Page 39 of Merlot Marriage

A soft smile I’ve never seen before graces his face. “It was Kel and Sydney’s cat. Sydney’s, really, but since her mom is allergic, it lived here.” His smile drops as soon as he notices me watching. “It would cuddle with just about anyone. And it was good at killing snakes.”

From the way he doesn’t make any more conversation or eye contact, I get the feeling there’s more to this story than he’s letting on. But anytime I even open my mouth about anything other than the fucking POS system, he clams up.

“If it doesn’t bother you, I think I’ll stick to my story about your grandmother. It’s a little more poetic than a snake-killing cat.” I pause, then give Nate a grin. “Okay, well, I’ll save the killer-cat stories for the people who look like they might enjoy it.”

Shaking his head, he stacks the empty box with the rest of the ones we keep on hand for customers. “You do you. Just sell the wine.”

He turns to leave but stops in the empty doorway. “Hey, you’re going to help us with the winery tour event next week, right?”

I lean back against the bar, arms crossed, and one foot kicked over the other. “Yup.”

“I’ll give you a tour tomorrow morning so you only have to bullshit your way through half of it. Meet me outside at seven.”

He’s gone before I have a chance to negotiate for a later start time, disappearing out the door with a wave of heat. A second wave drifts in from the opposite side as a group of women and a pair of dogs enter the tasting room.

They span a motley of ages, the youngest looking about twenty and the oldest in the “I don’t dare ask, but I’ll card her to make her smile” range. The pair of corgis with them have their noses stuck in the air to sniff. I swear one of them is already eyeing the salami hidden in the fridge.

“Ladies, welcome. And who are these adorable pups with you?”

I’m busy with customers until well after we’re supposed to close—the group of women lingering by the bar as I close out. There’s a scuffle between two of the ones who have been fairly quiet—a curvier woman with long brown hair and a shorter, slender woman with red hair who pushes her toward the bar.

When she doesn’t do anything except smile at me, the slender one makes an exasperated noise and joins her. “We’ve been debating where your accent is from all afternoon. My friend thinks it’s Cape Town, but I think it’s Durban. Care to help us settle a bet?”

I grin, setting down the glass in my hand. “It’s not often people even get the country right without asking me. How come you’re both so well-versed in the colonial English accent? And what’s the prize for the winner?”

The women look at each other, the shorter one grinning when the other one’s eyes go wide and panicked. Then, her grin turning flirtatious, she turns to me, setting her elbows on the counter and pressing her boobs together.

Now I understand the game they’re playing.

“Winner gets to give you her number.” She winks, keeping that smile aimed at me.

A vision of Ophie flirting with me like that flashes across my mind, sending a wave of warmth through my belly and softening my shoulders. The short one mistakes the change in my posture for reciprocal flirting and starts to twirl a piece of hair around her finger.

“So? Is either of us right?” Again, she shifts her shoulders, but I keep my eyes away from her cleavage.

I lean forward, then shift to my left so I’m facing her friend. “Cape Town, born and raised.” Her bright blue eyes flare impossibly wider, but before she can say anything, I keep talking. “And while I appreciate your appreciation, I’m a married man and thus, must politely decline your kind offer.”

I finish with a little flourish and a bow, sliding their empty glasses off the counter as I straighten, then turning to put them in the collection bin. When I turn back, the shy friend is smiling and looking relieved, while the spicy one has her hands on her hips, glaring at me.

“You don’t have a wedding ring on,” Spicy Spice points out, lips pursed.

I hold up my left hand. “Doesn’t make me any less married.”

She humphs and flounces away to the other women, throwing me one last annoyed look over her shoulder as she goes. I chuckle to myself as she walks away, dimly aware of the click of the back door closing.

“Your wife’s a lucky girl.” The shy one finally speaks. “And don’t mind my friend, she flirts for sport.”

I pause in my tidying to chat. “I would say that I’m the lucky one. She deserves the world and somehow ended up with me.”

“How did you guys meet?” She taps her fingers on the bar as she speaks—maybe it’s a nervous tic, maybe just a habit.Either way, it reminds me of Ophie and her pens. “Seriously, because you seem like a genuinely good guy, and they seem to be impossible to find these days. I’m pretty sure between us”—she points at Spicy—“we’ve swiped through every available man in a fifty-mile radius on every dating app.”

“We met on the first day of grad school, and she’s been my best friend ever since. We only got married a couple months ago, right before graduation.”

I’m startled by the tinkling of glasses toppling. With a jerk, I turn around, expecting to find a disaster, maybe a wild corgi behind the bar, but it’s just Nate. He hoists the bin of dirty glasses to his shoulder and walks away without a word.

I turn back to my conversation companion, who’s watching Nate leave, her eyes glued to his ass, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

I chuckle. “Don’t even think about it. He makes a piranha look friendly.”

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