Chapter 3 #2
A crisp Sauvignon Blanc that tasted like summer afternoons.
A rosé so pale it was almost white, with a finish of wild strawberries.
A Pinot Noir that was deeper and more serious than the others, with undertones of cherry and something earthy she couldn't identify.
And finally, a late-harvest dessert wine that was almost sinfully sweet, like drinking liquid gold.
She was careful. She really was. She took small sips, and she ate the cheese and crackers that he set out between wines. She even drank two full glasses of water.
But the alcohol accumulated anyway, spreading warmth through her chest and loosening something in her shoulders that had been tight for longer than she could remember. By the time she finished the dessert wine, the sharp edges of the world had gone pleasantly soft.
"So," he said, topping off her water glass, "what's the verdict? Which wines should we feature at the festival?"
"All of them."
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. "That's not a helpful answer."
"It's an honest one." She set down her empty wine glass, misjudging the distance slightly and nearly knocking it over. "They're all good. They're all *really* good. People should drink all of them."
"You're tipsy."
"I am not."
"You just tried to put your glass on a piece of cheese."
She looked down. The glass was sitting at a precarious angle on a wedge of aged cheddar.
"That was intentional," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I was testing its stability."
"Mm-hmm." He was grinning at her, that infuriating grin that made his golden eyes crinkle as his small horns caught the light. "How's the stability?"
"Questionable."
She wasn't just talking about the glass, and from the way his grin widened, he knew it.
*I need to leave,* she thought. *I need to get out of here before I do something stupid.*
She slid off the bar stool.
Or tried to.
Her feet hit the floor and kept going, the flagstones tilting beneath her like the deck of a ship.
She grabbed for the edge of the bar, missed, and then there were hands on her waist—warm and solid and impossibly strong—and she was pressed against a chest that was broader than it had any right to be.
"Easy." His voice was low, close to her ear. "I've got you."
He smelled like wine and sunshine and something deeper, muskier, that made her head spin in ways that had nothing to do with alcohol. His hands were still on her waist, steadying her, and she could feel the heat of them through the thin cotton of her blouse.
She looked up.
It was a mistake. She knew it was a mistake even as she did it, but her body had apparently decided to stop listening to her brain.
His face was inches from hers. Close enough that she could see the individual threads of gold and amber in his eyes. Close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to, which she absolutely did not want to do, except apparently she did because she couldn't seem to look away.
"Marigold," he said, and the roughness in his voice made her stomach flip.
"I'm fine now," she managed. "You can let go."
"I could."
"You should."
"Probably."
But he didn't. And she didn't pull away. And then he was smiling down at her—the smile that wasn't practiced or performed but real and warm and slightly wondering—and before she could process what was happening, his lips brushed hers.
It was brief. A whisper of contact, teasing and light. The barest suggestion of what a real kiss might feel like.
It was enough to send electricity crackling down her spine, and for the briefest second, her lips softened under his.
But then she jumped back. She practically threw herself backwards, stumbling again before catching herself on the edge of a nearby table.
"Don't," she said sharply, her voice reflecting the confusing variety of emotions swirling in her chest. "Don't do that."
He hadn't moved. He stood there with his hands still raised slightly, as if she might fly back into them at any moment.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "I thought—"
"You thought wrong."
"Clearly."
They stared at each other across the suddenly vast space of the tasting room. The golden afternoon light was fading, shadows creeping in from the corners, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of how alone they were.
"I should go," she said.
"You shouldn't drive."
"Then I'll walk."
"Let me walk you home," he said quietly. "Please. I won't—" He ran a hand through his hair, his horns catching the dying light. "I won't touch you again. I just want to make sure you get there safely."
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. To do anything other than spend more time alone with this male who had just kissed her without permission and who made her feel things she had spent years learning to distrust.
But under the instincts, quieter but persistent, was something else. The memory of his face when he'd talked about his mother. And the way he'd apologized immediately, without making excuses.
"Fine," she heard herself say. "But you're walking three feet away from me."
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or something softer.
"Whatever you need, little flower," he said. "Shall we go?"