Chapter 26 Xavier
XAVIER
Icheck my watch for the fourth time as I wait in the corner booth at Bella Vista.
Seven-fifteen. Savannah's late, which isn't like her.
At least, it wasn't like the Savannah I remember from eight years ago.
People change, develop new habits, new patterns.
I've learned not to make assumptions about who someone was versus who they've become.
I adjust the cuffs of my charcoal dress shirt, the fabric crisp against my wrists.
The navy blazer hangs perfectly across my shoulders - Italian wool, tailored to fit.
I'd debated the tie, ultimately choosing a subtle silk pattern in deep burgundy.
Professional but not stuffy. Emma had mentioned this was an important tasting, and I believe in dressing for the occasion.
The restaurant's atmosphere is elegant with exposed brick walls bathed in warm amber light from Edison bulbs suspended on black iron fixtures.
Soft jazz drifts from hidden speakers, mixing with the gentle clink of silverware and the subtle scent of rosemary and garlic drifting from the open kitchen.
White tablecloths, fresh flowers, leather banquettes the color of dark chocolate.
It's exactly the kind of place Emma would choose, sophisticated but not pretentious.
The wine list is so fucking expensive, which makes me question who is paying for all of this.
Between the extended guest list and the change of venue, maybe all this wedding will result in the pack having to sell their organs. They've gone in way over their heads.
I've positioned myself facing the entrance, a habit from years of medical training where awareness of your environment can mean the difference between life and death.
The hostess station sits twenty feet away, staffed by a young woman in all black who's been glancing in my direction every few minutes with barely concealed curiosity.
Dax was supposed to be here for this tasting, but he'd shrugged it off with his typical "food is food" attitude.
Sometimes I wonder how he and Emma work together - she obsesses over every detail while he can't tell the difference between filet mignon and hamburger.
When Emma got stuck at school with parent conferences running late, and that lazy bridesmaid Cheryl predictably flaked out, I'd volunteered to step in.
It seemed logical. I know the difference between a cabernet and a merlot, and I can identify herbs by scent alone. Growing up, I was the kid who helped Mom plan dinner parties, who paid attention when she explained why certain wines paired with specific dishes.
The hostess approaches my table, her professional smile wavering slightly. "Dr. Reynolds? Your dining companion has arrived."
I stand as Savannah steps into view, and the sight of her stops whatever polite greeting I'd been preparing.
She's wearing a black dress that skims her curves like a second skin - not tight, but perfectly fitted in a way that suggests expensive tailoring.
The neckline is modest but the sleeveless cut shows off toned arms, and the hemline hits just above her knees, revealing legs that go on for miles in nude stockings and black heels that add three inches to her height.
Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the restaurant's warm lighting and making it look like spun gold.
But it's not just the dress or the hair that makes my mouth go dry.
It's the way she moves - confident but slightly hesitant, like she's not entirely sure she belongs in a place this elegant.
The way she runs her fingers nervously along the small clutch purse in her hands.
The slight flush in her cheeks that could be from the cool October air or something else entirely.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, glancing around the dining room like she's expecting to see Dax materialize from behind one of the potted olive trees that line the windows.
"Dax couldn't make it." The lie comes easily - no need to mention that my brother simply couldn't be bothered to care about wine pairings. "Emma asked if I could fill in."
Savannah's scent reaches me as she slides into the booth across from me - vanilla and something floral, with an underlying note of nervous energy.
The leather creaks softly under her weight, and I watch as she settles her clutch beside her, smooths her dress with careful hands.
"Since when do you do wedding planning?"
"Since I want to support you in any way possible." I hold her gaze, watching the blush that spreads across her cheeks. "And I'm a better choice because Dax thinks wine comes in two varieties: red or white."
I signal the sommelier, who's been hovering nearby with poorly concealed impatience. A distinguished man in his sixties, silver-haired and wearing the kind of precise black suit that screams decades of experience in high-end establishments. "Besides, you always said I had good taste in food."
The comment earns me a small smile, the first genuine one I've seen from her since she came back. She leans forward slightly, elbows on the white tablecloth, and I catch another hint of her perfume - something expensive and subtle that makes me want to lean closer myself.
"You did always have an eye for cuisine. But if I'm honest with you, Xavier, nothing about this makes any sense."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I get that Dax is the head alpha of the pack, but does that mean none of the other members take any interest in the wedding?"
The sommelier approaches with practiced efficiency, his posture radiating the kind of confidence that comes from years of guiding diners through complex wine selections.
"Good evening. I'm Henri, and I'll be guiding you through tonight's tasting menu.
We've prepared six courses with wine pairings, as requested by the bride. "
"Every pack is different. They must have agreed this is how they wanted it to be," I say, answering Savannah's question while letting her know that I'm not about to criticize any pack.
Especially one that has one of my best friends in it.
I'm close to other guys, but nothing compared to the relationship I have with Dax, maybe because he went into medicine too, even if he is a vet.
Savannah settles back in her seat, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. The movement causes her dress to shift slightly, drawing my attention to the smooth line of her collarbone where a delicate gold necklace rests against her skin.
"Lead the way," she says, and her voice has taken on that smoky quality it gets when she's relaxing.
The first course arrives within minutes - seared scallops with cauliflower puree and pancetta crisps, paired with a Sancerre that's crisp and mineral-bright. I watch Savannah take her first sip, noting the way her eyes close for a moment as she processes the flavors.
"Good?" I ask.
"Better than good." She takes another sip, more thoughtful this time. "The wine's got this almost citrus finish that complements the scallops without overwhelming them."
Impressive. Most people would have just said it tasted fine. "You've been practicing your wine vocabulary."
"College. I took a food and wine appreciation class as an elective." She cuts into a scallop, and I catch the slight flush in her cheeks. "The professor was... very thorough in his instruction."
"Did you enjoy the class?" I keep my voice carefully neutral.
"Parts of it." Her brown eyes meet mine across the table, and there's something almost challenging in her gaze. "Though I always preferred learning from people who actually cared about the subject, not just showing off."
The second course follows quickly - duck confit with cherry gastrique and roasted fingerling potatoes, paired with a Burgundy that's rich and earthy. The conversation flows easier now, lubricated by good wine and better food.
"Emma's really outdone herself with this menu," Savannah says, savoring a bite of duck. "Remember when her idea of cooking was burning instant mac and cheese?"
"She's come a long way. Though I still don't trust her with anything more complicated than pasta," I confess.
"Says the man who once tried to make soufflé and nearly burned down the kitchen."
"That was one time. And technically, the soufflé was perfect. It was the oven that malfunctioned."
Savannah laughs, the sound warm and familiar. "Sure it was. Just like it was the oven's fault when you tried to make crème br?lée and set off every smoke alarm in the house."
"I was experimenting with technique."
This is when it dawns on me that she remembered our first conversation from our first date. Why did I have to be so cruel back then, pretending my sister was my girlfriend just so I wouldn't have to go on another date with her?
The third course - lamb tenderloin with rosemary jus and roasted root vegetables, paired with a C?tes du Rh?ne - arrives as the conversation takes on a more personal tone.
The wine is bold and complex, with layers of dark fruit and spice that unfold with each sip.
I notice Savannah's cheeks are flushed now, a rosy pink that extends down her neck and disappears beneath the neckline of her dress.
She's loosened up considerably, her posture more relaxed, one leg crossed over the other in a way that makes the hem of her dress ride up slightly.
"This is incredible," she murmurs, her eyes slightly unfocused as she regards the wine glass. The candlelight catches the gold flecks in her brown eyes, making them shimmer. "How much have we had to drink?"
I consider the question, very aware of the pleasant warmth spreading through my chest, the way my usual analytical mind has softened around the edges.
We're halfway through the tasting menu, and Henri hasn't been stingy with the pours.
Each glass has been generous, proper tasting portions that add up quickly when consumed with good food and better company.