“California chard,” I say, pleased to be able to inform him that he doesn’t know me as well as his smug expression suggests he thinks he does.
He merely nods. “Been drinking some of those myself. Research.”
I’m interested, although I tell myself it’s because I’m interested in his new job at the winery, not because I’m interested in him.
“Abbott does chard?”
His eyes flick up for a second, a little surprised that I know and remember the name of his new employer.
Reece nods once. “It’s their bread and butter.”
I lean back and look pointedly at his glass of red. “Interesting. You’ve always been a Bordeaux-blend guy.”
“I can work with anything.”
His quiet confidence gives me an unexpected thrill, and a grudging stab of admiration, because I know it’s true. Back when we were…together, Reece had been as passionate about the grapes as I had been about the sexiness of the finished product.
He’d turned that passion into a serious skill. I’d die before admitting it, but I’d followed him in the past few years. He’d gotten a dozen write-ups as a new up-and-coming winemaker, even giving a handful of interviews to some of the big-hitting wine magazines about why Virginia was earning its rep as the next big thing in wine.
I watch as he picks up his glass, giving it a quick swirl and sniff before taking a sip.
Oh mama.
My stomach gives a little flip, because damn if he doesn’t take an otherwise stuffy, wine-snob habit and make it sexy as hell. There’s nothing fussy about the way his long fingers wrap around the glass, the way he savors the wine as though he owns it.
“Good?” I ask, my voice a little husky.
He looks back to me. “It’s all right.”
Reece hesitates just the briefest of seconds before extending the glass to me. His glower tells me it’s not a peace offering so much as a reluctant acknowledgment that we’re in each other’s elements right now. We may hate each other, but we both love wine.
Wordlessly I slide my own glass across the table to him as I take the red from his hand, ignoring the strange sense of familiarity as our fingers brush.
The wine is bold, a little leathery in the best way possible.
I swirl and sniff, then take a small sip, then another. “Cab. Also California.”
He’s watching me. A quick nod is the confirmation that I’m right. No praise, but then I don’t need it.
He takes a sip of my wine, and then we wordlessly switch back, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to be sharing wine. Once, it would have been. Once, I’d imagined all my nights would be just like this one, sitting across from him, coaxing his broody self into conversation, as we analyze and enjoy wine.
Of course, I hadn’t anticipated it happening like this—with the two of us alternating between wanting to kill each other and not speaking at all.
The quiet tension is interrupted by the arrival of my crab cake. “Brought an extra setting,” the server said, placing a small plate and napkin roll-up in front of Reece.
Reece is already pushing his chair back. “No thanks. I’ll grab something at the bar.”
“Wait,” I say, before I can think better of it.
Reece stills as the server moves away, not giving a shit about our little drama.
“You can stay,” I say. “If you want.”
His gaze flickers darkly. “Not interested.”
“We can talk about wine,” I say, a little desperately. “We don’t have to get…personal.”
We don’t have to fight.