What am I going to say? That I’m a poor, sappy bastard who was thinking with his dick?
“Is that your type?” Eliza asks.
Ahead, Lala sets the ball down in front of the little goal Anson built her and gives it a mighty warm-up kick.
“No.” My throat burns with more words. Since I’m already fucked, I just say them.
“You are.”
I watch Eliza’s mouth open into a little “O.” Then, coward that I am, I take off, jogging over to Lala.
And Eliza goes on to prove my point for the next twenty minutes as she kicks off her sandals and posts up in the goal, letting enough of Lala’s goals through to make my little sister giggle with glee—and, in true Eliza style, blocking all of mine with a shit-eating grin.
“This isa new Cayuga and Seyval blend scheduled for launch next year,” Anson explains as he pours our glasses atthe antique oak dining table, the rich aroma of truffle risotto filling the air.
Sitting across from me, Lala’s already downing her glass of white grape juice, cheeks flushed from running her little behind off outside. She’s still at the age where my sheer size and strength trump any soccer skills she has, but soon, she’ll start whooping my ass.
Eliza murmurs a polite thank you, her back ramrod straight and fingers playing in her lap as Anson sets down the bottle and sits.
“Tell me your thoughts.” Anson initiates his routine, holding his glass up in the low light to inspect the white-gold liquid. A little swirl. Some sniffs. All that scientific bullshit someone somewhere once deemed necessary for enjoying wine.
Eliza picks up her glass, observing my brother’s twenty-seven-step process before turning hesitantly to me.
“I’m not a wine expert. At all,”she’d told me when I first shared the invite earlier today.
I’d assured her it wasn’t required. When Anson shares the final iteration of a product, he’s already decided to produce it. This little family tasting is just tradition. Our opinions mean nothing.
With a pointed look at her, I haul the glass up to my mouth and throw back a gulp like it’s cheap beer. There’s a subtle, amused shake to her head before she delicately brings the glass to her mouth and takes a polite sip.
“That’s delicious,” she says.
She isn’t kissing his ass. I’m not a wine guy, but itisdelicious. Tastes like summer.
“This will be our first blend that trends slightly sweet,” Anson informs us, no doubt dumbing it down forour unrefined ears.
“It’sverygood,” Lala declares from the rim of her juice cup.
Anson’s lips tip into the warm smile only Lala can pull from him. “So good that she’s been asking for it every day.”
Lala nods emphatically. “I’ve been telling everyone at school about it.”
His smile slips. “Have you?”
“Mrs. Johnson said it’s not appropriate to talk about in school, but I told her it’s just grapes! What’s wrong with grapes?”
My shoulders shake as I fight a laugh.
Anson runs his hand across his chin. “There’s nothing wrong with grapes, La. But as you know, wine contains alcohol, which is an adult topic. We’ve talked about this many times.”
Her little face wrinkles in confusion. “ButIhave wine.”
She has grape juice from the grocery store. But Anson doesn’t want to ruin the magic. “You have a specialkidwine, which doesn’t contain alcohol. But we only produce it for you, so no one else knows that. Wecan talk about these things as much as you’d like, but only at home.”
“But I bet Mrs. Johnson drinks wine.”
“Mrs. Johnson is just trying to do her job and make sure everyone follows the rules, which includes not discussing activities that are illegal for those under the age of twenty-one.”
“You said that sometimes you have to make your own rules.”
