I’mthe big pussy around here.
A vaguely crazed snort ripples through me at the thought, and I swing behind the bar, plunk an empty glass in front of Laine, and grab the first bottle. The shawl constricts my movement, though, and the corkscrew’s being a real bitch.
Laine’s smirk grows. “Need help, boss?”
“No, I’ve—got it—” Somehow, I’ve driven the cork in sideways, like I don’t do this a hundred times a week.
Laine folds her arms behind her head, clearly amused, as I break a sweat. “I thought you worked here.”
“It’s this—shawl, tootight,” I grind out.
“Sure.”
When the cork nearly severs in half, I groan. In one slick movement, Laine leans forward and grabs the offending bottle by the neck. Her hand curls around mine, the rough pads of her fingers hot against the sensitive skin of my wrist. My hand opens willingly to her, relinquishing the corkscrew. It’s still hanging there dumbly when she hands me the open bottle, cork removed with zero effort.
Fuckingathletes.
“You okay, boss?” Laine’s grin is intoxicating, and I’m drunk with the desire to wipe itright offher face.
I untie the knot of the strangling shawl, letting it fall to the ground. “I am now.”
Her grin softens as her gaze slides down my throat, across the smooth skin of my chest, to the vale between my breasts. It’s so visceral I feel it like the trail of fingertips. Now it’s my turn to smile, and it fills me with a satisfied heat. I pluck the shawl from the floor and hang it on a hook. Laine swallows, her mocking bravado mysteriously disappeared.
Well, well. Look at that.
“Now how about that taste?” I lower my eyes to the glasses I’ve set before her, the pleased smile still lingering on my lips, and deftly pour a spread of seven wines because Idowork in this damn vineyard. I’ve included three of our most popular whites, followed by a rosé, then a bit reluctantly, three reds. “You’ve got to learn our offerings since you’ll be making them soon.”
“Mm-hmm,” Laine agrees absently, eyes lingering near my collarbone.
I push the first glass forward, Electric Daisy, our lightest white. It’s a honeyed Traminette that tastes like a bouquet of lightly carbonated wildflowers. Iloveit.
With effort, Laine redirects her gaze to the glass in her hand, which she swirls, the wine lightly swishing within. She assesses the way it clings to the glass, then brings it to her nose and breathes in deeply. Eyes closed, she tastes tentatively, swallows a miserly amount, then blinks open.
“Sweet,” she pronounces flatly, the taste shaking the fog from her expression.
Disappointment tears through the excitement I’d felt, thinking Laine might appreciate what we have to offer. I push the embarrassment down and the second glass forward, rattling off our Pinot Grigio’s attributes like a parent whose child made honor roll, but C’est la Grigio fares no better.
“Somehow? Also sweet.” Laine flicks her tongue out, like she can shake the taste off by force. The memory of it sliding between my breasts makes my cheeks heat, then heat more because I’m thinking about that instead of how she’s insulting my wine. “Imbalanced. Next?”
My fingers involuntarily flex around the stem of the third glass, and I push it forward a little too hard, nearly tipping it over. “This is Bluebell’s signature blend, (Wish They All Could Be) Georgia Girls. It’s a mix of estate-grown Catawba, muscadine, and peaches. The stone fruit—”
Laine sniffs the wine and expels a loud cough, then looks incredulously into the glass as if I’ve offered her a fresh batch of toilet wine instead of our bestseller. She squeezes her eyes closed and throws back a quick swallow, which is notat allhow you’re supposed to taste wine.
“Extremelysweet.” She reaches for a napkin and wipes her tongue with it. “People like this?”
“People love it.” I coax my expression into something cool even as warm hurt curdles in my gut. My chin lifts of its own accord. “It’s our most popular wine.”
Laine shakes her head, like she just learned her little cousin Jimmy was back in jail again.
I can’t hide my irritation any longer. I huff out a short, unamused laugh and start cleaning up a little too vigorously.
Laine arches an eyebrow as I snatch up her used tasting glasses, still full. “Look, I can’t turn off my palate just because you make”—she pauses to pick up the bottle of Georgia Girls, eyeing it with dismay—“bachelorette party wine.”
“It isnotbachelorette party wine!” I look to Tristan for backup, but he’s busy tending the bar. “Also, that’s a weirdly sexist thing to say.”
“Okaaaay. It’s white-cis-het-ladies-in-pushup-bras-throwing-down-wine wine. Better?”
I put my hands on my hips. “At least it’s notyourstuffy crap with notes of curdled lemon and—and—gasoline!”
