Page 17 of Lochlan

“Shit,” he says, “that one meeting could change everything. I've got to change into my kilt. I'll see you in a few minutes.”

When I enter the tasting room, Lochlan is leaning against the bar, muttering to his iPad. I ignore him, tuck myself into the far corner of the bar, and wait for instructions. He continues studying the small screen like I'm not here until Connell arrives, breathless from jogging back from the restroom.

Lochlan glances up at this arrival. “One minute more and you would have been late.”

Connell grins like he couldn’t care less. “Kenzie, please join us.” He hands out the tasting cards for today's pours. This is our cheat sheet with additional information on each wine. “Connell, since Kenzie joined us after prep yesterday, I want you to take our trainee through the process while I attend to another task. I'll be back when we open.”

I'm given a demonstration on how we open the register and set up the bottles in order, to make them easier to find. He even gives me tips on how to remember what you've poured to which customer. It all made sense after working yesterday.

He wipes the bar and glances at me. “When do you want to begin our tutoring session? I have time tonight. We can grab something to eat and go to my place.”

“Why don't we just hang out at the restaurant and talk?”

“Because part of learning is tasting. I have wine I'd like you to try.”

“Okay, I'll follow you to your place.”

“I'll take you,” he says. “I live on the other side of the ridge, not far from here. The back roads are dark; it would be better to drive you back to your car after.”

The first customers arrive, followed by Lochlan. He's all Scottish charm and efficiency as he serves the customers. The flirting, the jokes bordering on bawdy; it all works in his fake working-class accent. Somehow, I think I would have a chance with that version of Lochlan instead of the cold asshole I get to work with.

Today is going surprisingly well. I'm forgetting the sleight I received earlier from Lochlan and getting into the happiness of people enjoying wine.

I have a party of four men in suits talking to each other and generally ignoring me. That's fine because they all seem pompous and focused on trying to impress one man with them, maybe a boss. The room is packed with customers three deep waiting for their pour. Even Layla and a big, red-haired man I think is Geordie the winemaker have joined us to help behind the bar. There's little time to talk, only to pour, ring up sales, and box or bag the sold wine. The men continue to stay, refusing to move from their spot at the bar to allow other customers to move forward for their pours.

I've reached the last of their tasting and I ask if they want to revisit any wine. One particularly testosterone-filled guy in a light-gray suit is trying to flirt with me. I greet his attempts with a noncommittal smile.

“Yeah, I'd love to have another taste of that Zin.”

I glance down, but there's no bottle. “Excuse me while I find another bottle to open.”

“Sure, whatever you have to do, honey.”

I find a Zin on the back counter and bring two back.

“Does someone as pretty as you have a boyfriend?” he asks, while I push the corkscrew into the bottle.

I pull on the tool, grimacing with the effort.

“When do you get off work tonight?” gray suit guy asks.

The cork lifts from the bottle. I slide his glass over to pour a taste. The others slide their glasses to me and I splash wine into each. Someone has just asked me for a pour of a rosé when gray suit guy turns to me. “This wine is corked,” he says in a loud voice to everyone in the room.

I stare at him, knowing he saw me open the bottle.

“Yes, sir, all our bottles have corks.”

He leans one arm against the counter, glee in his eyes. “How can you work in a winery and not know what corked means?” Then he shoves the glass back over the counter to me. The other men do the same without taking a drink. The smug smiles are enjoying my confusion, like greedy pack animals.

Angry heat floods my face at the treatment from this asshole. I'm about to throw the full dump bucket into his smug, entitled face when Lochlan appears next to me. The closeness of his big, warm body is reassuring. He retrieves the man's glass and sniffs the content, then sets it aside. He pulls a glass from under the counter, takes the bottle from my hand, and splashes a bit into the glass, then samples.

He screws his face into a cartoon grimace. “Aye, you're right, lad, that's pure shite.”

“Find me another bottle, lass,” he says to me.

I pull another bottle of Zin from underneath the counter and hand it to him. I don't understand; did I do something to cause the wine's condition?

“Thank you, lass.” He dismisses me without a glance in my direction. “I'll attend to these gentlemen while you take a break.”

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