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“Does it really matter how you get the cork out?” Sloane watched him uncork the wine, unable to ignore the flutter in her belly at the way he held the bottle so gently, yet maneuvered the corkscrew with such efficient, purposeful strokes.
She squirmed, trying with all her might to disperse the heat in her body to someplace other than between her legs. The cork slid from the slender neck of the bottle with a soft murmur, and Gavin paused for just a fraction of a second before starting to pour.
“No. But I’m a traditional kind of guy.”
“Shocking, that,” Sloane said with lighthearted sarcasm. It was already hard enough to keep her mind from flashing back to the dark, openly seductive look he’d laid on her when they’d left the restaurant. If she didn’t keep it light, the suggestive twinge working through her was going to rip loose and have its way with him.
“I hate to break it to you, but you’re no stranger to tradition yourself.” Gavin set the bottle carefully on the counter and cast a glance at the clock on the microwave. “Five minutes should be good, and then we can drink.”
She laughed, and it scattered the odd tension building under her skin. “Oh, goodie. That’s plenty of time for me to tell you you’re nuts.”
Sloane had been called a lot of things in her thirty-one years. This was definitely the maiden voyage for the wordtraditional.
“Why am I nuts?”
Her laugh came out with a heavy edge of disbelief. “Gavin, I change my mind like most people change their pants. As quaint as traditions are, they’re so not my speed.”
He crossed his arms, a note of satisfaction creeping over his face. “What about your writing hat?”
Sloane froze. “What about it?”
“You wear it every time you write, don’t you?”
The satisfied smile kicking up at the corners of Gavin’s mouth did nothing to cool the unmitigated want swishing around between her thighs. She hauled in a breath both to relax and argue with him at the same time.
“Technically, yes. But that doesn’t make it a tradition.” Sloane traced an imaginary circle on the countertop, picking at the flecks in the swirled granite.
“Really? I thought a tradition was something a person did without fail, time after time.” He picked up his wine glass by the stem, and although his eyes focused on the deep, plum-colored liquid in front of him, she got the distinct feeling that the grin on his face was solely at her expense.
No way. Nowaywas she going to let him use her hat against her.
She narrowed her eyes and scraped the toe of her shoe over the marble tile beneath it. “I wear my hat every time I write because I like it. It feels like me. Real traditions seem more…I don’t know, constricting. Like eating the same sweet potato casserole on Thanksgiving year after year. How boring is that? I just don’t want to be stuck with the same old stuff and no chance of trying something new, that’s all.”
Gavin leaned silently against the counter for a minute. “So, have you always had the same writer’s hat? Or do you swap it out whenever you feel like it?”
Her laughter popped out in a burst. “I’ve written all my books with that thing firmly on my noodle. No way am I swapping it out for a new model.”
“Same thing, time after time. Sounds like a tradition to me.” He shrugged, but his nonchalance only kicked Sloane into high gear.
“That’s different. My hat is more like a superstition. I wear it because it brings me good luck. I could still change it at any time and that would be okay.”
“And yet you don’t. Hmm.” His chuckle teased her ears, and Sloane’s skin prickled involuntarily. Damn, and she’d thought the I-told-you-sosmilewas bad! This rumbly laugh was going to send her over the edge.
“Can we drink now?” Sloane did her best not to scowl as she snatched up her glass and raised it to her lips.
“Wait!” Gavin’s hand was on hers in a flash, staying her from tipping the glass toward her mouth. “If you want to really savor it, you have to do it right.” His voice turned to gravel, but was far from harsh.
“O-okay.” Suddenly, she realized how close his effort to stop her from taking that sip had brought their bodies. Only a sliver of space separated them, but he didn’t take a step as he lifted his glass next to hers.
“If you give it a gentle swirl, you can see the depth of the color. It’s opaque, but not too thick. And see how it clings to the glass? It’s a good sign for this vintage.”
Sloane blinked, examining her glass. “Oh, yeah! That’s pretty cool. Do all wines make those streaky marks like that?” She peered at the thin layer of amethyst liquid sliding down the interior slope and back toward the center of the rounded goblet.
Gavin nodded. “Those are the legs. All wines leave them to some degree or another. But with a lot of reds, like this Bordeaux, they’re really noticeable.” He lifted his glass, but not to his lips. “Now we breathe it in, to check the aroma.”
“For…what?” She had a sneaking suspicion it was a far cry from sniffing the milk in her fridge to make sure it wasn’t spoiled, but hell if she could think of any other reason to smell something you were going to drink.
Gavin answered her patiently. “Your nose and your palate work together. Breathing in the bouquet primes your taste buds, which heightens the flavors once you start to drink. It’s why your mouth waters when you smell good food.”
