Chapter 11
The wine tasting is in full swing when we arrive, the air filled with the rich scent of various vintages and the sound of light-hearted chatter. Connor and I weave through the crowd, our laughter mingling with the ambient noise as we sample different wines. It’s easy, comfortable – just like old times.
“Try this one,” I say, handing him a glass of what the sommelier assures us is the vineyard’s finest red. “Supposed to have hints of cherry and oak.”
Connor takes a sip, his eyebrows raising in approval. “Not bad. But can you really taste the cherry, or is that just the power of suggestion?”
“Skeptic. Just enjoy it,” I give him a playful shove, then I take a sip and frown.
“Okay, admit it, this one tastes like the fancy grape juice we used to pretend was wine when we were kids,” I say with a shrug before downing the sweet mixture.
Connor laughs, nodding in agreement. “Absolutely, but I think our sophisticated palates were onto something back then.”
As we’re laughing, someone else joins our conversation. A guy with a too-smooth smile and a glass of white wine in hand.
“So, what brings you to a wine tasting on a gorgeous night like this?” he asks, his gaze fixed on me. He’s clearly interested and not from around here if he’s ignoring Connor.
“Just here enjoying some good wine and better company,” I reply, trying to keep the tone friendly but non-committal.
The guy leans in, a bit too close for comfort. “Well, I hope I can add to the ‘better company’ part.”
Before I can respond, Connor steps in, his voice carrying a sharp edge I’ve rarely heard from him. “Can’t you see she’s already here with someone? Or are you that dense?”
The man blinks, taken aback. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think—“
“Clearly you didn’t, or you would tell how uncomfortable she is. Now move, before I make you,” he says, and the man turns pale before scurrying off. It looks almost comical; a tall man with long blonde hair and tattoos staring down a man in a suit.
I turn to Connor, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What was that about?”
Connor just shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “What? Can’t let a guy monopolize my wine tasting partner’s attention.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Since when did you become my fierce protector at wine tastings?”
“Since always,” he says in a mock-serious tone. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”
We continue our tour, but I can’t shake off the feeling that Connor’s act of ‘protection’ meant something more. Still, the playful banter and the warmth of the wine make it easy to slide back into our comfortable dynamic.
As we try a particularly bold Cabernet, I can’t help but tease him further. “So, Mr. Protector, does this mean you’re going to shield me from the dangers of overly tannic wines, too?”
“Absolutely,” Connor replies, playing along. “I vow to throw myself in front of any poorly aged wine that dares to cross your path.”
Our laughter blends with the sounds of the evening, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Yet, Connor’s earlier display of protectiveness lingers in the back of my mind, a reminder that our friendship might be edging into new territory.
“Okay, I think I am more than buzzed right now,” I say as I fan myself. “And I’m proving Soph right, but can we please go?”
Connor looks relieved when I say this, and he puts his wineglass down. “I thought you’d never ask. But I have a better idea,” he says, then he grabs my hand and walks us out before I could ask what he means.