In truth, I’m terrified by how Ash is treating me. I can’t fall for him. This situation is only temporary, and I’m heading for a world of hurt if I let myself make it real.
The waiter returns with the bottle and presents it to us. Ash looks at me for guidance, and I nod. The waiter opens the bottle and hands the cork to Ash, who looks confused. I try to mime smelling it, but he doesn’t understand and just hands it to me. I bring it to my nose and inhale.
Some people think you smell the cork to see if you like the scent and thus will like the wine, but what you’re really smelling for is cork taint. Sometimes bottles, especially older ones, can go bad, and a good whiff of the cork can usually tell you if there might be a problem.
On this cork, I only smell hints of cranberry, red currant, and maybe some baking spices. My mouth begins to water.
I nod to the waiter, and – having caught on – he pours an ounce of the wine into my glass. I swirl it and sniff, smelling the same things I gotfrom the cork, plus maybe a hint of cocoa.
I take a small sip, letting it hang in my mouth before I swallow it down. I can’t help but calculate how much money that one sip just cost Ash, but sweet God, it was worth it.
I take another sip, and the wine feels like velvet on my tongue. The acidity of the berry flavors hits me, followed by more savory notes of cedar and tobacco on the finish, which linger.
People who don’t drink wine are often perplexed by how flavors like tobacco, fresh cut grass, wet stone, or graphite can be good, but for some reason, it just works in wine, and this wine works very well. Maybe not price-of-a-cheap-car well, but it’s damn good wine.
“Excellent,” I tell the waiter and set my glass down for him to fill it.
“Sir?” the waiter asks Ash after he’s poured my wine.
“Yes, please,” Ash says.
I watch Ash carefully as he sniffs the wine in his glass then takes a sip when the waiter leaves.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think I need red meat now,” he says.
I laugh. “A good bottle of red wine will do that.”
Gray
Forty-five minutes later, we’re both on our second glass of wine, and Ash is enjoying his with a medium-rare steak. He let me try a bite, and it paired fantastically with the Scarecrow. I almost regret ordering seafood, but my dish is so orgasm-inducingly good that I can’t bring myself to wish I’d ordered steak. I wouldn’t normally drink red with seafood, but the lobster and scallop dish called to me, and we’d already bought the Scarecrow, so it is what it is.
The conversation is easy. Ash tells me more about his family and how he got into hockey, and I share the numerous ways my mother gets under my skin on a weekly basis. We covered some personal things during ourrecent text exchanges, but they weren’t conducive to deep conversation, so this is our first time discussing a lot of these topics.
I also tell Ash more about Celena, who’s the only person on my end that knows we’re fake dating. Well, Celena and now Melinda.
“All the guys on the team know the relationship is fake, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, but they won’t say anything. It’s a PR issue, so they’ll tow the line,” Ash says.
He takes another sip of the Scarecrow. He’s taken to wine quickly, but I hope he doesn’t expect all wine to taste this good.
“Kelsier’s the only one who doesn’t believe it’s fake,” Ash adds.
“What? Why not?”
He shrugs. “He’s convinced there’s something between you and me.”
I look at him carefully. There’s a certain tone to his voice, almost as though he’s probing for my reaction to this news.
“What makes him think that?” I ask. I drop my eyes to my food, pretending I’m more interested in that than the answer to the question.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Just little things he thinks he sees about the way we act around each other.” He pauses. “Let’s say this was a real date. What would you do to show me you were interested?”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth as I look at him. His eyes are bright with interest, and I feel the challenge in the question. Maybe it’s the two glasses of wine, but he wants to push the date into flirtation, and it doesn’t take more than his nudge for me to willingly follow.
“Let me think,” I say as I bring the bite to my mouth. I close my lips around the fork, then slide it slowly back out as sensually as I can as I pretend to consider.
