Page 52 of Bottle Shock
Her eyes flick to it, and she smiles faintly. “Sure. Let me check something first.”
She digs into her purse, pulling out her phone and an insulin pen. “Just checking my number—need to see how much to bolus.”
“I have other options—water, tea, something with less sugar?”
She gives me a grateful smile. “Wine is perfect. I’ll adjust if I need to.”
Trusting her word, I move to pour her a glass, glancing over as she dials in her dose.
As I hand it over, our fingers brush, and for a second the kitchen feels smaller than it is. “I’m supposed to wait fifteen minutes for the insulin to kick in,” she says, releasing a sigh. “But honestly? My patience is nonexistent tonight.” She takes a sip, eyes closing briefly. “This is really good. What is it?”
“A little something I’ve been working on. It’s a test blend from last year’s cab and merlot lots. I’ve been adjusting the acid levels and seeing how it opens up.”
She takes another long sip, and I can’t help but watch as her throat works down the swallow. Her low hum of appreciation settles in my chest.
A small droplet of red lingers on the corner of her lips. There’s a strong urge to lick it, to claim her mouth, to kiss her for no other reason than because I want to. Not for an audience, not for the stupid charade I put us in, but because I’ve been wanting to kiss her for years—and I’m mad at myself that the first time we actually did, it wasn’t real.
She wipes it away with the pad of her thumb, unaware of the effect it has on me. “Well, not that I’m an expert or anything, but I think it’ll be a huge hit.”
I take a slow breath and look away, pretending to check the bottle. “Glad you like it,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She tilts her head, studying me for a second. “You don’t take compliments well, do you?”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat, trying to mask the real reason I’m barely holding it together. “I’m very critical of my own work.”
She nods slowly, turning the glass between her palms. “Now that, I can understand. I’m by far my own harshest critic. No one can hurt your feelings if you hurt them first.”
“Something like that.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your night,” she says after a moment. “I know you’ve got Lily and everything.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “We just finished bedtime. It’s the quiet part of the evening—unless someone shows up on my porch.”
“Guess I ruined that.”
“Not really.” I take another sip of wine. “It’s nice to have company.”
She looks down at her glass, the corner of her mouth curving. “That’s good, but I don’t think I’m very good company tonight.”
“You will be after half that glass.”
She laughs, the sound soft and tired.
We stand there for a beat—the low light, the faint buzz of the kitchen, the silence stretching between us but not in a bad way. Then she breathes out. “Thank you, Gavin. For letting me stay.”
“Anytime,” I tell her. “Let me unlock it for you so you can get settled in for the night.”
I set my glass down, but she doesn’t move right away. Her eyes drift toward the corner of the counter. “Uh, what’s that?”
I follow her gaze to the jar sitting near the stove—a bubbly, beige mass capped with cheesecloth.
“It’s a sourdough starter.”
She squints. “I think there’s something in there. It just moved.”
“She does that sometimes. The wild yeast feeds on the carbohydrates in the flour and releases carbon dioxide, which creates gas pockets—sort of like how—” I stop when I catch the look on her face, halfway between amusement and disbelief. “Sorry. I went full nerd, didn’t I?”
Her lips twitch. “She? It’s a girl?”
