Page 36 of The Sweetness of Life

She swirls, sniffs, and starts laughing. Her eyes are bright and her laugh is infectious. I grin along with her as a spot in my chest warms. Damn, I really like the sound of her laugh. “I know this is part of it and a lot of people do it, but they look dumb and I feel stupid.”

“I actually agree with you. Some people take the nose sniffing way too seriously, but . . . if wine is your thing then it’s a must.” I shrug my shoulders, still smiling at her.

“What’s your thing?” she asks, holding the glass out in front of her, twisting her wrist to roll the wine. Some people make the action looked forced, as if they’re trying to be something they’re not, and on others it looks so natural . . . like it does on her.

Folding my arms in front of me on the counter, I lean in, closer to her. “Well, for almost thirty years, it was football. Since I’ve settled in here at the winery, it’s making sure it grows and keeping it successful.”

She lifts the glass, sniffs it again, and then tastes it as she regards me. “Are the headaches why you stopped playing?”

Stopped playing. This makes me frown, and a longing for my former life hits me. I loved playing football. Some play it because they’re good at it and it’s their ticket to a better life, but I played to play. Everyone thinks their sport is the greatest, but to me, nothing compares to football.

“Not really, but they seem to be a residual side effect I can’t get rid of.” Just thinking about the headaches causes me to tense up. With a normal headache, people pop two aspirin and it goes away; not me. I’m down for the count.

“I’m sorry,” she says sympathetically.

“Why?” I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. Everyone felt sorry for me, but it is what it is.

“Because . . . if I had to give up food, that would suck, and I imagine it did for you. Makes me feel bad for you.”

From what I know, her whole world is food. So, hearing her compare something I love to something she loves makes that ache for the grass, heat, and sweat flare. Swallowing, I push down the emotion and remind myself how lucky I was to have another life already waiting for me.

“Don’t. I’ve always known I was headed here next. I love this, too.” I nod to her glass, asking, “What do you think of this one?”

“It’s tasty, takes over your whole mouth.” She takes another sip, hands me the glass, and moves around to my side of the island to sit on the chair next to me. I shift in my seat and twist the bottles so she can’t see the labels.

I taste the wine, and after I swallow, it pulls my cheeks in. I hand her back the glass, and she drinks some more. “Do you feel like you have cotton mouth?”

“I do.”

“Those are the tannins from the skins and seeds of the grapes. Tannins are the backbone of red wines, giving them texture and different levels of complexity.”

She passes the glass back, and I pour a little more.

“What flavors did you taste?”

She swirls and sips. “This one has the cherry flavors like the wine in the cave, and it tastes earthy.”

“You are correct—this is a cabernet, very similar to the one in the cave.” I turn the bottle around so she can see it, and her face lights up. “In general, cabernets have been nicknamed ‘the big boy’ wine—big in flavor, big in body, and big in alcohol content. Cabernets will get you the most bang for your buck.”

“That one was luscious.” She licks her lips.

“Yes, it is.” I finish the glass in one swallow, and her eyes zero in on my mouth. Warmth runs through my chest and stomach. As I set the glass down, she breaks her gaze and looks over at the bottles. Her cheeks turn pink. God, what I wouldn’t give to be in her mind right this second.

Clearing my throat, I push the third glass toward her.

She picks it up, swirls it, smells it, and tastes it.

Watching her drink my wines and having her enjoy them is like chasing a wide receiver down the sideline and tackling him after a fifty-five-yard pass. It’s an adrenaline rush and a complete turn-on. I’m aching to touch her, so I shift in my seat, placing my knee against hers as I wait.

“The color is lighter than the cabernet, and it swirls around the glass quicker. It smells like pie—berries, jam, vanilla, cinnamon—and it tastes fruity. It’s smoother, softer. I like it.”

“Do you like this one or the cabernet more?”

“I think it depends on what we’re eating and maybe the time of the year. I feel like the cabernet is perfect for a cold winter day, and this one I could drink into the summer.”

“Hmm.” I take the glass from her, smell the pie—I’ll never be able to think of this wine in any other way now—and take a sip.

“Do you like it?” she asks me.