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“But you can?” I ask, accepting the glass.
“I’m pretty fluent in wine.”
“I’m not a good drinker,” I warn. “You should know that before I drink, and you have to wake me up to send me home. I fall asleep because I—” I catch myself before I start talking about my schedule. “I just fall asleep.”
“I’ll do my part to keep you awake,” he promises, giving me a wink that does funny things to my stomach. “Try the wine,” he encourages again.
Feeling oddly shy, when shy is not my thing, I cut my gaze, and sip the rich wine, its slightly sweet flavor exploding on my tongue. “It’s excellent,” I say. “I like it.”
“But is it under forty dollars?” he challenges.
“No,” I say. “And I only know that because you’re you and we’re here in this fancy room.”
“You don’t know me well enough to make that statement. When you do, I’ll ask you again to sum me up.”
“When I do?”
“If you do,” he says, and before I can let the possibilities in the word “if” sink in, he’s moved on, “It’s fifty-five dollars. Close to forty.” He fills his glass and corks the bottle.
I glance at the bottle that reads “Maria’s Vineyards” and “Magnificant,” an obvious intentional misspelling. “Is it really fifty-five dollars?”
“It is indeed,” he says sipping his wine. “I discovered it a few years ago and I’ve been a fan ever since.”
I sip again and set my glass down. “When I was sizing you up at the bar tonight, I’d have called you a whiskey guy.”
“I like whiskey,” he says. “Scotch is my preferred drink, but wine is in my blood. My family owns a winery. Actually,” he corrects, cutting his gaze. “I own the damn winery.”
The bitterness in his tone is impossible to miss and tells me that he’s recently inherited and not just a winery. Problems. I know all about problems. “You recently inherited the winery,” I assume.
“It and more,” he says, and I get the impression the more might not be all good, a situation I can relate to far too well. “My father died a few months ago,” he adds.
More and more, I see the ways we might be drawn to each other, and I wonder if there is a kind of kindred spirit one knows by merely bumping into a person on the street. “And your mother?” I ask cautiously, aware that this might be as delicate a subject with him as it is with me.
“Also gone, and a long time gone,” he says, shifting the conversation to me. “Are your parents alive?”
I reach for my wine and sip, considering my answer. This isn’t what I signed up for. I didn’t want to talk about me, and yet, I want to talk about him. I want to know more about this man that I actually trusted to spank me. “Quid pro quo,” he says, seeming to read my mind. “I’m naked. You’re naked, remember?”
All too well, I think, as he adds, “Give me something, Lori. I don’t even know your last name.”
And he won’t. “My mother’s a nurse. She’s alive. My father died last year.” I wait for the typical “I’m sorry. How did he die?” I hate those words, and I hate that question, which is why I didn’t say them to him. I steel myself and sip my wine.
“I’m not going to ask,” he says softly.
I glance up at him. “What?”
His eyes are warm with understanding, blue flecked with brilliant amber. “I get it. I hate the ‘I’m sorry’ that people always offer and I hate being asked how my parents died. So, thank you, for saying neither of those things.”
We do understand each other, I decide then. It has to be why I was drawn to him. No matter how much he’s pushed for the conquest tonight, he’s not a relationship person. I’m different, as he called me, because I’m not either. Women want his money as well, he’d said so, but I do not. I want my own, that I earn.
“And since I seem to only be able to bribe you for what I want,” he continues, “and what I want is to know more about you, I’ll do what I never do. I’ll tell you my story. My mother died in a car accident when I was eighteen. She was driving erratically after she’d left the house because she was fighting with my father over his mistress and hit an embankment and flipped. Cancer killed my father. As for the other question that I hate to be asked: ‘Are you okay?’ I’ve heard that a lot these past six months since he died. The answer I want to give to people but have the decorum to know I cannot, is that I’m fucking great. I hated the bastard.”
I study him a moment, understanding filling me. “You’re an only child.”
His eyes narrow on me. “And you know this how?”
“You hated your father, but he didn’t hate you,” I say. “And so, you inherited.”
“Very good, counselor,” he says. “I might need to insist on your last name, just to ensure I don’t accept a case against you. I don’t want to ruin my perfect record.”
