Page 7 of Shit Happens in Ivydell

“No pressure. Thanks.” Josephine releases a resigned, heavy breath. “I was going to do this freehand, but not now.”

She pulls her gloves off and throws them away. Then she takes a piece of paper and pencil from her bag and sits in the other chair at my table.

“Want a glass of wine while she sketches?”

“What are you drinking?”

I hesitantly turn the label toward him. It’s not from Hilltop, the fancy little market with the great wine selection where he buys his. I’d feel weird going there without him. If the owner, Shane, recognized me, I’m afraid he’d assume I know about wine like Jensen does, and he’d start speaking in that foreign wine-guy talk to me.

Sometimes, I read the little tag on the shelf beneath a bottle with ratings or notes, but not all bottles have that. Mostly, my buying choices are driven by the label and the price tag.

Tonight’s selection is called Savage Daughter, and it has a witchy looking woman with flowers in her hair, rising from a swamp on the label. It’s a cabernet sauvignon. Pretty bottle, and the price was closer to fifteen than twenty. Instabuy.

“Is it any good?” he asks.

“I like it.”

“Then it’s good, Ivy. If you like it, it’s good.”

“Yeah, but you’re probably going to tell me what’s bad about it as soon as you taste it.”

He looks at his empty hand, curved as if it’s holding an invisible wine glass. “So far, it doesn’t seem like I’m going to get the opportunity.”

“Fine.” I pour him a glass and take it to the table.

Of course, he swirls it a few times and watches the crimson liquid rise and fall, and then he brings the glass to his nose and inhales. He’s a wine guy, but I think there’s a fair chance he’s doing this to fuck with me.

Finally, he takes a sip, lets it linger on his tongue before he swallows. “Not bad for a wine you bought just because you liked the label.”

“That’s not true. I also considered the price.”

His smile widens. “You did all right.”

“But you’d have done better.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Trying a new wine with no recommendation is a gamble.”

“How do you choose in that situation? When there’s no little notecard on the shelf and you’ve never heard of it, how do you decide?”

“Sometimes I’m forced to judge a bottle by its label.”

“Liar.”

“Not entirely. But I meant Ireadthe label, not buy it based on the artwork.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I got lucky.”

“Guess that makes me lucky by association.”

“Can I claim to be a sommelier by association?”

His smile fades a little. “I’m not a sommelier.”

Whatever I just triggered, I wish I could undo it. His deep, flirty voice rarely goes flat like that. Toneless. Emotionless. I like it better when he’s agitated. At least there’s some passion in that. Right now, he sounds . . . lifeless.

“You could be one, though.”

“Yeah. If I wanted to pursue that, I could.” His smile brightens, but there’s a veil of sadness in his eyes. He’ll blink it away soon. He always does. But I see it there. And I wish I could ask about it without feeling like I’m intruding where I don’t belong.

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