Chapter 8 Elle #3
I glance at Stan again. He’s already looking at me again. His smirk curves slowly, like he’s reading every thought I’m trying not to have. “Inescapable, even,” he says.
The venue owner chuckles. “Precisely. Couples who visit often say they feel it in the air. That something about this place makes falling in love feel effortless, natural, even destined.”
Clo gestures ahead to a terrace framed by stone arches and the crashing ocean beyond. “Come.” My feet follow her simple command.
A table waits for us there, lined with wine bottles and a carefully arranged charcuterie board, like a page torn from a high-end lifestyle magazine.
Stan whistles low under his breath. “Okay, this is definitely social media worthy.”
I laugh, the sound slipping out before I can help it. Clo chuckles, pleased. “I thought you’d appreciate it. My new line is prepared for tasting. I wanted you both to experience it with the venue’s most popular pairings.”
She gestures toward the spread. There’s an array of aged cheeses, thinly sliced cured meats, fruits glistening with freshness, and honey-drizzled nuts arranged to perfection.
Stan grins, nudging me. “What do you think, Elle? Should we take a picture first? Capture the moment?”
Clo nods approvingly. “A photo would be fitting. This is a place meant to be remembered.”
Stan pulls out his phone, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his wrist. He angles it toward us.
“Smile,” he says, tilting his head toward mine. The camera clicks.
Stan proudly shows me the picture. The image is a bit blurry, the colors muted under the blazing sun, softened at the edges like a dream already fading.
“Not bad,” he says. “We look kind of iconic, babe.”
I lean in, staring at the screen. Our faces are close together. It’s an imperfect picture, yet somehow enchanting.
“Here, I’ll send it to you,” Stan says, thumbing at his phone. “What’s your number?”
I blink. My number. My phone. A strange unease creeps in. I try to recall the last time I held it, checked a message, or felt its familiar weight in my hand. But nothing comes.
“I—” I hesitate. “I don’t know where my phone is.”
Stan raises a brow. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head. The discomfort builds inside me quietly. Before I can dwell, Clo’s voice cuts through with casual warmth. “I’m sure it’s exactly where you left it.”
Her voice is so sure and reassuring. There’s no reason to question her. “Right,” I murmur. “That makes sense.”
Stan shrugs. “Hey, no worries. I’ll help you find it when we’re back.”
His tone settles the unease for a moment. “Thanks, Stan.”
“Anytime, babe.” He winks, flipping the phone shut with a snap. “Now, let’s see if this wine tastes as fancy as this place looks.”
The venue owner lifts a bottle. “This particular wine was curated to complement the romantic ambience of this venue,” she explains, pouring a rich, ruby-red stream into our glasses.
“There are notes of dark cherry and oak, while a hint of spice lingers on the tongue, all meant to mirror a love that lasts.”
Clo nods, clearly pleased. “A perfect pairing. The flavors are meant to settle, much like how a beautiful romance should, smooth yet lingering.”
I hear her, but I’m not fully listening. Beside me, Stan’s already making himself at home with the charcuterie board. He folds a slice of prosciutto and pops it into his mouth, looking completely satisfied. Then he moves on, stacking a cracker with cheese and a fig.
I stare. There’s something disarming about how easily he enjoys things, as though the world isn’t complicated when he’s got something good in front of him.
He catches me looking. “You gonna stare all day, or are you gonna try some?”
“I was just—”
Before I can finish, he lifts a cheese perched on a cracker toward me. “C’mon, Elle. Live a little.”
I glance at Clo. She’s focused on the wine bottle.
I lean in and take the bite. Stan grins. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
The cheese melts on my tongue, tasting rich and salty, much too tasty to resist. Before I can say anything, he’s already offering another. Then the venue owner places two freshly poured glasses of wine in front of us. “Here you are,” she says with a smile, then turns to Clo. “And for you?”
Clo lifts her hand in polite refusal. “Not on an empty stomach,” she says. “But I’m eager to hear what two of my favorite people think of my newest wine.”
Stan raises his glass toward me, eyes dancing. “Well, Elle? Let’s give ‘em our expert opinion.”
The wine glows deep red under the sun. I hesitate for a heartbeat. But Stan’s looking at me with that same challenge in his eyes, daring me to keep up.
I lift my glass. “Cheers.”
The crystal clinks gently. I sip slowly, letting the flavors settle across my tongue—dark cherry, a bitter warmth, and spice that lingers long after I swallow. Stan downs his in one go.
I blink. “Did you just…?”
He sighs, content. “Smooth. Might need another.”
Clo shakes her head. “You were supposed to savor it, Stanley.”
“I did savor it,” he says with a smirk. “Just all at once.”
Clo turns her attention back to the wine. “The flavors unfold in stages. First, the fruit, a rather forbidden temptation. Then the strong oak carries throughout. And if you’re patient, the lingering spice all the way to the end.”
Stan pretends to contemplate. “Cherry, right? Can’t say I got that. But I got a nice buzz.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
I sip again, slower this time, like Clo said.
The warmth spreads through me, pleasant at first. Clo keeps speaking, explaining the aging process, the harvest season, and the barrels.
I hear her. I hear Stan too, throwing in the occasional joke. But my focus starts to blur.
I sip again. The glass is half-empty now.
The warmth deepens, threading through my limbs, winding around my thoughts, until it’s harder to focus.
I blink at my glass, watching the red swirl against the rim, glowing like a melted garnet in the light.
It’s just wine. So why does it feel like more than that?
The world around me tilts in a blink. So I blink some more. Once. Twice. Trying to right the tilt back. But the dizziness stays. It lingers at the edges of my vision like fog, curling around my mind, disorienting me entirely.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, the crystal cool beneath my touch. Did I drink too fast? No… I barely had half. So why does everything feel distant?
The conversation around me drifts, Clo’s voice smooth and elegant, Stan’s laughter low and easy.
But they sound far away. My pulse flutters wildly in my throat.
Something isn’t right. The light bends wrong.
Colors blur. Time slips. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here.
Seconds? Minutes? It’s like trying to hold on to fog while I lose myself in it.
A voice breaks through the haze. Stan’s, deep and familiar.
But wrong somehow. He sounds strange. All worried and urgent.
Stan’s not supposed to sound like that. Then there’s another voice.
Clo’s, gentle and soothing. Measured, always so measured.
I try to say something, but my lips won’t form the words.
They feel heavy, far away, and not mine.
The world spins. Then I’m weightless and warm. I realize I’m being carried by strong arms. It must be Stan. I know it’s him without needing to see. I can guess the shape of him.
Then there’s leather beneath me, cool and smooth.
The angry growl of an engine fills my ears.
Time passes, I think. Then I hear the sound of gravel.
A car door opening and slamming shut. Arms again.
Tighter now. Speedy footsteps. Then the scent changes.
No longer smoke, but tea. Floral, bittersweet, home.
Ivory walls and chandeliers dance dizzily across my vision. My body is weightless again, but I’m not floating. I’m being guided, held, then lowered into a bed. The blanket tucks around me.
Clo brushes a hand over my forehead, smoothing my hair back. Her presence is soothing. She says something I don’t understand. I try to focus on her words, but they slip between my thoughts.
Then her fingers are holding something. It’s dry and chalky on my tongue, bitter and medicinal. I want to ask what it is. But my lips part without my permission. Clo’s fingers press gently against my throat, guiding the bitterness down.
“Slow down,” she whispers. It’s her voice, but it feels far away, as if it’s coming from somewhere inside me, not around me. The words don’t land like commands. They bloom like thoughts I believe are my own.
I try to blink, to focus, but my vision is blurring more and more. The last thing I see is Clo smiling, blurry but comforting.
The world tilts in a warm, pleasant, welcome way. My limbs feel lighter. My thoughts are quiet now.
“Stay,” Clo whispers, or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a thought echoing in my mind.
Stay, her voice said. So I do. The bed is soft. My breath deepens. My eyes slip shut. And then, sleep claims me.