Page 61 of The Stranger

“The harvest,” I expand. “We usually visit later in the year. September, sometimes October, depending on the weather and the subsequent harvest.

“It is so much fun! We get to stand on the grapes, and they squish between our toes.”

“Feet wine?” Her lovely eyes sparkle with amusement. “And you expect me to drink it?”

“I made sure they were clean! Please have a glass of the wine I helped make,” she pleads, pressing her hands together.

“Fine.” Primrose finally holds out her glass, her beautiful mouth tipping in one corner. I need to pull my head out of my ass and stop mooning after her. “Seeing as you made it with clean feet, I’ll try a little.”

“Hourra!”

“But just a smidge,” she says as I the bottle meets her glass.

“It is the best wine ever!”

“And you know that how?” she teases, full of good humor.

“I am French. Wine is in my blood! Also, I have tasted it.”

Primrose slides me a look, part doubt and part reprimand.

“It was just a couple of drops,” I add, not sure why I feel the need to explain myself.

“Monsieur Maria⁠—”

“Otherwise known as José,” I add.

“He says if you make the wine, you must taste the wine. It is bad luck to do otherwise.”

“And it was good?” Primrose asks, lifting her glass.

“It was delicious.” Sylvie gives a little shiver or remembrance. “Or I think it will be when I am old enough to ’ppreciate it.”

Primrose laughs as she brings the wine to her nose.

“What can you smell?” I ask, suddenly intrigued.

“Berries.” She seems surprised by her own answer, her teeth grazing her full bottom lip. I almost want to tell her this isn’t a test, that there are no wrong answers, but something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate that. “Lemon. No, maybe orange?” Her gaze lifts briefly. “Citrus, at any rate.”

“Bon—well done.” But my praise doesn’t seem to sit well with her. Maybe she’s not used to hearing it.

“Taste it! Taste it!” Sylvie chants.

She does. And I watch. And I want. And I hope she doesn’t notice.

“How do you like it?” My voice sounds huskier than it ought to. I clear my throat and shift in my chair. Snatching up my glass, I look anywhere but at her.

“You were right, Sylvie. It’s delicious.”

The pleasure I feel? It’s as though I planted the vines myself, as though I made it with my bare hands, rather than just with my money. The moment passes and Sylvie chatters a little more about her favorite things on the island and the places she’d like to visit while were here.

“I would like to take Andiamo out on the trail.”

“Do you ride, Primrose?”

“Horses and me…” Primrose gives a shiver. “We don’t see eye to eye.”

“We could get you a small one. The stables have many ponies.” Sylvie’s earnest suggestion makes us both chuckle.