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“Our wine,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t kid yourself. If the wine sucks I do not want to be affiliated with it.”

He chuckled in response, and the warm sound stirred something in her gut. She ignored it and quickened her pace as they made their way down to the winery.

6

She stood at the counter inside the tasting room, listening to the tinkering of bottles as Leo searched for the ones they would taste. She used to be the one behind the bar, pouring wine and talking about it with the various guests, watching their faces light up from each sip.

Leo’s husky bounded over to her, nuzzling his snout into her calf.

She grinned and bent over, patting the dog’s head. “Hi, baby,” she cooed.

“Bear,” Leo announced from behind the bar. “His name’s Bear.”

“Hi, Bear.” She scratched between his ears, and the dog’s tail wiggled in delight. “Aren’t you the sweetest.”

Bear circled her three times then nestled by her feet, resting his nose on her boot.

She leaned against the cool marble as Leo placed down six bottles. “We’ll start with whites.”

“Not sparkling?”

He shook his head. “Still wine first. You’ll get a better idea of flavor and winemaking qualities.”

She titled her head back and forth. He wasn’t wrong—it was easier to tell the stylistic differences of each year side by side with still wines. Plus, sparkling wines needed more time to age before release. He likely only had one of those to show after three years.

He flicked open the knife on his wine key and peeled off the wrapper with two swift motions. He remained quiet as he opened the bottles and added small pours of each in the glasses lined up in front of her.

“The Riesling.” He poured the three different wines into his own glasses. “’Twenty-three was unpredictable. We had a frost in May, which was damaging for a number of the vineyards in the area. Then later that summer the Canadian wildfires left a layer of smoke, so yields were generally low.” He sighed. “Except our vineyard. All of our grapes were fine.”

Alana ignored his comment and expertly swirled her glass, tipping it horizontally and inhaling deeply. “You can smell the smoke.”

“Yeah, exactly.” He sniffed his own glass. “I thought it would ruin the flavor, yet somehow it adds to it in a way you wouldn’t expect.”

She eyed the wine. Tasting it was the natural next step. I can do this. It was just a taste. She could spit it into the spittoon Leo left her on the counter. But that was for the alcohol. She knew after years of drinking Marien wine that the magic took effect as soon as it hit your tongue.

Leo placed his glass down and gripped the edges of the counter, leaning forward. “All right, get on with it.”

She glared at him. “I’m hyping myself up.”

“Don’t overthink.”

Alana stared at her glass, swirling the wine again. “Fun fact, winemaker. I’m always overthinking.”

He smirked. “Drink up, Alana.”

She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. Then she tipped the wine into her mouth. It was smoky, but it was also Riesling. Bright Meyer lemon and green apple, with a touch of that flintiness and petrol that made the aromatic grape so unique. It tasted like home. She sucked in air to help aerate the wine, the flavor bursting forth in her mouth. She reached for the spittoon and spit it out for show purposes, but she could feel it. The tingling was subtle enough that the average drinker would never notice. But she knew what it was, and she knew where it led.

Leo tasted his own and spit it out, seemingly unaware of the tingling, of the magic taking hold. “Thoughts?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Tastes like Riesling.”

He frowned. “Your father says your palate is prolific.”

She smirked, her chest warming at his comment. “I don’t know about that.”

“Don’t hold back.” He gestured to her empty glass. “Give me your real thoughts.”