Chapter 3 #3
"It certainly seems to have worked out for you," I say. "Though I should probably confess that I have no knowledge of hockey whatsoever."
"How dare you." He laughs, and I’ll admit it is a really good laugh. "I'm devastated. Here I thought we were developing a rapport."
"I'm sure you'll manage to endure the heartbreak,” I say dryly. "I don't follow any sports, if that helps."
"Not a sports person at all?" He leans back.
"Not really. Though I'm sure hockey is..."
I stall, hunting for an adjective that isn't a total lie or a flat-out insult. There has to be a diplomatic middle ground between I cannot fathom the appeal and what a lovely pastime.
"It seems quite... spirited," I continue. "And it clearly takes a serious amount of athleticism."
He studies me for a second, then that dimpled smile makes an appearance. "You're so full of shit, Ace."
The cork nearly slips out of my fingers. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're lying through your teeth." He sets the glass down, looking amused. "You can just say you hate it. I promise my ego won't shatter, so please don't feel the need to lie on my behalf."
My eye gives a faint, involuntary twitch. I retract every charitable thought I've had about him, because he is actually very annoying.
"Fine," I say. "I find it to be a barbaric display of recreational violence and I don’t get the desire to watch grown men slamming each other into plexiglass. And the teeth situation is frankly absurd. There. Happy?"
He laughs, flashing a row of irritatingly perfect teeth. "See, I prefer this honest version of you infinitely more than the one praising how spirited it is. That was painful for both of us."
"I was attempting to preserve a shred of professionalism, which is apparently a foreign concept to you," I say, reaching for the next bottle.
He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a low chuckle, as if enjoying some private joke I'm not in on.
"What?" I say, setting the Sauvignon Blanc down with a sharp thud. "What is so funny?"
"Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It's just... my entire locker room is convinced I'm going to ask you out. The romantic vineyards, the partnership forcing us into the same room. It's a bit funny to me, considering..."
He gestures to the space between us, indicating, I assume, the palpable hostility I'm radiating. The lack of professional boundaries is staggering, even for him.
"Well, I can assure you I'm not interested," I say briskly. "Even if I were somehow captivated by your personality—which, I'm sorry to report, is not happening"—he laughs again—"I have a strict policy against dating athletes."
"A policy?"
I nod and take a large gulp of wine.
“Come on.” He leans in, looking expectantly at me. "You can't just throw that out and not elaborate."
I shrug. "I got married in college, which is embarrassing considering it barely lasted a year. He was an athlete. And let's just say he permanently soured me on the whole hyper-masculine, recreational-violence, bro-culture thing."
He winces. "That bad?"
"Oh, it gets worse." I turn the glass stem between my fingers. "The crowning achievement was his infidelity. So, you know. A complete education from start to finish."
"Shit. I'm sorry, Margot. That's awful."
"Thanks, but it was a long time ago." I keep my eyes on the glass. "We actually tried to repair it for a while after I found out, if you can believe it. Though I'd never make that choice now."
"Well," he says, shaking his head. "He's an absolute idiot, if you don't mind me saying. You're a hell of a catch, and he had clearly no idea what he had."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Er. Thank you."
He nods, reaching for his glass again. "What was his sport, if I may ask?"
I take a sip. "Golf."
He nearly chokes on his wine, his hand coming up to hide what is very clearly an explosion of laughter.
I glare at him. "Is my trauma amusing to you?"
He puts a hand up, recovering. "I'm sorry, it's not funny, it's just, I dunno, the way you were describing the whole brutal-masculine-violence thing, I was picturing some big burly soccer player. Even hockey. Not a man in a quarter-zip yelling fore."
"Golf is a sport," I inform him. "And a well-respected one, too."
"It absolutely is. I enjoy a round myself. I was just surprised, that's all." He shrugs, and then he smiles, dimples and all, the kind that have clearly been getting him out of trouble his entire life.
And I'll be damned if I can't see exactly how well they work.
He keeps his eyes on me, the full weight of his attention settled in a way that I find unfairly distracting. I really need to get this conversation back on track. How on earth did we even land on my divorce?
It must be a skill of his, this knack for getting a woman to drop her guard before she's felt it slip. The same effortless charm that fills arenas and sells wine he's never tasted. And I've known enough men like him to be wary of exactly how well it works.
So I put my walls up, back where they belong, reach for the next bottle, and steer us back to the safety of the tasting notes, where I'm the one running the show.