Page 5 of Pour Decisions
Except for last night when I talked to and flirted with Riggs. The funny part about that being, that girl on the dance floor wasn’t really me either. At least it never has been before. Tess, Megan, and I did a video call debrief after I showered this morning and I filled them in on everything that happened after I went up to his hotel room last night. Well, mostly everything. Some of it I’m keeping to myself. Like how he told me I was sexy and beautiful. And how I drove him wild.
Compliments I never would have believed had it not been for his hard dick between us. Which I’m taking as proof positive that he was attracted to me. Which is why, as much as I tried not to, I spent most of the day looking at the pictures the girls took of Riggs and me. I’m happy they did, or I might never have believed it happened.
I try to use the memory to bolster my confidence now. This large ballroom filled with people from all facets of the wine industry. Winemakers, wine critics, grape growers, tasting room managers, cellar masters; and that doesn’t include the wine store owners, distributors, PR people, marketing reps, wine journalists, and probably a dozen other occupations I’m not remembering to list.
They have the room decorated like a large barrel room. Two of the walls are covered with life-size photographs of racked barrels, and they scattered actual barrels about the room to use as tables to set your glass on or lean against. Plastic grape vines decorate each of the two walk-up bars in front of the glass doors leading to the patio. And the third wall is blanketed with the WCWA banner, underneath which are tables with assorted swag and marketing materials for the sponsors of tonight's cocktail party.
The event is meant to act as an icebreaker—bring us all together and ply us with wine before pitting us against one another tomorrow during the competition. At least pitting the five finalists against one another, I can’t speak for how the rest of the entrants see it or feel.
Regardless, I need to be networking with some of the other competitors and introducing myself to all the judges. Not standing against the faux barrel wall polishing off my second glass of Sauvignon Blanc. The WCWAIC is a big event as far as someone like me is concerned. I own a boutique establishment focusing on hand-crafted botanically infused wines. Problem is, people often confuse the word infused with fortified and think I’m spiking the wine, like in making sherry or port.
I’m not.
I’m infusing the juice with fruits and herbs to alter the flavor profile during the aging process. It’s more like what’s done with an aromatized wine, like Vermouth. Though Vermouth is aromatized and fortified, so don’t let that confuse you. My end goal is to make something fermented taste like something distilled—like a white wine with a similar flavor profile to vodka. It’s an idea my dad had, and he passed away before he had the chance to do something about it. And so it’s in his honor I try to see it through.
In my spare time, I like to see if I can recreate classic cocktails. At some point I hope to bottle and sell the “cocktails,” but for now I make a little of money bottling my other wines and peddling them to local wine markets. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to put food on the table. Between that and the juice I sell to the big wine maker who owns our property. But that’s a story for another time.
I head over to the bar and get a refill on my wine, then make a concerted effort to congratulate each of my fellow competitors. There are five of us total, all small establishments with an annual production of five hundred cases or fewer. I see the wine maker from Bryn Hill and head over to congratulate him. Might as well get the worst over with first. Eat the big frog first, as the saying goes.
I tap him on the shoulder just as he’s finishing a conversation with someone else. “Michael?” I ask.
He turns. “Morgan Anderson, how are you?” He looks me down and then up again, pausing at my chest and staying there. It’s all I can do not to grab his chin and force his head upward until our eyes meet. I don’t have large breasts. I don’t even think they are that spectacular.
Though, Riggs thought they were perfect. One in each hand, his tongue flicking—
I shake my head to clear it as I feel my chest flush. The last thing I need is to be thinking about my one-night stand when I have to be focused on this event.
“You are looking lovely as always,” Michael says to the “V” in the neckline of my dress.
What is it with men and their fascination with breasts?
Another thing I definitely do not understand. I mean, my dress isn’t even too low cut, or particularly revealing. But he’ll have his eyes focused on my chest for the bulk of our conversation. Michael and I have conversed before at the local WCWA chapter events, but apparently I’d forgotten how creepy he can be.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on your nomination,” I tell him, holding out my hand to shake his.
He holds my hand too long for comfort, then drags his finger along my palm and up my wrist when I try to pull mine away. I barely repress the resulting shudder.
“May the best man win,” he says, leaning toward me like he’s going to—
Oh god, is he going to try to what? Hug me? Kiss me?
“I seemmrhsmrh, gotta go!” I mumble the words, since I haven’t seen anyone I need to talk to and take off across the room to hide in the corner behind a large, fake ficus tree. Which I feel justified in doing and like a wuss at the same time.
First, Michael gives me the creeps. Second, I can’t stand networking. Why do I have to talk to all these people? Or get to know them? I try to look at it like they are all potential customers, but let’s face it, they aren’t. My competitors aren’t going to buy my product. Why would they? And most of the rest of the people here are looking for handouts. They just see the hundreds, if not thousands of bottles you produce and figure, what’s one little freebie? But they don’t take into account everything it took me to make that one bottle.
Time, effort, money, talent, discipline, sweat, tears, and luck.
Not to mention the things I have to pay out of pocket for: everything from labels, corks, caps, bottles, and barrels to vineyard workers, field equipment, lab tests, alcohol taxes, wine making equipment, climate controlled barrel storage, and more. And, while I’m on a rant, I really dislike having to be polite to people I don’t like. (Read: Michael) How is it that of all these people here, he is the only one I know?
I’ve been in this industry for almost eight years, and he’s the only person in the room that I’ve met before. It’s my fault, I hardly ever go to the WCWA chapter meetings. And when I do, I sit in the back and leave right after. I pay dues for North American Wine Makers’ Association, but I rarely attend their events or meetings either. This is one of the first wine related events I’ve been to in years. Proof positive you can’t be successful in a customer facing business without facing people or customers.
I work myself into a state of agitation, annoyed when my hands start to shake. The iron hold of self-doubt and insecurity wrapping its way around my confidence and motivation like a vise. Get a grip, Morgan. These are people just like you. There is nothing special or different about them. They hold no power over you. But believing that and living it are two different things. It’s why last night is such an anomaly, and one that I’m grateful to have photographic proof of, since it’s never happening again.
I see a woman wearing a judge lanyard near me, and she’s alone. I square my shoulders and head out from behind the plant to catch her before she talks to someone else.
“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Morgan Anderson, I’m with Morgan’s Run. Obviously, hence the name. I mean, I didn’t name it, my father did. I’m not the type to name my winery after myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Anyway, I just wanted to introduce myself and thank you for the opportunity.” My words come out a little too fast and I don’t stop to take a breath between words or sentences, so my chest is heaving slightly by the time I’m through.
“Nancy Challis, nice to meet you.” She shakes my hand limply before dropping it.
