Sunny's gaze cuts back to me. "She called twice?"
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my face won't cooperate. Gran's meddling has never been subtle, and Sunny strikes me as a woman who can spot a setup from three counties away.
"That's what the order says." Tabitha waves the piece of paper between them like a white flag. "Personal tasting, administered by the winemaker, before pickup is authorized."
Sunny's jaw works, and for a moment I think she might actually refuse. Then she exhales through her nose, long and deliberate, the response of a woman who knows she's been outmaneuvered, and snatches the paper from Tabitha's hand, scanning it.
"Fine." She directs me toward a smaller bar across the room where it's quieter and steps behind it, putting the solid wood between us like a border between warring nations.
When she finally glances at me, her gaze hardens, then softens. She shakes her head as if clearing it. "Italian reds and a Viognier for a dinner party." She bends to pull four bottles from beneath the counter, and when she straightens and lines them up with precise movements, her hands are steady. "Your grandmother has good taste."
"I'll tell her you said so."
"I'm sure you will." Her tone is dry as Hill Country in August. She uncorks the first bottle without making eye contact, but she angles her body toward me despite herself, her elbow staying close to the bar instead of pulling back. "Sangiovese. It's the lightest of the three reds." She pours and slides the glass across the polished wood.
I swirl it once and taste. Bright cherry flavors hit first, followed by something earthier. The finish is dry, almost dusty. "Cherry. Leather on the back end."
Her brows rise, a small, involuntary lift that she schools back to neutral half a second too late. "You know wine."
"I've sat through enough business dinners to bumble my way around a wine list. Plus, I pay attention when something matters."
Her lips press together against something she doesn't want to let through, but I catch the flicker before she locks it down. "Most people just say 'it tastes like wine' and leave it at that."
"I'm not most people, Sunny."
"The jury's still out on that." She pours the second wine, and this time when she sets the glass down, her fingers linger on the base a beat longer than necessary. "Montepulciano. Darker fruit, more structure."
I taste it. "Heavier. Plum, maybe. There's a grip to it that the Sangiovese didn't have."
"The tannins give it weight." She leans one hip against the back counter, and the shift is subtle but unmistakable. She isn't bracing against the bar anymore. "Most people don't notice the difference, but it matters for food pairing. If you serve this with something delicate, it'll steamroll the dish."
"What would you pair it with?"
"Red meat. Something with enough fat to stand up to the tannins." She picks up the third bottle, and her fingers wraparound the neck with an easy authority that comes from doing this thousands of times. "This one's my favorite. Nebbiolo."
She pours and watches me taste it. I sense the weight of her attention, the way her gaze tracks from my hand to my mouth to my eyes, waiting.
Layers unfold on my tongue. Roses, tar, something almost medicinal that I wouldn't expect to work but does. "This has about five different things happening at once."
"Most people hate it on first taste." She's leaning forward now, one forearm resting on the bar, and the distance between us has halved without either of us making an obvious move. "It’s too acidic and tannic. They try it once and push it aside." She pauses, and something shifts behind her eyes, some guard she's forgotten to keep up while she's talking about what she loves. "But if you give it time, let it breathe a little, it becomes something extraordinary."
"Is it worth the wait?"
The question sits between us. The pulse at the base of her throat quickens, a tiny flutter she doesn’t realize I can see. "Usually," she answers, quieter now.
That single word hits harder than it should. Everything in me says lean closer, ask her what she means byusually, why she held back instead of sayingalways. But pushing right now would break whatever this is, and I'm not willing to risk it.
Instead, I hold her gaze and let the silence hanging between us do the work. She doesn't look away. For three full seconds, the noise of the tasting room fades to nothing, and it's just those sapphire eyes locked on mine, my held breath, and the scent of wine and rose caught in her hair.
Sunny clears her throat and reaches for the last bottle, and I catch the slight hesitation before her fingers close around it, the pause of someone who's realized she let the conversation wander somewhere she hadn't intended. "This is the Viognier." Sheuncorks it with a firmer motion, resettling into her professional mien. "It’s our estate-grown white. The grapes come from the hillside just past the courtyard."
I taste it, and the stone fruit and citrus I remember from my first visit are all there, but this time I pick up something I missed before. Something delicate underneath that reminds me of the wildflowers along the fence line at the ranch. "I bought a bottle of this the first time I was here, but I didn't catch that floral note before."
Sunny blinks, and for the first time she seems genuinely impressed rather than grudgingly so. "Most people never catch it, period. That's the terroir showing through." Pride softens her voice, warming it from the inside. "The limestone soil and the drainage here are perfect for Viognier. We've been growing it for almost ten years, and every vintage is better than the last." She catches herself, seeming to register how much she's given away, and draws back behind that wall of detachment. "Your grandmother ordered a bottle of that too. She's a smart woman."
"She has her moments."
"I'm sure she does." Sunny's gaze flicks to mine, and a genuine smile breaks through before she can stop it. Small and reluctant, as if she's annoyed at herself for letting it happen. "So. Which was your favorite?"
