Chapter 32
Inés
Red Wine Supernova—Chappell Roan
“Is this your idea of heaven or what?” Chloe grinned, stretching her arms out wide as she stood in front of the bar. The shopfront,
painted a deep burgundy red, had windows that shimmered with a smoky grey tint. Above her, the sign read: “Vine the romantic mood lighting was not the best, but it was still achievable.
“This one seems a little paler.”
“Excellent catch,” I said. “Next we swirl, so we see the legs on the side of the glass.”
“Legs?” Chloe repeated, looking a little confused.
I pointed to where I had swirled the wine along the clear glass, pointing at the almost-invisible band that was slowly rolling
down the inside.
“It’s these streaks. This tells us the alcohol, the sugar,” I instructed, watching her as she copied me, her attention almost
consumed by the glass.
“Where did you learn all this?” Chloe asked.
“My dad taught me.”
“The runner?” Chloe asked. For a second I was struck by her memory, how long ago I had told her that little detail of my family.
“Yeah, good memory,” I complimented. “He couldn’t have his children growing up and having a terrible palate, so he’d teach
us. Just a sip, here or there, but for me it stuck.”
“That sounds nice.”
Memories of a hundred Sunday dinners long-gone filled my memory, the smell of my mamá’s braised pork, a fragrance of spices
in the air. Sitting in our kitchen, practically the entire family stuffed into every inch of space, my dad testing us all
on every note. I was the best, of course.
“Have you ever visited Spain?” I asked. There were some tournaments based there; it wasn’t completely out of the realm of
possibility.
“I almost went last year,” she answered, “but we changed our plan, pulled out and focused on the grass season.”
“You should go.” I smiled, thinking of the beautiful streets of Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, the narrow alleys and hidden courtyards, or the green region of Asturias with its charming centuries-old buildings and lush countryside. Something told me she’d love it there.
“I’ll put it on my list.” She smiled knowingly. “Maybe we can go together.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said back to her, my mind already lost in thoughts of home. I could picture us walking along the Playa
de la Concha in Donostia, or sipping some of the best Rioja wine in a small bodega in Haro. I could show her the charm of
Andalusia, with its whitewashed villages and the scent of orange blossoms in the air. There was so much to share.
I raised the glass again. “Next up, we smell.” I watched as she stuck her entire nose in the glass and laughed. Rookie mistake.
Chloe pulled away, her features screwed up as if her senses had been overpowered. “This one’s . . . fruity?” she answered.
“Or spicy? Can wine be spicy?”
“Not like food,” I said, taking another careful smell. “This one is fruitier, but I think I can detect some cinnamon, which
might be that spice you are picking up.”
“You know.” Her gaze turned heated. “You are making it very difficult to pay attention.”
“How is it my fault?”
“You are far too attractive when you talk wine,” she admitted, her voice low.
“You are an unbearable flirt.” I tried to ignore the heat on my skin, the growing need to touch her. My leg accidentally bumped
into hers as I adjusted my seating, but neither of us moved away.
“That is a lie,” she replied. “I’m a very bearable flirt.”
I looked down at the table, unable to maintain eye contact. I hadn’t expected any of this, the confidence when it came to
dating, the forwardness. It was thrilling.
I inhaled deeply, refocusing on the task at hand. “Now you can take a small sip.”
“The good part,” Chloe said excitedly. We both raised our glasses, clinking them between us. While maintaining eye contact, we took a sip. The light behind her eyes quickly dimmed, her face twisting with disgust as she began to cough. “You like this?” she spluttered, grabbing for a glass of water.
“I said to take a small sip.” I couldn’t help but laugh at her disgust as she finished off her glass of water. “What do you taste?”
“Undertones of . . . grapes.” She looked disgustedly down at the glass, as if it was filled with vinegar. “And regret.”
I laughed again. “This one is strawberry, cherry . . . a little earthy.”
“Earthy? Like dirt?” She shook her head. I didn’t bother to explain the taste, and instead I took another gentle sip, marking
the feel of the smooth velvet against my tongue.
“It’s French, maybe a . . .” I trailed off, watching her expression for any possible answer. “It’s Pinot Noir.” Chloe smiled,
nodding her head to confirm. I shrugged easily. “This one was a little obvious.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Show-off.”
I brushed my hair back, basking in the glory. One done, two to go.
“How about this one?” she said, pointing to the second. “What are the undertones? Where is it from?”
My fingers brushed her glass, nudging it along the table towards her. “Not trying another one?”
“I’m going to wait for another glass of water first.” She didn’t sound thrilled to continue the tasting.