James placed the glass in my hand carefully, as if handling the Holy Grail. “This, my dear, is Soil.”
I squinted at the liquid and joked lamely, “Looks like wine to me.” I couldn’t be bothered with devising clever repartee. I was performing my job at a C- level, and the worst thing was that I didn’t even care.
“Soil is the label of the wine. It’sveryspecial,” he said, pooching his lips out pompously. “It’s all the rage. The cool kids love it.Love it!”
“It was very sweet of you to bring me a drink so hip,” I said diplomatically. I’d asked him for a martini. So, not only was James boring, but also a bad listener. I couldn’t wait to tell Robert about him.
Coming home to Robert and telling him about my night was one of my favorite things about us sharing a home. He showed thoughtfulness I hadn’t experienced while living with Nick. Whenever Nick had listened to my stories, he’d done it begrudgingly, like he was doing me a favor. And he almost never reciprocated; probably because he’d worried about keeping all his lies straight.
“Try it,” he coaxed.
I took a sip. “This is wonderful.”
It took everything I had to keep a straight face. The wine wasnotwonderful. Well, I guess youcouldsay it waswonderful in the same way using a pinecone as a loofah would be wonderful to a masochist. Soil tasted weird and bitter. It wasn’t just weird; it wasoff. I would rather be drinkingactualsoil. I didn’t want to insult James, however, so I kept sipping like a good little decoy.
“My friend owns a vineyard up in Napa. Tristan Egret,” he said, dropping a name.
I bit down on my tongue to stop myself from screaming.Give it a rest already, James.Throughout the evening, he’d cited the designer names of everything from his shoes (Prada), his suit (Tom Ford), his home furnishings (Fendi Casa), to his area rug (Jonathan Adler). Not once had I asked. Funny how mybillionaireboyfriend never felt compelled to do that.
I shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. I haven’t heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have,” he patronized. “The Egrets are famous wine growers in Italy. Tristan came to Napa to start his own label.”
“That’s nice,” I said, because “Who gives a shit?” wouldn’t have sounded as polite. I smiled sweetly and took another gulp of the godforsaken wine, trying to finish it as speedily as possible. Like taking medicine. Bonus: having a solid buzz might make dealing with James easier.
“Tristan’s father was quite upset when he branched out on his own.”
“Is Tristan hu-human?” I hiccupped, embarrassed. The wine was not sitting well on my stomach. “Excuse me.”
“Oh, yes, Tristan is very human. He dedicated Soil to his father, who’d told Tristan when he left Italy that any soil he touched in America would turn acrid and produce unusable grapes. Tristan picked the name as a big middle finger to his daddy.”
Looks like Daddy was right, I wanted to say.
He said, “So, Tristan starts his own winery, creates a bunch of hip wines, and makes a fortune. Like your drink? It cost eighty dollars. So, you can imagine what a whole bottle costs.”
I froze with the glass against my lips.Eighty dollars for this swill!To me, eighty dollars was equivalent to a week of groceries. “Thank you for splashing out on me so lavishly.”
“Don’t mention it,” he simpered. “NowTristan’s father is all about the Napa business, of course, but Tristan wants nothing to do with him.”
And I should care because?“Bet Tristan felt good, proving his father wrong.”
“He did. Tristan prefers kooky names, says it gives him an edge over the other wines on the market.”
“What other—” A huge yawn escaped me. “Oh my! I’m so sorry!” I threw a hand over my mouth.
“Am I that boring?” he asked stiffly.
“No, not at all!” Yes, absolutely. “I don’t know what came over me!” I blinked, feelingverysleepy. The nasty wine wasn’t helping.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. I apologize. Please, continue.”
“Tristan is fond of single-word names: Wasp, Flight, Soul. They all have some esoteric meaning, I think, though I don’t know exactly . . .”
I tuned James out as he prattled on about his friend’s wine empire. I wasn’t only feeling sleepy, but ill. I hiccupped again as acid rose in my throat, burning my esophagus and leaving behind a revolting aftertaste. I set the glass down and fumbled for my purse. I needed mints. Immediately.
I groped my clutch and tried to pull it on my lap discreetly, but I couldn’t get a grasp on it. It kept falling out of my hand like oily satin. I frowned up at James, who didn’t seem to notice my clumsiness, as he was too busy yapping away. Why had he bothered to hire me? It would have been cheaper, and probably far more enjoyable, for him to just go out with a mirror.
