"I have to drive home."
"Then we'll keep the pours small." He was already filling the first glass, a pale gold liquid that caught the light like captured sunshine. "Besides, you look like you could use a drink."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you've been holding yourself so tightly since you got here that I'm surprised you haven't pulled a muscle." He slid the glass toward her, his fingers brushing the stem. "Relax, little flower. I'm not going to bite."
She should refuse. She should maintain the walls she'd been carefully constructing since the moment Ellie Sanderson had nominated her for this ridiculous position. Instead, she climbed onto the bar stool and reached for the glass.
*One taste,*she told herself.*For quality control.*
The wine was extraordinary.
She hadn't been expecting that either. She'd been prepared for decent—good, even, given the reputation she'd heard whispered about in town. But this was something else entirely. It hit her tongue with a burst of bright citrus that mellowed into something richer, more complex. Honey and stone fruit and a clean mineral finish that made her want another sip immediately.
"That's our 2019 Riesling," he said, watching her reaction. "The vines my mother planted."
"It's…" She searched for words. "It's really good."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not—" She took another sip, buying herself time. "I don't know much about wine. I wasn't sure what to expect."
"That's honest, at least." He poured himself a small measure of the same wine, swirling it in his glass. "Most people pretend expertise they don't have. Make up flavor notes that don't exist. I appreciate that you're not doing that."
"I'm not a good liar."
"No." His eyes met hers over the rim of his glass. "I don't think you are."
They tasted four more wines over the next hour.
A crisp Sauvignon Blanc that tasted like summer afternoons. A rosé so pale it was almost white, with a finish of wild strawberries. A Pinot Noir that was deeper and more serious than the others, with undertones of cherry and something earthy she couldn't identify. And finally, a late-harvest dessert wine that was almost sinfully sweet, like drinking liquid gold.
She was careful. She really was. She took small sips, and she ate the cheese and crackers that he set out between wines. She even drank two full glasses of water.
But the alcohol accumulated anyway, spreading warmth through her chest and loosening something in her shoulders that had been tight for longer than she could remember. By the time she finished the dessert wine, the sharp edges of the world had gone pleasantly soft.
"So," he said, topping off her water glass, "what's the verdict? Which wines should we feature at the festival?"
"All of them."
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. "That's not a helpful answer."
"It's an honest one." She set down her empty wine glass, misjudging the distance slightly and nearly knocking it over. "They're all good. They're all*really*good. People should drink all of them."
"You're tipsy."
"I am not."
"You just tried to put your glass on a piece of cheese."
She looked down. The glass was sitting at a precarious angle on a wedge of aged cheddar.
"That was intentional," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I was testing its stability."
"Mm-hmm." He was grinning at her, that infuriating grin that made his golden eyes crinkle as his small horns caught the light. "How's the stability?"
"Questionable."
