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The quiet approval in his voice pleases me more than it should. “Do you actually enjoy wine this much, or did you inherit a vineyard and decide you should learn to appreciate it?”

His fingers stop against the bowl of his glass. The pause is brief, but it’s the first time one of my questions has reached past his polished manners.

“My family has grown grapes for generations,” he says.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

I wonder whether he’s considering an answer or another way to avoid one.

“I wouldn’t have devoted my life to this vineyard if I didn’t care about the wine,” he states.

The honesty surprises me. I look beyond him toward the rows descending into darkness and try to imagine spending an entire life on this land.

“Did you always know you would run it?” I ask, glancing toward the Dragorin crest displayed above the pavilion entrance.

“No.” Andrei rubs his thumb across the scar on the back of his hand.

I watch the small movement, wondering what memory prompted it. “What did you think you would do instead?”

Andrei’s expression closes before I finish the question. His shoulders remain relaxed, and his face reveals very little, but an invisible door shuts between us.

“I had other plans.”

The answer should be enough to make me stop. His reaction tells me I’ve reached a place he doesn’t want me to enter, and common sense insists I should leave it alone. But there’s something about Andrei that makes every answer feel like the first page of a story I can’t stop reading. Instead of satisfying my curiosity, his refusal creates several more questions, beginning with what those plans were and ending with why he abandoned them.

“What changed?”

“Life.”

“That may be the least informative answer you’ve given me, and you’ve set a very competitive standard.”

A server approaches to offer us mushroom tartlets. Andrei takes one and waits until I choose another before sending the tray toward Birdie. The ordinary courtesy does nothing to soften the sense that I have reached a boundary he doesn’t intend to let me cross.

“You believe everyone should answer any question you ask?” he says.

“No, but I usually want to know why they won’t.” I break off a corner of the tartlet and glance up at him. “People reveal almost as much by avoiding a question as they do by answering it.”

“And what have I revealed?”

“That depends on whether you want the polite answer.”

“I rarely do.”

I eat the bite to give myself time. “You don’t trust easily. You prefer knowing more about people than they know about you, and you’re accustomed to everyone accepting whatever answer you give them.”

Andrei says nothing, but the way he looks at me changes. The warmth remains, but there’s another emotion beneath it now, darker and more watchful.

I should stop. Birdie’s foot nudges mine beneath the edge of my dress, suggesting she’s reached the same conclusion. Unfortunately, stopping has never been my strongest skill.

“And this vineyard isn’t just a business to you,” I add, glancing at the calluses along his fingers. “A man with your money could pay other people to do all the difficult work, but your hands say you still do some of it yourself.”

Andrei looks down at his hand as though he has never considered what it might reveal, then raises his eyes to mine. “You notice more than most people.”

“I own a bookstore in a town where everyone knows everyone else’s coffee order. It’s useful.”

“Is that why you came tonight?”