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“And with that,” continued the lady with the nose ring, “you’ll be enjoying our 2021 Vernon Estate Chardonnay. On the nose, it's got an enticing bouquet of tropical fruits like mango andpineapple, and on the palate, you’ll taste ripe pear and green apples.”
“It smells like Werther’s caramels,” muttered Sophie under her breath. She was sitting beside me, her nose deep in her glass, taking consecutive sniffs.
Throughout the weekend, she had been expertly avoiding me, disappearing into groups of people and slipping away whenever I got too close. But something shifted earlier today beneath the pergola's shade, as sunlight filtered through the twisting vines. Sophie's guarded facade fell away as we talked, and a new ease settled between us. As we laughed and chatted, our stances mirrored each other. It was a moment that pulled us out of our initial animosity and into a new understanding. We were no longer at each other’s throats.
We could speak more than two sentences without an angry retort or a snicker or possibly wishing hell on each other.
And it also probably helped that Sophie was already a glass and a half of wine into the evening—the first of which she’d kicked back upon arrival. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was bordering on tipsy and her inhibitions were staggering down a slippery slope.
“Not sure where the pineapple is,” she remarked, studying the glass as if she were searching for it. “Or the mango.”
“Only refined noses can smell the individual fruits, Sophie,” I said in a rather pompous British accent I didn’t do any justice to.
“Who says my nose isn’t refined?” She cocked her head to the side, her brows drawing only slightly closer, playful and teasing, while her lips quirked into a faint smile. “Maybe they’re just making it up.”
Picking up my glass, I swirled its contents and took a mighty whiff, extremely aware of Sophie’s eyes on me, of how they kept dropping to my lips and then to the birthmark on my neck.
“There’s the pineapple,” I said, though I smelled nothing except for a hint of butter I assumed was typical of all Chardonnays. “And there’s the mango too. I can even . . . ” I lifted up a finger, stuck my nose deeper into the glass, and added, “Smell subtle hints of vanilla and lemon zest. It’s quite lovely actually.”
“You’re lying,” Sophie said, poking me in the arm with her forefinger. The bracelet I’d noticed yesterday still adorned her wrist. Something told me she never took it off. “You can’t smell any of that.”
I shrugged and took a sip of the wine before placing the glass back on the table. “I guess you’ll never know.”
Waiters came around, each dressed in black trousers, crisp white shirts, and aprons. As if synchronized swimmers, they placed the bowls down and stepped back into the shadows.
My stomach grumbled, or more so roared with hunger, and the bowls of food in front of me would barely fill a thumb-sized hole.
I sighed out loud.
“What?” asked Sophie, leaning toward me, so close I could feel her breath on my shoulder as she spoke. “You don’t like the food, Alex?”
“What food?” I whispered, pointing at my bowl. “You mean the drizzle of sauce in between all these flowers? What am I supposed to do? Lick it out of the bowl?”
Sophie snorted a laugh and quickly smacked a hand over her mouth. She glanced around the table, as if checking if anyone had heard her, and then added in a low voice, “I’m more of a burger and chips girl myself.”
“Are you calling me a girl? Because last time I checked, I was a grown man,” I stated, dropping my jaw for emphasis as I angled my body away from hers to get a better look—not just at the sweetheart neckline of the forest dress that huggedher perfectly, but also at her entire face. The soft blush on her cheeks, the faintest freckles on her nose that I’d only noticed earlier under the pergola, and the spark of humor in her eyes. My first impression of her had been nowhere near what I thought of her now—Sophie Manning was truly stunning.
Another laugh gurgled from her throat. This time she didn’t slap her hand to her mouth.
Good. She had a great laugh, sweet and syrupy, and unapologetically loud.
“Of course, you are.” She sipped her wine and placed the glass down. “And honestly, I thought you were the type of grown man wholikesfine dining.”
“And what on earth gave you that idea?”
She shook her head, and shrugged, then her eyes flicked up to the top of my head and worked their way down to my chest. "You just look like someone who enjoys eating ten courses of tiny slivers of food."
I laughed at the possible insult and said, “Clearly, Sophie, you know nothing about me.” I had kept my tone light and teasing, but it was the truth, wasn’t it? I knew as little about her as I knew about the old man who lived at the far end of my street, and she knew just as little about me.
“Of course I don’t,” exclaimed Sophie. “We only met on Friday.”
“Well, for your information, I like food that fills a plate, especially food I can pronounce.
I’m an only child, so some might say that’s the problem, but honestly, I think I’m perfectly fine. I was born and raised in Crested Butte, Colorado, but don’t care for the mountains and no, I don’t like fancy things, and often wake up in the middle of the night regretting ever buying my Mercedes . . . which you dinged by the way.”
It felt as though we were in our own little bubble. All the voices dimmed, and the faces faded. It was just me and Sophie sitting at a table at a restaurant. Dim lights and leather chairs and a smoky scent lingering in the air.
“Now it’s your turn,” I added, sticking the tip of my finger into the creamy butternut squash velouté, which in my opinion looked just like purée you’d feed a six-month-old baby.
