Page 6 of Pour Decisions
“That’s funny,” I say before I can stop myself. “Your last name is one letter off from being Chablis. And you’re in the wine industry.”
She blinks.
A few times.
I want to cringe. Dig a hole and jump inside it. Run back to the corner and hide behind the fake ficus. I hate my inability to refrain from making stupid comments, which I start out by saying they are funny, when they really aren’t. Especially when I first meet someone. Tess says it’s cute and quirky. That it’s my way of breaking the ice when meeting someone.
I disagree.
It appears Nancy Challis disagrees as well.
“Good luck with the competition,” she says before turning to walk away.
Good luck?
Like, as in you’re going to need it? Or is she just being polite? The funny thing is, for as shy and awkward as I am in a group, I’d probably ask her if I could figure out a way to do so without making myself look even worse.
Because for as shy and reserved and socially awkward as I am, I’m also persistent and stubborn with a tendency to over share. I know, try being in my head sometimes. It’s confusing as hell. I can go from wallflower to in-your-face at the blink of an eye. But right now all I really want to do is go home, slip into my pj’s and watch reruns of Project Runway.
I find the second judge in the crowd and make my way through the introductions, smiling like a fool and trying not to sound like a suck up. Fighting with myself every step of the way.
It’s just a necessary evil, Morgan.
Find the other contestants and the one last judge and you can go home.
I follow my own advice and make it through meeting the rest of my competition without issue. Or at least without feeling like a total idiot. And the last person I spoke to even pointed me toward the remaining judge. I can either wait for him to finish talking to—ew—Michael; or I can interrupt their conversation and get it over with. Before I can decide, a tall blonde woman joins them and receives a pat on the ass from Michael. She preens at the judge, playfully slapping him on the arm as though she’s flirting.
Well, good for her. And good for Michael, that may be the only way that he can win is if his date flirts with the judge. At least I hope that’s his date whose ass he still has his hand on. I mentally pat myself on the back for the mental snub. Wishing I could say it to him aloud and in person.
Michael takes that moment to gesture toward me. I think. I turn around to see if anyone is behind me.
Nope.
It’s me.
And oh shit.
I’m pretty sure the woman with him is the same one from this morning, who zipped my dress. What if she says something to the judge? Or to Michael? I mean, having a one-night stand isn’t against the law, obviously. My personal life is my own. And it doesn’t matter to the competition who I have sex with. I mean, unless it was a judge or another entrant.
I chuckle to myself, as I recall the two judges I’ve met and how preposterous it would be to sleep with either of them. Especially to win a competition.
Michael waves me over.
I meet the blonde woman’s gaze. Yep, it’s definitely the one from this morning. And there it is, that flash of recognition that crossed her face. She remembers me too.
Lovely.
Okay, no matter. I did nothing wrong. If anything, it’s a tad embarrassing to be caught leaving a man’s hotel room at the crack of dawn with your dress still unzipped. But it’s not the end of the world, right? Plus, I’m living proof that a little embarrassment never killed anyone.
I heard toward the trio as Michael says something else to the judge; who takes a drink of his wine, turning toward me just as I approach. And promptly spits a fine mist of red wine across the bodice of my dress.
It’s Riggs.
4
“Maggie?” he gasps.
“Riggs?”
