“Cut it out or you’ll be sent upstairs to watch cartoons with the kids,” Jean says, feigning annoyance.
By the time the reds are poured, the energy in the room rises. Everyone’s a little tipsy, a little giddy.
Ransom leans closer to me as we try to identify our second red. “This one’s bolder. Plum? Tobacco?”
I close my eyes, savoring the scent. I taste the wine and check its length, balance, intensity, and complexity. “What do you think?”
“Bordeaux. Left bank,” Ransom says without hesitation.
I grin. “Maybe Saint-Estèphe.”
He writes it down.
“20…18,” I say after another sip.
He nods in agreement. “Structured tannins, but already opening up beautifully. It was a hot, dry summer—explains the power and ripeness—but there’s still a freshness in the acidity. Definitely not a 2015 or 2016—they’d be rounder by now.”
I grin. “2018’s still flexing.”
It’s fun to do this with someone who knows his wine. It was always fun with Ransom.
Ransom taps the glass thoughtfully. “Young, but with swagger. Like Aksel at a wine bar.”
We both chuckle.
We’re in our own world, at the end of the long wooden table, shoulders bumping. My hand brusheshis as we reach for the same pen. He doesn’t move away. I don’t, either.
“I missedthis,” he says quietly.
I look up at him, heart thudding. “Missedwhat?”
“The way we talk. The way we laugh,” he explains, his eyes hungry on me. “You…you make me want.”
Thankfully, Papa clinks his spoon to a glass. “Last one!”
The tenth pour comes around.
“This is the one,” Ransom whispers.
“You really want to win the Montrachet,” I mock. But I get it, because I want to win it, too.
“It’s superior wine.”
I lick my lips. The wine, the intimacy of the cellar, it’s making me lightheaded and bold. “But if we win, how will we…ah…share the wine?”
“I’ll find a way,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear.
I’m aroused. Flushed. So is he. It’s exquisite torture to be this close and know, in my heart, that he’s attracted to me, and I’m slowly believing it.
Or maybe it’s the wine making your head spin, Ember.
“My palate is all fucked up now,” Uncle Bob complains.
“You didn’t have to drink all the wine,” Papa jeers. “There are spittoons.”
“I’m not going to spit out perfectly good wine.”Uncle Bob picks up his glass and tosses the red wine back.
Aunt Tanya slaps his shoulder. “You’re supposed to taste.”
