Page 83 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Bristol chuckles, lightly nudging my ankle with his foot underneath the table. “Depends on the context.”
I clutch my imaginary pearls, glancing around to make sure our server is still out of earshot. “Bristol!”
He raises his hands in surrender, though he doesn’t look the least bit sorry about it. “Okay, okay. If you don’t like it, then we just move onto the next one until wefindone that you like.”
“That could take a long time,” I warn, swishing my Riesling around and watching miniature whirlpools form.
Bristol raises his glass to clink with mine, and his russet eyes—entrenched with awestruck emotion—never leave my face, not for a second. “For you? I’ve got all the time in the world.”
If I don’t get to drinking fast, this cellar’s gonna be used for a lot more than just a wine tasting, and that’s, well,illegal.
With blood swirling beneath my cheeks, I take a measured sip of the Riesling, getting a cloyingly sweet aroma of pear that lingers on the bed of my tongue. I pucker my mouth and shake my head. “That’s…sweet.”
“Not a fan of white wine?”
“I guess just Riesling, in particular.”
Bristol’s downed the thing like a pro, and I try not to make it obvious as I watch his tongue flick out to catch remnants of wine on his lips. I still can’t believe this is real. The more time we spend together, the more I can feel our hearts melding like nomadic raindrops splicing on a rainy windowpane, forming one long stream that travels forever downwards.
When I set my glass down, he walks his hand over to mine to tangle our fingers. “Maybe try the rosé. It’s less sweet, crisper, refreshing.”
We mirror each other and both take a pull from our glasses, the rush of light pink liquid sloshing down the channel of my throat and leaving a drier, more citrusy taste in its wake. Itdefinitely tastes better than the Riesling, but I don’t think I’d open a bottle any time soon.
“It’s…not terrible? A lot more refreshing,” I say, rallying a small smile. “I mean, these are all wonderful! I don’t want you to think that I’m not grateful. I’m sure this is boring for you?—”
“Hey.” Bristol’s hand squeezes my clammy one, mellowing me with a single touch, and my surefootedness boomerangs right back around upon his command. “I don’t think that. If you don’t like something, you don’t like it. No harm, no foul. I’m enjoying my time with you. Hell, I’d be enjoying my time with you even if we were just sitting around and watching paint dry. You could never be boring, Lila. It’s not in your blood.”
“I’m enjoying my time with you too.”
Even though we didn’t necessarily go in order like we were supposed to, we end the tasting with the darkest red—a cabernet that sounds as daunting as it looks. Wings of apprehension fold around my heart as I bring the lip of the glass to my mouth, and I narrow my eyes over the rim to watch Bristol drain his own drink. I don’t have much hope for this last one—prematurely deciding to proclaim myself as a hard liquor girl from here on out—but the cabernet takes me by surprise. It’s rich, heady, spicy, bold. There’s no lightness or sweetness. It’s heavy. It’s dominating. It’s…fucking amazing.
I don’t want the drink to run out, but it eventually does, and an unbidden moan pours from my mouth. My wedges do a little happy dance against the stone floor. “God, this one is incredible.”
Bristol’s as elated as I am, but for an entirely different reason. “I knew you’d like it.”
My brows cant upwards. “How could you have possibly known?”
“Cabernets have a distinctively spicy taste. You weren’t a fanof any of the sweet wines, which kind of makes sense because you’re more…”
“Spicy than sweet?”
He taps his finger against his nose, his million-dollar grin freezing my feet to the ground. There’s pride in the way that he looks at me—pride so invincible that it could be ripped asunder by any measure of doubt and still rise from the ashes unscathed. “Bingo.”
I’m gonna kiss this man right now, and I don’t care what security cameras are watching! I’m the one that makes the first move this time, leaning over the table to wrap him up in a kiss, and he meets me halfway, settling his palm over the curve of my cheek. I keep it chaste—for obvious reasons—pocketing every drop of love that falls from his sweet-tasting tongue.
“You’re a big wine nerd, you know that?” I joke.
He nods against my forehead. “Don’t bully me. It turns me on.”
I lose a bit of my ladylike manners when my teeth make a pass at his bottom lip. “And that would be a problem because…?”
He breaks away abruptly—enough to make me snort like a pig—and he calls the server over, fishing his black card out of his pocket with so much urgency that the movement shakes the whole table.
“I’d like to buy every bottle of cabernet you have for sale.”
27
A CHRISTMAS CALAMITY
