I nod to the open bottle of wine and his half-filled glass. "What are you drinking?"
I’m sure he’s going to tell me the kind of wine it is. Instead…he raises his glass to my lips, turning it so my mouth touches the rim at the very spot from which he drank.
It feels like I’m touching my mouth to his.
Heat flushes my cheeks.
It’s an intimate gesture. The kind a husband and wife would share. The kind lovers wouldn’t hesitate to indulge in between themselves. My heart flutters.
He tips the glass slowly while watching me, completely focused on my reaction. His actions are deliberate. Controlled. There’s a sense of something ceremonial about it.
It feels like he isn’t just giving me wine. He’s offering something of himself to me.
I take a sip. Green apple and citrus. The bright, clean notes punch through my palate.
He lowers the glass, watching me closely as I swallow.
That heat spreads to my throat, my chest, and sinks slowly into my blood, warming me like he just wrapped me in his embrace.
And he did all this without touching me.
“Do you like it?”
I nod.
“It’s Chablis Grand Cru.” His voice is husky.
It’s a wine made from mature grapes known for being steel-sharp, powerful, and intense. It matches James’ personality.
He sets the glass in front of me and pours himself a fresh one, then turns back to the range. I watch him toss a handful of pale zest into the butter and stir.
This doesn't feel casual anymore. This marriage feels real.
I focus on his cooking before the thought can take hold. "What are you making?"
"Tagliolini al Limone." He swirls the pan, the butter foaming into a pale, creamy cloud.
The scent hits me, bright and citrusy. I already know the acidity and chalky minerality of the wine will cut through the butter and cream, while its citrus character echoes the lemon. The glass and the plate speak the same language.
Like me and James.
He adds long, thin strands of pasta to the pan, coating them until they glisten like silk. He uses long kitchen tongs to twirl the pasta into a tight, perfect nest in the center of each bowl. He finishes it off with a dusting of lemon zest.
He places a bowl, along with the fennel and orange salad he’s assembled, in front of me. And of course, cutlery and serviettes. He sets his place at a right angle to mine at the island. He takes his seat and raises his glass of wine. "To you."
"To us." I raise mine and clink it with his. Then take another sip.
The pasta is the perfect balance of citrus and umami. The salad is light and refreshing. He tops off my pasta. Then watches me demolish my second helping.
"It’s so good," I say half apologetically.
"I love a woman who has an appetite." He swirls the liquid in his glass. His every move is precise; however, his gaze is on my face.
I twirl a few strands around my fork and bring it to my lips. When I lick the zest off the tines of my fork, his gaze darkens. His fingers tighten around the stem of his wineglass.
I take another mouthful of the pasta.
His Adam’s apple bobs. When he takes a sip of his wine, I notice that his hand shakes.
