He nodded as he settled in and ordered a glass of cabernet sauvignon from the bartender.
“You’d think there’s only one hotel in Seattle; it’s so busy this weekend,” he said as the bartender slid his glass on a cream-colored napkin.
“I don’t mind crowds as long as everyone minds their own business.” I shrugged.
He raised his eyebrows and let out a low breath of a laugh. “Well, all right then, I won’t even be polite.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” though, maybe I did mean to be rude. I can’t stand being hit on in a bar. I find it slimy no matter how expensive the drinks are or how many people are dressed in cocktail attire.
He threw up a hand and dipped his head. “No, I can take a hint. I will not even look at you. As a matter of fact, I’ll just get up and find somewhere else to sit.”
I grabbed his arm just as he raised his body from the seat. “Oh, stop.”
He raised his eyebrows at my hand on his forearm, and the way his lips twitched to smile told me he was enjoying this.
“For one, the bar is packed. You won’t find another seat. And two, I could use some company while I wait for my sister to pick me up.”
He sat back down. “Well, since you begged.”
I rolled my eyes, reeling in my smile.
“Another glass, ma’am?” the bartender asked.
“Sure.”
“Sauvignon blanc?” he asked, and I nodded. “Did you have the Moreau or the Ricci?”
“Ricci.”
“You should try the Moreau,” the man beside me suggested.
I smiled politely, though I didn’t care what he thought. “Why’s that?”
“The type of grapes for sauvignon blanc grow best in the Loire Valley in France, so it typically tastes better.”
Pretentious ass.
“Hmm. I did not know that.” Which was true. That, specifically, I did not know, though I was quite aware sauvignon is a French word. Naturally, the region where the wine originated is best.
“Just if you want a better glass of sauvignon blanc, you should probably choose the French wine over the Italian wine.”
“What are you? A sommelier?”
He grinned. “Maybe in another life.”
I nodded at him, slightly intrigued. “Well, I like Italian wine.” The bartender paused, holding the bottle of wine in his hand. “The Ricci is fine. Thank you.”
After the bartender filled my glass, I shifted to face the man next to me. He was wearing dark jeans and a gray t-shirt. He looked casual yet put together. Meanwhile, I was dressed in a black cocktail dress to wear to the rehearsal dinner of my little sister’s funeral... I mean, wedding.
“You know, I couldn’t help but notice you just ordered a Washington wine when everyone knows the grapes for a cabernet sauvignon also grow best in France,” I comment.
His grin widened at this, his fingers dancing up and down the stem of his glass. “I like to support local.”
I nodded, holding up my glass. “To each their own, I guess.”
He raised his wine and clinked glasses with mine. The ring of the glass sang in the bar air like wedding bells, and we didn’t break eye contact for a second.
“To each their own,” he agreed.
