close to murmur. Olive has switched her attention to June and her wife Shelby, abandoning me to beg her mom for a sleepover or something.
“I don’t mind. Serves me right for being late.” I shrug, looking around again. “Looks like someone took my seat, anyway.” Indicating the table, I point out that the once-empty seat next to my mom is now filled.
For a second, my mind plays tricks on me, because I could swear that short, chic bob belongs to Sophie Sutton’s best friend, Lauren. But I passed Lauren sitting beside Sophie a few tables back.
Twisting, I look behind me, and there she is, chatting with Emma and spreading jam on a scone.
“Who is that?” I jerk my chin toward the table in question, and Maggie turns to look.
“You haven’t met Manon? She’s Nate’s friend from Bordeaux. Came to help them figure out what to do after that frost. She’s staying out at Sunshine, so I assumed you’d already met.”
One of the ladies at a table farther on waves to Maggie, and she’s gone with a distracted pat on my arm.
Manon is here?
Surely not the same Manon I’m thinking of. The one I’ve been obsessed with since Nate went to France for the first time. The one I’d had in my mind when I asked him not to fall in love with any French girls.
She’s not just French. She’s the granddaughter of one of the most famous winemakers in Bordeaux. Poised to take over her family’s legacy one day. She exudes style and sophistication and is a certified master sommelier. I know because I’ve been following her on social media for years.
Counting every time Nate made an appearance in one of her photos, terrified I’d see something to confirm the kiss I witnessed them share.
She’s everything I’ll never be.
