“Where I come from, there’s only one.”
His mouth turned down dubiously at the corners as he looked around for a place to set his thief. “I need a table in here,” he muttered.
“You could set an empty barrel on its end,” she said, picturing a row of them down the middle of the room. “You could have people in here, tasting straight from the barrels and—”
“No people.”
She stopped, crushed.
“No people? Oh. I thought with that room out there and the—”
“No people. Here.” He handed her the thief, which she held along with the wineglasses, and disappeared through a door. He returned rolling one of the enormous barrels before tilting it up to stand. It was obviously empty, but goodness, it must have been heavy. He set it upright, and Abby put the thief atop it.
“Which glass did I fill first?”
“This one.” She handed him the one in her right hand.
“This one is native yeast. From my grapes. The yeast helps with fermentation.” Luc pointed to the other glass. “And this is inoculated yeast. Purchased. Proven.” He smiled at the question in her eyes. “The wines should be different. More science. Chemistry.”
She nodded and caught his gaze, feeling something charged between them. Was this what he meant by alchemy? This particular blend of sensation and anticipation?
After a long few seconds, he spoke. “Go on, Abby.” He sounded breathless, his face expectant, almost eager. “Taste.”
* * *
The smile that blossomed across her features made his breath come in hard, hot, heavy. He felt like he was auditioning for something. Interviewing. Passing a test.
She examined the contents of the first glass, eyes alight but unsure.
“This is my first wine.” Her voice was breathy, appealing in its excitement.
He figured. Although in France, children drank wine in church; here, even God’s blood was treated like a sin. Ridiculous people.
“It’s not finished, this wine.”
“Not finished?”
“No. After the barrels, it goes into bottles. And more time before you drink it. But try it,” he urged, hoarse with nerves. Anticipation thrummed through his veins.
Her hands were lovely on the glass, delicate and graceful, her lips pursed in preparation. Luc couldn’t look away, reading clues into every tiny movement: the quirk of a brow, the vibration of her throat as she swallowed. Blinking, she took a second sip, which lingered longer in her mouth. Her tongue moved, testing, and her lips curved into a smile. Did she like it?
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s so…” Another dip of the lips, her features scrunching together as if in search of the right word. “Bright. But dark. Rich. Kind of warm.” Why was she blushing at that? Or was it the wine coloring her skin?
“Try the other.” He held the air in his lungs, waiting.
She tasted. Her expressions were so vivid. Curious, serious. She was trying with all her might, and he loved that.
“Here, let me show you.” Luc’s fingers grazed hers when he reached for the first glass. He lifted it by the stem, swirled its contents, and dipped his face to breathe in the wafting odors. “You sniff, like this. What you’re looking for is the nose. The…perfume, you know?” He handed her the glass and watched closely as she did the same, awaiting her prognosis. “You smell things, yes? Fruit or something else?”
“Cherries maybe?” She bent back to the glass she held, tried again, the movements so unpracticed they were pure. “But there’s also wood. Is that because of the barrels? I smell lots of things, but not really grapes.”
Luc couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. “They’re made of…C’est quoi chêne? Um…oak!” He snapped his fingers as the word came back. “French oak.”
“I can smell that! In the glass!” she announced gleefully, her smile beautiful.
“What else? Anything else?”
