Chapter 12 Brain Sex #2
I didn’t have the vocabulary for the feeling that swept through me, but I nodded. “Sure,” I said, voice steadier than my pulse. “Sure. I’ll try your wines. But don’t let me drink too much unless you want a repeat of what happened before Thanksgiving.”
Andreas flashed a half smile. “These will be very short pours, so you can taste them. You do not need to drink them. There is a container on the table for those you do not wish to swallow.”
I immediately censored a dirty joke about spitting and swallowing. Yes, I wanted to be more my true self without editing my words before I spoke them. But that didn’t mean I needed Andreas to enjoy every single irritating thing about me.
A little bit of self-censoring goes a long way, and if more men understood this concept, the “male loneliness epidemic” in this country wouldn’t exist.
But I digress.
“Return to the table.” He released my hands after one last quick squeeze. “And I will select the first flight of wine for you.”
Resigned to my fate of sampling expensive wine hand-selected by my incredibly hot, smart, and thoughtful fake fiancé—woe is me—I made my way back through the labyrinth of tables to our booth.
Awareness prickled at my skin, and I scanned the other patrons as I passed, finding at least two parties watching me with a sort of fascinated detachment.
Maybe they’d recognized Andreas? Or maybe wine people were like birders, always scanning for an odd species.
As I slid into the booth, my mind wandered, and I ended up replaying the tense car ride from the biology building to the wine bar.
When Tara and Andreas had returned to the car after their little talk on the curb, both had been stone-faced.
At the time, I’d decided whatever business they’d discussed was best not brought up in the frosty air of the Mercedes.
I figured I’d ask about it later, maybe after a glass of wine, when Andreas’s tongue was looser and his inhibitions adequately marinated.
I liked Tara. A lot. I’d been attending her kickboxing class three days a week and loving every session.
I’d also decided, once Andreas and I were no longer living together, I’d ask Tara if she wanted or needed a roommate.
Obviously, if I inherited Oskar Kristiansen’s shares of Genetix, I would be able to afford a place of my own.
But I liked having roommates. I didn’t like living alone.
Andreas appeared at the table with the same ease he did everything, this time trailed by a server holding a long tray with twelve stemless glasses of wine, each filled to the level of a swallow or two.
The server set the tray on the table with a flourish, handed us a small notepad for tracking our favorites, then melted away.
Instead of sitting across from me, Andreas slid into my side of the booth, his body angled so his thigh pressed against mine, which made my heart twist. Before I’d recovered, he picked up my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, kissed the back of my hand. Again.
The effect of this touch paired with his closeness was chemical and immediate. I fought the urge to squirm, instead forcing myself to focus on the wine tray.
Once more I found myself asking what this was. Was he pretending still? Or was this real? I was so confused. And every time I convinced myself that Andreas was flirting, or truly interested in me, I’d gain a little distance and perspective and talk myself out of that belief.
Was this what other people did when they really liked someone? And if so, how did one exit this spin cycle of surging hopes and soul-eating self-doubt?
Cutting into my disordered thoughts, Andreas started with the first glass, describing it in a way that made me wonder if he’d studied as a sommelier. “Pinot noir from Oregon. Silky, with notes of black cherry and spice.” He handed it to me, then watched with rapt attention as I sipped.
The flavor of the red wine burst over my tongue, though I lacked words to describe it. Peeking at Andreas’s expectant expression, I sighed, setting it down. “It’s good, I like it. But if you’re waiting for me to tell you what it tastes like, I’m going to say ‘good wine.’”
He smiled. “That is great, that is what I am hoping for. You tell me, good or bad. And that is enough.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you sure? Because I can pretend.”
His grin widened and he bit his bottom lip, eyes dancing over me. “What would you say? If you were going to pretend?”
Effecting a snooty and very bad pseudo-British accent, I cleared my throat and sat taller in the booth. “Notes of ripe candied melons sifted with pickled pepper residue and bee’s anus dusted with honeysuckle pollen.”
Andreas’s eyes widened as I spoke and so did his grin, his features betraying his expectant anticipation.
When I finished, he tossed his head back and laughed heartily.
I mean, the man chortled. I set my elbow on the table and covered my mouth with my hand while I watched him, barely holding in my own laughter while also enjoying his.
When he gave his eyes back to me, they were shining, and he wiped away tears of hilarity while sniffing. “Oh my goodness. You are—I love how funny you are, Samantha. I love it so much. Please, never change.”
Inhaling deeply to stave off the wave of nervous happiness, I shrugged, but discovered I had nothing to say to his praise because my brain was stuck on the word love.
He loves me!
No, doofus. He loves how funny you are.
. . . or, was this also part of the act? Was this still part of a performance?
I deflated, my confusion circling the drain of my confidence. I really hated this, not knowing what was real and what was fake between us. I needed to talk to Kaitlyn. I needed a sounding board who wasn’t my therapist.
My therapist would tell me to be brave. SQUARE!
But Kaitlyn could be counted upon to advocate for caution. She’d been in a similar situation with Martin before they’d married. They hadn’t fake dated, but she’d felt confused about his feelings for her, whether they were real or imagined. I now had newfound sympathy for my friend and her plight.
While I stewed in my whiplashing mood, Andreas moved on to the next wine, and the next, and over the course of an hour, we’d sampled all twelve wines.
Sometimes I could catch a hint of whatever note he described—“graphite,” “earth,” “stone fruit”—but other times it was simply “good,” “bad,” “sour,” or “sweet.”
At some point during the second flight, my inhibitions dropped just enough for me to stop overthinking whether Andreas’s behavior was fiction or nonfiction.
I allowed myself to observe the apparent ease with which Andreas had settled next to me.
His hand, still entwined with mine, remained on my thigh throughout, except when he needed it to refill my water or jot down a quick check mark next to a favorite on the notepad.
I realized, with a slight start, that I hadn’t felt this warm or this cozy in a long, long time.
Even if it was all ultimately for show, it was nice.
At the end of the second flight, Andreas ordered a glass of my favorite—some big, juicy blend from Paso Robles, which I promptly forgot the name of but remembered for its immediate, heady effect—and sat back to let me savor it.
I nursed the glass, cheeks warm, pleasantly buzzed but not even close to drunk.
“I’ll drink this glass slowly,” I said. “In fact, I should probably have more water.”
He reached over, topped off my water glass from the bottle, then handed it back. “It is good to hydrate.”
I smiled easily, then watched as his face shifted from what looked like playful to intent.
Andreas angled his body more toward mine and, with a gentle seriousness, asked, “So, this James Nieminen who is now your PI. Why is he your PI?”
I froze, not out of fear but because I wasn’t expecting the pivot to Real Talk. But it was clear Andreas had been turning the question over in his mind for a while.
I took a steadying sip of water. “I’ve already told you this.”
He frowned. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
His frown increased. “I apologize, but could you tell me again, please?”
Sighing, I fiddled with my wineglass. “Do you want the short version, or long?”
“Start with the short,” he said, voice soft.
I reminded him of Tobias threatening me at the university; how he’d then pulled strings to freeze Dr. Hauser’s funding; how, with Hauser’s accounts on hold, I’d been transferred to Nieminen’s lab because James had the only opening and was willing to cover part of my funding.
Andreas listened, features composed and unreadable, though his eyes seemed to darken when I mentioned Tobias and James. Or maybe his eyelids just seemed heavier.
When I finished, he took a sip of his own wine, then set the glass down with a quiet finality. “I am sorry.”
I was thrown by the apology. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t freeze Dr. Hauser’s funding.”
He shook his head, the smallest smile at the edge of his lips, but not a happy one.
“I am sorry you have to deal with Tobias and Henrik and this Nieminen, and that my actions and wishes instigated all this trouble for you.” He glanced around the bar, then back at me.
“Samantha, let me know if you want me to get rid of him. I will leave it to you.”
Now I frowned, blinking once. The way he’d said “get rid of him,” I didn’t know what he meant.
“Are you—” I shook my head, trying to clear it of wine and the cobwebs induced by my proximity to Sexy Andreas. “Are you saying you’ll get rid of Dr. Nieminen if I ask you to? Like, remove him from his position in the department? Is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded, his mouth opening, giving me the sense he wanted to say more. But then he pressed his lips together in a flat line. I watched his chest rise and fall with a deep breath before he finally settled on, “You let me know. I will do whatever you want.”