Chapter 6 #2
“Wow,” Olivia breathed behind me as the dim golden light glinted off the bottles lining the walls.
There were hundreds of them—the fruit of years of investment, of traveling to vineyards, and tasting countless vintages.
“When you said wine cellar, I was imagining a couple of those fancy refrigerators people keep in their garage.”
She was so busy staring at the rows of bottles that she tripped on the last step.
I caught her before she fell and held her slim body against mine, her breasts pressed to my ribs, my leg between hers.
Her tiny gasp of surprise made my entire body stiffen.
As if in slow motion, she looked up at me through the dark tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face.
Her eyes were the same intense blue as the cluster of forget-me-nots that grew outside the house.
I gently pushed her aside. “You okay?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears.
“Sorry, I’m so clumsy.” Almost reluctantly, she stepped away into the middle of the room. “How many bottles are down here?”
“I don’t know. That’s what you’ll be helping Jin with—updating our inventory database.”
I expected her to balk at the idea. I mean, who wanted to spend their summer in a dusty cellar? Instead, she grinned as if I’d handed her a present. “I can do that! I spent most of last year archiving legal studies. This will be much more interesting.”
She wandered over to the glass case that protected the most expensive bottles. “What’s in here?”
“That’s where we keep the most valuable stock. The oldest bottle is from 1945.” I reached past her and pulled out a bottle of Romanée-Conti from 2013. “And this is the most expensive—25,000.”
“Euros?” Her mouth dropped open. “Do people drink this wine or is just meant to be displayed like fine art?”
I smiled. Even though I was in the industry, I was still dumbfounded at times by how inflated the market had become. “It depends. Some people invest in wines—you’d be surprised at the number of hedge funds with whole cellars full of wines like these. And then some people are just plain obsessed.”
“Are you?” She trailed her fingers over the tops of the bottles, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Obsessed?”
“Nah. That’s not my style,” I said even as my gaze moved down her body, hidden behind the loose cotton dress she wore, to her long, shapely legs.
“I do occasionally open some of these wines. When the time is right.” I nodded at the bottle in front of her, a 2001 Chateau d’Yquem that I’d bought last year.
“That one, for example. It’s a sweet wine, not usually what I prefer.
But for the right occasion, I know it’ll be magical.
And, as they say, the anticipation only heightens the pleasure. ”
“Oh.” The air suddenly felt charged, and I struggled to redirect my straying thoughts to the task at hand. Clearing my throat, I strode over to the crates we’d received the other day and chose two bottles for this evening’s lesson. “These should do for our purposes.”
Back upstairs, I set out four wineglasses on the kitchen table and, using the small blade of the wine opener, peeled back the foil covering the cork of the first bottle. Olivia’s eyes were laser focused on my hands, her full lips parted as she watched me.
“Do you know how to open a bottle?” I asked.
“Not with one of those. I’ve seen waiters in fancy restaurants do it with one hand and I’ve always been impressed. The few times I’ve tried, I managed to break the cork.”
“Come here. I’ll show you how it’s done.” She slid next to me, and I showed her where to position the screw. “You don’t want it dead center or too off to the side. Right here.”
Her fingers curled tentatively around the corkscrew, and she pursed her lips. “I don’t think I can do it while you’re watching. I have performance anxiety.”
Without thinking better of it, I moved behind her and guided her into position, turning the top of the screw a couple of times until it was securely in the cork.
Too late I realized that this put her backside against me.
Her silky hair tickled my face as it fell to the side, exposing the smooth flesh of her neck.
Inhaling sharply, I stepped away before she felt the evidence of the effect she was having on me.
“Not too deep. There you go.” I showed her where to balance the edge of the lever on the lip of the bottle and press down. “Okay, now pull.”
She bit her lip in concentration and, as the cork left the bottle with a tiny pop, her face brightened. “I did it!”
I handed her another bottle. “Try this one.”
Slowly but surely, she eased the cork out of the second bottle, an expression of pride on her face. “I must seem so pathetic getting excited about using a corkscrew.”
“We all have to start somewhere. I still occasionally break a cork.” I tilted the first bottle over her glass, listening to the wine lap against the glass.
The sound had always reassured me, promising good things to come, but now it filled me with anxiety.
I’d chosen to start with a Nuits-Saint-Georges from a small producer I’d discovered a few years ago.
It wasn’t a fancy wine, but it was one of my favorites.
“Like I said, part of the pleasure is the anticipation. You want to experience the wine with all your senses. So don’t taste until I tell you to.” Holding the glass above a candle, I showed her how to inspect the wine’s color, its clarity or cloudiness.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Like a jewel.” It was true that the bright ruby hue of the wine contrasted perfectly with her dark hair and creamy skin. I could imagine it hanging at her neck or glinting from a delicate earlobe. My eyes slid to the necklace nestled into the hollow of her throat.
Forcing my attention back to the tasting, I showed her how to swirl the wine around the glass. Her eyebrows scrunched together as she twisted her glass in the air. “I can’t swirl it like you do. It looks so effortless.”
“Try this. Put the glass on the table and pretend you’re drawing tiny circles.” My mouth twitched at the surprised pleasure on her face as the ruby liquid swirled elegantly up the sides of the glass.
“Okay, now smell.” She raised the glass and sniffed. “No, you have to stick your whole nose in there. That’s it. Okay, and what does it remind you of?”
“Is it weird if I say mushrooms?”
“No, mushroom is one of the top notes along with cherry and hibiscus.” I swirled my glass again. “Now you can taste.”
She brought the glass to her lips, hesitating. “Do I spit or swallow?”
Her cheeks pinkened at the innuendo, and I pretended to ignore it, but it was too late; my mind had darted quick as a hare into very dirty territory—my cock in her mouth, her hands cupping my balls.
“Your choice.” I shifted in my seat. “Since we’re only trying two varieties tonight, you can enjoy a glass. ”
As she put her lips to the glass, I noticed again how full and soft they were. What would they taste like? When she pursed her lips as I had shown her, inhaling a bit of air along with the wine, I tensed.
“What do you think?” I rasped.
Eyes still closed, she let out a little sigh. “It’s still doing things in my mouth.”
Goddammit, I couldn’t get my mind out of the gutter. I gritted my teeth and reached for the second bottle—a wine from the same region, but a different producer. “Now, this one should be a bit fuller bodied. I haven’t tried it yet.”
I poured us both a second glass and observed her as she repeated the ritual I’d taught her. “You’re a quick learner.”
“That’s what my teachers always said.” She peered at me coyly over the glass before taking a sip. “Oh, this is nice too. It sure beats the box of zinfandel from Meijers. So how’d you get into wine anyway?”
“Summer job working for a wine store in college. I found out you could make good money as a sommelier, so I dropped out and bought a ticket to Paris. Spent the fall working the harvests, traveled around, passed the exams. I was a lousy sommelier, though. I’m not good at serving.
So I got a job with a French company looking to export to China.
I spoke a little Mandarin, so they sent me out there.
It wasn’t too long before I started my own thing. ”
The truth was I had gotten into wine to piss off my father. He’d wanted me to be an engineer and when I left school had threatened to disinherit me.
“Hmm, so kind of similar to my own situation,” she joked.
“Yeah, maybe I’d better watch out. You could end up stealing my job.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I barely speak one language as it is.” She laughed and I let the musical sound of it wrap around me. Then she stopped suddenly, looking over my shoulder.
“Hello there,” she cooed, tiptoeing to the patio where the bedraggled gray tomcat that had been hanging around for the past two summers was lurking in the shadows. She lowered herself onto the step and held her hand out to him. “Is he yours?”
“No, I don’t think he belongs to anyone. He comes around occasionally looking for handouts.” I moved up behind her, and the cat narrowed its yellow eyes at me and ran off.
“We scared him off.” Olivia sighed with disappointment and shook her head, sending her hair tumbling in thick, glossy waves down her back. And now I was imagining what her hair would feel like draped over my naked chest.
Not going to happen .
“I made some food. Do you want something?” she asked shyly. Before I could answer, she darted into the kitchen and came back with an assortment of dishes on a large tray. “I wasn’t sure what would go with the wine, so I made a few different things.”
“A few things?” I sat stunned as she scooped ribbons of shaved zucchini on my plate, followed by salmon rillettes and crusty country bread. A rosemary focaccia and another salad—this time fresh plums with black pepper and parmesan.
I hesitated. It looked delicious, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to taste it.
I shouldn’t have worried though; I may have lost my ability to taste wine, but for some reason my taste buds came alive when I ate her food.
Each plate was like a mini flavor bomb. Even something as simple as paper-thin daikon with a drizzle of green olive oil and sea salt was a revelation.
“You’re an amazing cook. Are you sure you want to go law school?” I asked as I reached over to pour her another glass of wine.
“Actually, I’m not.” She bit her lip, perfect white teeth sinking into pillowy flesh as delectable as the ripe plums on my plate. “I was accepted to Ferrandi for the upcoming year.”
Ferrandi was one of the best culinary schools in France. It made perfect sense. I sat back and crossed my arms. “Have you told your dad?”
“Not yet. He’ll think it’s impractical. His big dream is that I’ll one day become a partner in his firm. So it’s complicated.” She took a deep breath. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
“Of course not. Look, you’re an adult. You should do what you love, impractical or not. Whatever the fuck that means.” Her determination impressed me. She already had the talent to pursue a career in food, and she seemed to have the drive as well.
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. My dad is just really overprotective. I think he feels guilty.” She stared down at her plate, long eyelashes fanning over her cheekbones.
“For what?”
“For not being around for the first ten years of my life. It wasn’t really his fault.
He didn’t even know about me.” She smiled uncomfortably, and I could tell we were getting into sensitive territory.
Still, I was intrigued. Ben and I had lost touch once he left for college, and after Charlie died, Janet had sold their house.
I had no idea what his life had been like since then.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“My mom never told him about me. It was actually one of my mom’s boyfriends who found my dad when she was in the hospital, and he couldn’t take care of me.”
“Holy shit.” I tried to imagine the shock of discovering you had a child. “And your mom, is she . . . ?”
“She’s fine. She had problems with drugs for a while. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about all that.” She stared at the stem of her glass as she tapped at it nervously. I recognized her need to avoid a difficult subject.
“Okay, well, we should talk about how I’m going to pay you if you really want to work while you’re here. Do you have a French bank account?” I needed to get that sorted immediately. Maybe if she was officially working for me, I’d see her in a more professional light and stop fantasizing about her.
“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “You’re already letting me stay here. You don’t have to pay me.”
“Listen, a little advice. Never work for free. Especially as a woman. And especially in this industry.” I held her gaze, so she knew how deadly serious I was. “Jin will help you set up an account tomorrow. You’ll need one for Paris.”
She hesitated, but I was not going to let up. “If you insist . . .”
“I do.” I stood and started to gather up our plates. She touched my arm, sending a jolt of electricity through me, and I stilled.
“Thank you again, Jake. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be here,” she said softly.
“I’m glad to help.”
It was true. I did want to help her, even if it meant more sleepless nights for me.