Yes, that must be the problem.
Never mind the fact that the aching stops the moment I see Maddox sitting on the steps behind his wagon.
The two are completely unrelated.
Pure coincidence.
There’s a bottle of wine in one of his hands and a corkscrew in the other. Five other bottles wait on the small porch behind him, three with the necks broken off, the remnants littering his stoop.
Interesting.
Does he plan on drinking alone, or is his goat going to join him for an afternoon tipple? Imagine the two of them passing the bottle back and forth, Maddox on his stoop and Biscuits on the ivory chair still sitting in the garden. He would do something ridiculous like that . . . assuming he ever gets the bottle open.
From the way he’s stabbing the cork, that seems unlikely.
“Would you like some help with that?”
Maddox’s head snaps up, and his eyes widen with his grin. “Nia Quill.”
The ends of my skirts brush along the short grass as I cross to where he sits. “Give it here.” I motion toward the corkscrew.
His grin fades into a scowl as he glowers at the metal strangled in his fist. “I know how it is meant to work.”
From the state of the other bottles and the mangled cork in this one, that doesn’t appear to be the case. I, on the other hand, am a professional wine opener. If there were a contest, I’d take home the blue ribbon. Unless Ivee was there. Then she’d probably steal it.
“I’m sure you do. But I’d love to do it for you if you’ll let me.”
With a huff, he drops the metal contraption into my outstretched palm, then drags a frustrated hand through his hair. How do they open wine bottles on their side of The Divide? Do they even have wine? Kerris said there’s very little sunlight, so I doubt there are many vineyards.
Not that it matters. There’s enough wine in Rosehill alone to keep them well sozzled. Although I cannot imagine them drinking often considering the dangers that lurk there. One of the most dangerous things on our side of The Divideisthe wine.
I take the bottle from between his knees, gripping the neck tightly. “First, you must make sure the tip goes in straight and center. Otherwise, you’ll tear up the cork.”
“I did that.”
The plethora of stab marks would suggest otherwise. Not that I say as much. There’s no need to embarrass the man. I’m sure there are plenty of thirty-year-olds who don’t know how to open wine bottles.
“See the sides?” I pick one up and let it fall with a metallicjingle. “Think of them like arms. And the top here is the head.”
His brow furrows as he watches with more concentration than I’ve ever seen him apply to anything. “When the bottle is corked, the arms are down because we’re sad.” I give the top a twist, and the screw digs deeper into the cork. “The closer it is to opening, the higher the arms rise.” Up they come, lifting with each squeaking rotation. “Keep turning until—‘Yay!’—the bottle is almost open.” I lower myself onto the chair, grip the bottle with my knees, and push both sides of the opener down, extracting the cork with a victorious smile.
Maddox’s slashing eyebrows come together as he blinks at me. “Yay?”
“A simple expression of excitement.” I hand him the open bottle and the corkscrew still piercing the mangled cork. “Do you mind me asking why you’re opening wine at half twelve in the afternoon?” Not that I’m judging. I did the very same after Nolan and I broke up.
Perhaps things haven’t worked out with his Unseelie.
Or perhaps they have and this isn’t a bottle for drowning sorrows like all of mine have been of late. “Are you commiserating or celebrating?”
“Just practicing.”
“For?”
“Opening wine.”
Straightforward. I appreciate that.
He sets the bottle next to the broken ones.
