“Only for my use.”
“Ah.” Of course. This man lived in an entirely different way. It was almost impossible to conceive of the luxury he enjoyed.
“I make around three hundred bottles a year.”
“That is a tiny vintage.”
“Not for one man to drink,” he pointed out.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t drink alone often?”
Something shifted. His expression changed. Only for the briefest moment, but darkness flashed in his eyes. “You’re wrong.”
“Oh?”
“You think I do this kind of thing every night.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. You’re very good at it.”
He reached for his wine, taking a sip, replacing the glass and allowing his fingers to trace the stem of the glass, his features contemplative. “I don’t.” The words were final, his subtext clear: end of conversation.
She went to withdraw her hand, but when he let it go immediately, she felt a hint of remorse. Her fingertips tingled, aching to be close to him again. Beneath the table, she crossed her legs. It was a thoughtless gesture, but in doing so, her toes brushed his thigh and she saw the look that flared in his eyes, the unmistakable heat that blossomed between them.
They stared at one another, the air around them crackling, so that even when the waitress returned brandishing a platter of cheese and fruit, neither looked away.
“What happened with your fiancé?” She asked, in an attempt to grab yet another lifeline. After all, it was a topic he clearly hated talking about. Surely even the mention of that failed relationship would simmer things down a bit.
“We broke up.” The curt response was softened by a look of mocking amusement. “As you are well aware.”
“Yeah, I just meant…”
“The gory details?”
“Not all of them,” she relented, finishing her wine glass with an appreciative sigh. “Just the ones your family will expect me to know.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I broke her heart.”
“So it was your fault?”
“Sure.”
She frowned. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“As far as everyone you’ll meet is concerned, it was my fault. No one’s ever gotten over it.”
“They were close to her?”
“You could say that.”
She expelled a soft sigh, but as the waitress returned to top up their glasses, Skye held her tongue, waiting until they were alone again. “You’re being deliberately evasive again.”
“Fine.” He took a drink. To brace himself? “She’s my father’s goddaughter. My father and her mother were, in fact, high school sweethearts. They were madly in love, until he met my mother.”
Skye sat straighter, her interest more than piqued now. “And then he fell madly in love with her?”
He dipped his head in silent concession. “It was all very sudden. They were married within months of meeting.”
“How old were they?”