Page 40 of Gone With the Wine

Oh, sweet salty Jesus. I am in so much trouble.

“I know!” I bounce with excitement. “Bottle Jock!”

He stares at me blankly. “Huh?”

“Bottle Jock! Like the movie…”

More blankness.

“Bottle Shock,” I say. “It’s a true story about a California winery that thought their Chardonnay was ruined—bottle shock.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s when wine has a temporary loss of flavor from absorbing too much oxygen from excessive movement during transit. They thought their wine was ruined, but discovered it was just temporary and they went on to win a big award in France, beating out French wines.”

“Uh huh.”

“But Bottle Jock instead of Shock because…you’re a jock.” I gesture at him.

His expression is so vacant I start laughing. “Okay, I guess that’s not going to work.”

He shakes his head. “I mean…it’s funny…if you know what it’s about…”

“Never mind.” I make a face. “It was really just a joke.”

After a moment of silence, he says, “What about Bar Down?”

I cock my head. “Okay, now it’s my turn to be lost. What does it mean?”

“It’s a goal that hits the crossbar and goes down into the net.”

“Hmmm. I like it!”

“Really?”

“Yes!” I lean forward. “You should totally make your brand about your hockey background.”

“That’s what the marketing woman I hired said. But hockey has nothing to do with wine. Although Wayne Gretzky’s done it.”

“There you go. Even I know who Wayne Gretzky is.”

“There’s hope for you.”

“Wait.” I eye him suspiciously. “Did you just make a joke?”

“Well, you’re not laughing.”

“Okay, it wasn’t a laugh out loud joke. It was more like…teasing.”

Our gazes lock. And hold.

“I may have been teasing you,” he says, his voice low and sandpapery.

I swallow. “I may have liked it.”

The air heats and swells around us, pressing on my skin.

His eyelids grow heavy, his focus drifting to my mouth, the pulse fluttering at my throat, my breasts. He wets his lips.

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