Papa lifts their card first and then nods appreciatively. “Aksel and Latika say that this is a Beaujolais Cru. Fleurie 2018.”
Ransom and I hold our breath.
Papa picks up our card. Raises both eyebrows. “According to Ransom and Ember, this is from Corsica. Ajaccio AOC. 2020 vintage. Domaine Comte Abbatucci. Rouge Frais Impérial.”
Aksel jumps up, pump fisting. “Yes!”
“Settle down,” Papa admonishes.
“Come on. We won! Latika, darling, we’re going to have the?—"
“Really, Aksel?” Papa chides. “The wine was practically sunbathing in the Mediterranean. This is from Corsica, not Lyon in a flowery hat. Did we teach younothing?”
“Corsica is not France,” Aksel objects. “You saidFrenchwine.”
“Corsicaisin France, dumbo,” Freja mocks.
Latika laughs. She’s tipsy, maybe even a little on that side of drunk.
I grip Ransom’s hand under the table. “We’ll think of you, Aksel, when we drink the Montrachet.”
A cheer breaks out.
Ransom squeezes my hand tight and lets out a relieved laugh. I grin back, feeling a little drunk on wine, and a lot drunk on how his eyes light up when he looks at me.
Aksel throws his napkin down. “Who even drinks Corsican wine?”
“People who win,” Ransom says, smug and warm. “People with excellent palates.”
Papa retrieves the bottle of Montrachet and hands it over to Ransom and me with great ceremony. “Treat it like a firstborn. You understand?”
Ransom bows slightly. “I plan to.” He turns to me. “And I plan to find the perfect time—and the perfect reason—for us to drink it.”
“Like what?” I tease.
He leans in, voice low, eyes steady. “Something worth celebrating.”
My breath hitches.
Everyone around us is still laughing, playfully arguing over scores and debating who should havereally won. But in that moment, it’s just him and me, the bottle between us like a promise.
And somewhere in my chest, something soft and long-held begins to thaw.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
He leans closer. “Certain. And I plan to drink it with you. Slowly. Somewhere private.”
My face warms. So does the rest of me.
Across the table, Aunt Tanya slaps Bob’s hand away from the cheese plate. “You’re supposed to cleanse your palate, not coat it in Brie!”
Uncle Bob grunts. “I regret nothing.”
We laugh and, in a room filled with clinking glasses and laughter echoing through stone walls, something between us—trust, hope, love—begins to uncork itself again.
After dinner, I take a shower and go for a walk by the gazebo, because I’m feeling restive.
I have been thinking a lot about all the things Ransom told me.
