Page 56 of Flirty Fall Fling

“You should.” She hands one to me and watches me take a sip over the rim of her glass. “Well?” she asks. “Go on. Rate it. Be fair. Consider the area.”

Like a sommelier taught me, I swirl it, sniff it, and make a performance of it. Mostly because she’s watching me with soft brown eyes, like she’s mesmerized. I take another drink, and it’s sweeter than I thought it would be.

“This tastes like a dessert wine.”

“It kinda is,” she says. “Well?”

“I’ll give it a … five.”

She fights a smile. “I forgot you’re Jameson Cross. Is your palate as refined as Zane’s? Because, holy fuck, he is high maintenance.”

This makes me laugh. “He was raised with a golden spoon in his mouth and snowboarded. I grew up playing hockey. I’m the least high-maintenance dude you’ll ever meet.”

We finish the glass, and then I open my bottle.

“I searched your name online today,” she admits, tilting her head at me.

“Oh, yeah? And?”

“You’re very popular.”

I lick my lips, clinking the edge of my glass with hers. “Cheers, Blaire.”

“But I have a feeling most people get it wrong,” she adds. “I don’t believe half of what’s written about you. But there is one thing I’m curious about.”

I take a gulp of wine.

“The thirty-day thing. Do you really only date women for thirty days, and then you end it?”

“Yes, it’s true.” There’s no use hiding it. “You know that feeling people get when they fall in love?”

“The rush of excitement. The adrenaline. The tingly feelings inside when your hands brush. Daydreaming. Future planning.”

“I’ve rarely experienced it,” I admit. “And when I do, it fades faster than it came. No one survives thirty days because once the chase is over, I don’t care anymore.”

The smile on her face falters. “That’s sad.”

“I used to blame it on the curse. I’m convinced it’s me who’s the problem.”

“They call you the Fling King.”

“I know. That’s why when you said my reading talked about a fling, well, I believed you.”

She closes her eyes and drinks her wine. When they open, she takes a few seconds before speaking, like she’s trying to find the proper words. She doesn’t.

“How is it?” I finally ask. “You can’t leave me hanging.”

“It’s delicious. Like, ten out of ten, no notes.” She takes another sip. “It tastes like a fireplace in an expensive ski resort. Smoky. Luxury. Expensive.”

This makes me chuckle.

We give up on refilling glasses and pass the bottles between us. She takes swigs of the Bordeaux like it’s a liquor bottle at a bonfire. Watching her so carefree does something to me. I catch myself staring and have to look away. We eventually trade bottles.

She rolls the bottle between her palms.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

“The woman in the orchard. She asked for your number, and I walked away before I heard the answer. I’ve thought about it thirteen different times today.”