Page 3 of Glitterati Omega

Winston snorted again, but Morgan just looked confused. Rupert sighed. And people thoughthewas an airhead. “Let’s try the next one,” he said.

“To be fair,” Winston said as they strode down a dusty path between some of the vines, “I’ve never been fond of Hill Country wines.”

“No?” Rupert asked, and the man shook his head.

“The terroir is all wrong for the varietals,” he explained, holding up a hand. Rupert tracked it, noting the lack of ornamentation. “I think someone would do very well with Chianti here, but no one seems to think it a good idea.”

“Well,” Rupert said, “perhaps the climate is right, but what about the soil itself?”

Winston hummed and rubbed his chin. “If you got the right spot,” he mused, “I think it would go well.”

“Well, that’s the thing—the soil pH is—”

“Oh my God,” Morgan groaned, “will you two shut up? We’re at a winery, but I’m still not drunk enough to deal with you nerding out about soil pH.”

Winston quirked a brow, and Rupert shook his head. “Morgan, I’ve put up with you ‘nerding out’ about different types of stitches. I think you can indulge me for one afternoon.”

“Soil,” Morgan retorted. “You’re talking aboutdirt.” They grabbed another flute of wine off a passing tray and sipped it. Their eyes lit up. “Oh, I like this one!”

“Really,” Rupert said dryly, watching as Winston discreetly dumped his flute out behind a plant. He shook his head at Rupert.

“Yeah!” Morgan continued. “It’s like … kinda spicy or something? Tastes like barbecue!”

“Like barbecue,” Rupert echoed, then looked down at his own glass.

“Well. Sorta.”

“I think we can find something else,” Winston said as he approached them and collected their glasses.

“Why are we wine-tasting anyway?” Rupert asked.

“Ugh,” Morgan groaned, “my sibling’s wedding.”

“Oh,” Rupert said, because this was the first he was hearing about it. He was surprised—he would have thought Morgan would have told him or even invited him. After all, he was usually Morgan’s plus-one to anything that involved their family, if only because Morgan’s omega parent, Merl, wasdreadfullyfond of him, always hoping that he could find a way to make Rupert and Morgan hook up.

Merl had set his sights on the Cullinan family fortune the moment Rupert had entered Morgan’s orbit. That much had always been clear to Rupert. You didn’t grow up mind-bendingly rich and not recognize when honeyed veneers were hiding the most acrid of poisons. Merl seemed like sweetness itself, but all he wanted was Rupert’s money.

The fact he hadn’t stopped trying to get Morgan and Rupert to hook up when Rupert had married Thomas was evidence enough of that.

Not that it mattered now anyway—wedding vows hadn’t apparently meant much in the end. Rupert was just waiting for the papers to finalize the divorce.

Maybe there was a good reason Morgan hadn’t invited him to this wedding.

Or maybe it was just that he’d been a bit of a recluse these last … fifteen? Sixteen months?

He blinked, realizing this was his first social outing in probably that long.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up at Winston, who offered him another glass of wine, this one a rosé. The sun was behind the man, gleaming on his melanin-rich skin, highlighting the gentle curve of his lips, the bright of his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones, and oh, he looked dreadfully handsome there in the vineyard, the glossy green leaves and dusky-pale sky behind him. Like something out of a magazine or a movie or a dream.

Rupert giggled airily, then coughed and took the offered drink. “Thank you,” he managed.

Winston frowned. Rupert shook his head, waved a hand. “Just … oh, nothing. Never mind.”

“This one is a gamay rosé,” Winston said. “A little more tolerable.”

Rupert pulled away from the flute, taking a sharp breath. “Yes, well, it’s a little strong still—”

“But more muted than some of the reds,” the lawyer said.