Page 49 of The Sweetness of Life

A glass shatters on the other side of the room and we jerk away from each other.

So much for keeping strong and focused on the assignment.

Zach lets out a deep sigh, regards me with uncertain eyes, and then moves behind the bar to put some distance between us. I don’t know if he does this for me, for him, or because the photographer is sitting there watching us, but either way, I’m glad he does and I hate it all at the same time.

He lines up three bottles in front of me. “So, here at Wolff, we bottle four sparkling wines. Our two signature sparklings are the Queen Bee, which is a sparkling lavender honey, and the Farkas, a sparkling brut. Our other two are a sparkling brut rosé and a sparkling peach.” He places his hands on top of the rosé and peach. “So, which do you want to start with?” he asks, looking from me to the bottles.

“Let’s start with the rosé.” I scoot forward in my seat, wanting to close some of the distance between us.

His blue eyes flash to mine. “You did tell me you preferred dry wines, so this is a good place to start, but I’ll save the best for last.” He smiles, and my heart clenches as he unwraps the foil from the first bottle.

“Are you going to pop the cork?” I bat my eyes at him, pretending that comment couldn’t have come across as something less than innocent.

A devious grin takes over and his eyes fall to half-mast, almost hooded.

“No, Shelby, I’m not going to pop the cork. I prefer to ease it out to release that whisper of smoke at the mouth of the bottle. I think it’s sexier . . . and less dangerous. Don’t you think?” He tilts his head, and his grin turns into a full-blown smile.

Oh my stars. My breath hitches, and I stare at him. “I guess so.”

“Most will tell you sparkling wines should be kept between forty-one and forty-seven degrees, but I think a few degrees warmer is better. The colder the wine is, the more concealed the flavors are. The opposite is true as well—as it sits in your glass and warms, the flavors and aromas change.”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about temperature affecting flavor before—either that or I drink it faster than it warms.” He smiles, clearly amused.

Angling the bottle away from us, he wiggles the cork until it slides out with a hiss. The bottle smokes, and he was right—it is sexy. Still holding the cork, he twists to grab two glasses in the same hand between his free fingers, and he holds them as he pours the sparkling wine.

“Mousse is the foam on top, the bubbly.” A light pink layer of foam rises to the rim of the glass and stops. The perfect pour.

“I love the bubbles. I love when I can feel them against my lips.”

He chuckles, hands me mine, and watches my mouth as I lift the glass to take a sip.

“Mmm, it’s good.” I lick my lips, and he lets out a breath as he tears his eyes away and takes a sip from his own glass.

Holding the glass up to the light, he examines the color and then grabs a white towel behind the bar to use as a backdrop. He tilts the glass to the side, examines the bubbles, and then sets it back on the bar.

“Instead of using one grape, we actually blend a red and a white to get the pink color. The Farkas is made with the Champagne method, which means it’s put through a second fermentation in the bottle where the bubbles are naturally produced until it is opened. The brut rosé and the lavender honey wine are made by the Charmat method, where the second fermentation is done in a tank, and the peach sparkling has the carbonation injected.”

“Sounds fancy,” I say, taking another sip.

He shrugs. “Not really. I would prefer them all to be done the traditional way, but time and production demands factor in.”

Traditional.

In many ways, this description fits him perfectly. I know there are a lot of newer techniques he could be experimenting with here on the farm, but the expression If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it seems to apply to him. From the fields and the cave to the fermenting and the bottling, he sticks with what’s always worked, and I think that says a lot about the quality of his wines.

“I feel very girly drinking this.” I hold the glass out in front of me and twirl it, watching the bubbles race to the top.

“In general, mostly women do drink this one. It’s why it sells the best during the holidays and around Valentine’s. What do you think?” He folds his arms and lays them on the bar so he can lean toward me.

“My overall impression is that it’s dry but leaves a berry aftertaste. It isn’t super sweet, and it would pair very well with salty Southern snacks and spicy foods.”

“Salty Southern snacks?” He laughs. “Don’t you mean deep fried?” The sound of his laugh rolls over me and penetrates my skin.

“I was thinking canapés, but fried vegetables like okra sound delicious, too.” I grin back.

“I volunteer, just say when.” His expression is hopeful, and warmth that has nothing to do with alcohol floods through me.

“You haven’t tired of my food yet?” I tease.