Page 40 of Merlot Marriage

She doesn’t take her eyes off him until he disappears into the tiny kitchen area. “But I like them tall, dark, and broody. Unfortunately,” she adds with a shake of her head.

“He’s not broody, he’s just mean,” I counter. “But I shouldn’t say that since, technically, he’s my boss.”

“Your wife is a lucky woman.” Her friends call from the doorway, and she steps away from the bar to join them, waving goodbye as she leaves.

I follow behind to lock the door and finish cleaning up. As nice as they were, talking about Ophie with those women made the niggle in my chest that misses her worse.

I’m still thinking about her when I finish up and walk down to the cabin I’m staying in. Greg and Jackie’s little one-bedroom place is cozy and overrun with chickens. Not real chickens, but rooster statues. There’s rooster dinner wear, roosters on the throw pillows, and even roosters on the very nineties-lookingborder wallpaper. I was stunned when Nate said the three cabins down here had only been built six years ago. I thought they had just renovated a much older place.

When I step inside, I know I must really be losing it because I swear I can smell my wife’s shampoo.

“Kel came home with a giant tub of whipped cream and a look in his eye that said I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, so I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” the source of the scent calls from the rooster-covered kitchen. “And just in case you are annoyed about it…I already started cooking dinner, so you can’t kick me out.”

I clear the entryway and spy Ophie in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. “If that’s tomato soup I smell, then you can stay as long as there are grilled cheese sandwiches to go with it. And please don’t put Kel and whipped cream together in a sentence ever again.”

“Trust me,” Ophie says, looking back over her shoulder, “they are not words I wanted to put together in my mind either.”

Her tone is teasing, but her shoulders are stiff, and she keeps dropping her eyes to the floor. A strange tension hangs in the air between us, the echo of a conversation we never had after the other night.

I wrap one hand around her waist to hug her from the side. She keeps stirring, attention glued to the soup. “I didn’t think you liked grilled cheese and tomato soup, but either way, I can’t make it with you holding me.” She drawls out “to-mah-to” with a terrible impression of my accent, making me grin despite the awkwardness.

“Hi to you too. It’s one of the weird American combinations that you’ve tricked me into appreciating. I still stand firm that peanut butter and chocolate is an atrocity against food.” I dodge the elbow she jabs at me, still holding on. “My day was fine, bythe way. Flirted with a few women, met a couple of corgis. Got some juicy gossip on Nate and Sydney. How was yours?”

Ophie twists until she’s facing me, the tomato soup-covered wooden spoon in her hand dangerously close to smacking me in the face. “Carb, tomato, and cheese. It’s a classic combination that isalwaysgood, so don’t make it into some weird American thing.” She starts counting off on her fingers. “Pizza, lasagna, enchiladas—should I go on?”

I laugh and let go so I can take the spoon from her. “Okay, okay. I concede the point. Go make me a sammich, Mrs. van der Merwe.”

“Ahem.”

My heart picks up speed when Ophie doesn’t react to the name like she usually does.

“Please?” I add when she doesn’t move.

She waves her hand away. “You said you had gossip. I want to know.”

She’s not even going to acknowledge that I called her Mrs.? Have I entered the Twilight Zone? My heart and stomach are flipping between racing and dropping at her non-reaction.

I grab the wooden spoon and stir the soup, needing something to do with my hands while she pulls cheese out of the fridge and starts assembling sandwiches.

“Um, yeah.” I have to tear my eyes away from the long line of her neck as she bends over her task. She’s wearing a yellow sundress that hits her mid-thighs, with short sleeves that flutter around her arms as she spreads butter on the bread.

She bought it last summer for Cassie’s birthday party. I remember because I went shopping with her to pick it out. At the time, I’d thought it looked amazing on her but hadn’t really noticed just how low the front dipped between her breasts because I’d been too busy lusting over a leather jacket for myself that I could never afford.

Now, the dress is screaming at me to see how easily I can get my hands beneath it.

Clearing my throat, I refocus on stirring the bubbling red liquid in the pot. “So, you know the Amelia? The riesling?”

“Oh, I like that one. What does that have to do with Nate and Sydney and their weird tension?”

I reach into the cupboard beside me and set a pan on the burner next to mine, turning it on to heat for the sandwiches. “He overheard me telling some guests that it was named after his grandmother and corrected me that it was actually named after Sydney’s cat.”

“He named a wine after her cat?”

“That’s what he said. And he almost smiled.”

Ophie turns to face me, the assembled sandwiches forgotten on the counter behind her. “Hesmiled?”

“Well, it was more like he ceased scowling for a moment. Which, for Nate, is a downright cheerful expression.”

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