Chapter 12 Brain Sex
brAIN SEX
*Samantha*
Fifteen minutes after Tara pulled away from the biology building, Andreas and I were in a booth at Del Vino, one of those Lower Manhattan wine bars where the walls looked like they’d been imported from Tuscany and the food menu consisted of “lite bites.” Even though this place was only a block from Andreas’s apartment, I’d never entered it or any other wine bar in New York before. Wine bars weren’t in my budget.
The host had shown us to the most public booth after confirming Andreas’s reservation.
Located right up against the window, it was practically a diorama for the passing parade of New Yorkers.
Andreas seemed immune to the idea of passersby watching us, and he had his jacket, scarf, and glove off, already rolling up the sleeves of his cable knit sweater as soon as he slid in across from me.
Forearms. I tried not to stare as I took off his other glove and passed it to him.
A server materialized to take our order for “something to nibble,” and gave us our wine-dispenser cards.
I barely registered what Andreas ordered—some kind of cheese and nuts, roasted olives, charcuterie?
Sure, all of it sounded like food. The reason my brain was on vacation was because, less than three feet away across the table, Andreas Kristiansen’s eyes settled on me with a focus and intensity I hadn’t mentally prepared for.
Because he wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.
Presently, he was trying to deduce my taste in wine, a subject about which I was both ignorant and, apparently, also abysmally unprepared for.
“Italian?” he asked, hands folded on the table. “Or Argentinian? Or New Zealand, perhaps?”
I shrugged. “The last time I drank was with you, house red at Smokin Greens.” After a brief period of internal debate, I decided to stop censoring myself and just tell the truth. “Usually, it’s in a box and cost six dollars. I’m not sure I have a region.”
Ugh. I just admitted that. But I had to stop pretending to be someone I wasn’t whenever we were together, like I’d done before he left for London. So what if I embarrassed myself? I was embarrassing. Plus, it’s not like this was an actual date.
Andreas considered my words with a faint smile tugging at his lips, his eyes feeling warm as they moved over me. “You paint quite a picture.”
“I don’t know how to paint unless it’s with my fingers,” I said primly, picking up my water for a sip. There. Another honest answer. I’m a plebeian. So sue me.
Andreas’s grin instantly claimed his mouth, and his laugh surprised me. Entranced, I watched him and slowly set my water down. I found myself smiling in response to his smile, basking in his twinkling green eyes, his features soft and unguarded.
“Come now, you must have a preference,” he pressed, voice low and ridiculously sexy.
“Honestly? No.” I lifted my hands, helpless.
“If it’s red and doesn’t taste like battery acid, I’ll drink it.
If it’s white, I’ll also drink it, but less happily.
If it’s rosé, I’m just as clueless as with the other two.
” I shrugged. “I’ve had good wine before, just not often.
And I did like the rosé we had for our engagement dinner, which I actually recognized because Martin once ordered it when I went out to dinner with him and Kaitlyn. ”
Andreas stared at me, his smile lingering, then stood and held out his hand. “Come with me.”
Before I could respond, he reached for my hand with his, pulling me from the booth.
Predictably, I fought a jolt of hot awareness as Andreas took my hand, not in a let’s-go-couples-bowling way, but in a very deliberate, fingers-laced, this-is-mine way.
Aware that we were being observed (by both the host and the three women at the next table who were definitely ogling Andreas, but who could blame them?), I tried to walk like a person who belonged in expensive restaurants and not like an imposter lost in a Neiman Marcus while searching for the bathroom.
He led me through the open corridor that separated the main dining area from the wall of wines.
There were racks and racks of bottles, arranged by country and varietal.
Opposite the racks, a row of glass-doored dispensers with little digital readouts and shiny metal taps, like a self-serve soda fountain but with—you know—alcohol.
The aroma of cold, damp stone and wood mingled with the acidic perfume of three dozen open reds.
Andreas guided me to the middle bank of dispensers.
Bringing me with him, he slowly paced the row, perhaps cataloguing the options.
The light was dim and golden. The way it caught in his hair reminded me of candles and firesides and all the other things I associated with fictional romantic rendezvous.
“Do you like robust flavors?” he asked, not breaking his relaxed stride. “Or softer, lighter?”
I considered the question. “I like my coffee black. Does that help?”
He almost smiled, head tilting as he read another label. “What about fruit? Berries or citrus?”
“Uh. Berries.”
“Cherry, blackberry, raspberry, blueberry, or strawberry?”
“Cherry . . . ?”
“Dark chocolate, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“And on pancakes, maple syrup rather than honey or powdered sugar.”
I leaned back, giving him a suspicious side-eye. “How do you know that?”
Andreas grinned at me, his gaze sweeping over my face before he leaned close and whispered, “Let us try something bold, then.”
Yes. Let’s.
His words paired with the intonation of his voice had me imagining all sorts of dirty and delightful things. Making out behind a row of wine dispensers; his hand down the front of my jeans at the end cap; sex against the imported Tuscan wall.
Sadly, Andreas was clearly talking about the wine. But he did lift my hand and press his lips to the back of it, holding my eyes as he did so.
Then, he turned a bottle for me to read.
I was instantly, irrationally aware of how much I’d missed this over the past two weeks, our pretend PDA, the way he invaded my personal space.
My body felt lit from within and my hand, which should have been limp and dignified, instead twitched and then gripped his.
He seemed not to notice my hand spasm. Or if he did, he was very gracious about it. “This is a Brunello. Sangiovese grape. It is high in tannin.”
I nodded, as if those words meant something. “Great. Let’s try it.”
He dispensed a tiny pour into a stemless glass and handed it to me. “Tell me what you taste.”
I sipped. It tasted like wine. Like, a little more sophisticated than the six-dollar box, but still—wine. “It’s fine.”
He arched one brow. “Fine? No leather and tobacco?”
I tried another sip. Now that he’d said “leather and tobacco,” it was all I could taste. “Huh. You’re right. That’s exactly it.”
He turned to me. “Do you want me to pick a few different kinds of wine that are representative of different flavor profiles? Then you can eliminate the ones you do not care for, and we can narrow down which might be your favorite?”
It was adorable that he wanted to optimize the process for my enjoyment, but I wasn’t really here for that. “We could do that,” I said. “Or, we could just pour two glasses of random wine and compare notes.”
His eyebrows lowered a smidge. “What if you select a wine you do not like?”
“I’ll just drink it. No big deal.”
Andreas seemed to stand straighter, as though taken aback by my words. “You should never have to accept something that you do not like or want, Samantha.”
His tone was so earnest that I nearly snorted a laugh. I mean, come on. It was just wine.
And yet, I held back the laugh. His face was all gravity, as though I’d confessed to a grave personal failing.
Instead of saying exactly what was on my mind the second it occurred to me, I took a page out of his book and I let the moment breathe, gathering my thoughts before responding. “Andreas, it’s not feasible to only go through life having exactly what I want. That’s impractical and impossible.”
He frowned, like I’d said something in need of urgent correction. “So, you drink the bitter wine? That is not acceptable, you deserve so much better than that.”
His oddly touching statement was also vaguely annoying.
“It’s not that I want to drink bitter wine.
” I lowered my voice. “But if that’s the drink life serves me, shouldn’t I make the best of it?
What would you have me do, throw the wine out and not drink at all?
Isn’t that like cutting off your nose to spite your face? ”
He took the stemless wine glass from me and set it down on a nearby tray. He then gathered my hands in his and, frowning, his gaze somewhere between determined and concerned, he said, “Let me bring you all the wine.”
Now I did snort laugh. “All the wine? You’re going to bring me every bottle of wine that ever existed?”
“Yes.” He nodded once firmly. “You do not deserve to make the best out of a situation, you only deserve the best situation. And then you choose which you like, and accept only those. You only drink the best wines, and the ones you actually want, from now on.”
I wanted to argue that always getting exactly what one wanted eventually led to never being happy with anything. Humans needed struggle, we needed discontent, we needed something to strive for and rally against. Otherwise, where did character come from? And humor? Especially dark humor.
Andreas stepped closer. I felt the heat from his chest and the subtle pressure of his thumbs on the backs of my hands. The scent of his cologne and his rosemary shampoo invaded my senses, making my heart ping and my head light.
“Please,” he said, not a demand but an entreaty. “Please let me do this for you. I want to do this for you.”