Page 18 of Gone With the Wine

“Maybe I am getting old.” She wrinkles her nose.

I snort.

“I don’t usually take things like that out on other people, so I’m sorry. Everything will work out.”

“I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

Her face softens. “Thank you. I miss her. Even though I lived far away, she was always here.”

Bianca has an air of reserve about her, other than when she’s interacting with her friends. You can practically see the guard she lets down with them. Not that she’s cold. Nobody with a mouth like that and eyes so sensual could be cold. Now seeing a bit of softness beneath the reserve makes me even more curious about her.

As we slow to a stop at the bottom to get off the ride, she says quietly, “Thanks for coming on here with me.”

Chapter4

Bianca

The others are waiting for us but instead of more rides, Ana and Millie decide they’re hungry, so we head to some of the food booths. I’m starving, too. There’s a lot to choose from—corn dogs, barbecue, funnel cakes. We study options, standing beneath white lights strung among the tall cypress trees around us. We all make our selections and then take them to the wine garden, where one of the local wineries is selling their products.

“I’m super curious about their wine,” I say quietly as we approach the bar.

“Why?” Millie asks.

“All they make is blends.”

“Ah.”

Although not part of the wine business, she’s lived in the valley her whole life, so she understands.

“What does that mean?” Jansen asks.

“Hang on, I’ll tell you more.” I smile at the girl behind the bar. “I’ll try the Blackbird, please.”

“Of course.” She pours me a glass.

“What is the blend?” I ask.

“It’s sixty-seven percent zinfandel, thirty-three percent cabernet sauvignon. Blackbird combines the robust flavors of zinfandel and the grandeur of cabernet sauvignon, resulting in a rich wine with full fruit flavors and soft, elegant tannins.”

“Do you know how it’s aged?”

She smiles. “Eighteen months in one hundred percent French oak, sixty percent new, forty percent neutral.”

“Thank you.”

We find a table and sit. I hold up my glass, swirl it, sniff it, then sip.

Jansen’s watching me. I try not to be distracted from the wine. His brown hair is brushed back off his face, neat sideburns meeting dark jaw stubble, his mouth seductive, his eyes attentive.

Ahem.

I let the flavors of the wine play over my tongue. I nod.

“How is it?” Jansen asks. “Good?’

I smile. I don’t describe wines as “good.” “Luxurious,” I say. “Flowing red and blue fruit flavors—blackberry, blueberry, cranberry. The zinfandel gives a layer of cracked black pepper and red licorice. Then there are hints of caramelized brown sugar and vanilla from aging in the French oak.”

He nods slowly.

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