"This is incredible," she murmurs, her eyes slightly unfocused as she regards the wine glass. The candlelight catches the gold flecks in her brown eyes, making them shimmer. "How much have we had to drink?"
I consider the question, very aware of the pleasant warmth spreading through my chest, the way my usual analytical mind has softened around the edges. We're halfway through the tasting menu, and Henri hasn't been stingy with the pours. Each glass has been generous, proper tasting portions that add up quickly when consumed with good food and better company.
"Enough to make this interesting."
She raises an eyebrow, leaning forward across the table. The movement brings her closer, close enough that I can see the subtle makeup she's applied - just enough to enhance her natural beauty without hiding it. "As opposed to what? Boring?"
"Safe." The admission surprises me. I'm not usually one for impulsive honesty, but something about the combination of wine and Savannah's presence is lowering my usual guards. She's playing with the stem of her wine glass now, long fingers twisting it slowly, and I find myself mesmerized by the simple movement.
She studies my face, her gaze traveling from my eyes to my mouth and back again. "When have you ever not played it safe, Xavier?"
"More often than you think." I set down my wine glass with deliberate care, suddenly aware that my hand isn't entirely steady. The alcohol is affecting me more than I'd like to admit, but it's not just the wine. It's her. The way she's looking at me like she's seeing something she'd forgotten was there.
"Bullshit." The word comes out with enough conviction to make me blink. "You became a doctor because you wanted to fix people."
The accuracy of her observation hits like a physical blow. "Is that what you think?"
"I think you're the kind of man who notices when someone's favorite wine runs out at dinner and quietly orders another bottle. Who remembers that Logan can't handle spicy food. Who volunteers to help with wedding planning because he knows it matters, even when it's not his responsibility."
The fourth course interrupts whatever response I might have made - pan-seared halibut with lemon beurre blanc and asparagus, paired with a Chardonnay that's buttery and rich. But Savannah's words echo in my mind as we eat, making me hyperaware of every gesture, every glance.
"You're staring," she says, not looking up from her plate.
"Am I?"
"Yes. You do that thing where you analyze everything. Like you're trying to solve a puzzle."
"Maybe I am."
She finally meets my eyes. "What kind of puzzle?"
"The kind where all the pieces should fit perfectly, but something's missing."
The wine is making me philosophical, which is dangerous enough under normal circumstances. With Savannah sittingacross from me, cheeks flushed from alcohol and candlelight, it feels downright reckless.
"Maybe you're overcomplicating it," she suggests.
The fifth course - beef tenderloin with blue cheese mousse and roasted shallots, paired with a Cabernet Sauvignon that's full-bodied and complex - gives us both an excuse to focus on something other than the tension building between us. But I can feel her watching me now, studying my reactions the same way I've been studying hers.
"You know," she says, swirling the red wine in her glass, "I always wondered what would have happened if things had been different."
"Let the past stay in the past. I just want to focus on the here and now, and how beautiful you look tonight. Did I tell you that?"
"Maybe."
She smiles, and the expression transforms her entire face.
"I didn't mean to gloss over the past. I'm sorry for it. And I want to keep making it up to you."
The sixth and final course - chocolate tart with raspberry coulis and vanilla bean ice cream, paired with a Port that's sweet and rich - arrives as the restaurant around us begins to empty. We've been here for over two hours, and I can feel the effects of the wine in the looseness of my limbs, the warmth spreading through my chest.
"This is sinful," Savannah moans around a bite of chocolate tart, and the sound sends heat straight through my bloodstream.
"Good sinful or bad sinful?"
"The kind that makes you want to do things you know you shouldn't."
She's looking directly at me when she says it, and there's no mistaking the intent behind her words. The air between uscrackles with tension that has nothing to do with wine pairings and everything to do with eight years of unresolved attraction.
