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AUSTIN
The convention center was a behemoth; its grandeur unmissable. Tall, glass walls shimmered under the mid-morning sun, and banners advertising various vineyards and their products flapped in the gentle breeze. As I walked in, the sheer scale of the convention hit me full force. Everywhere I looked, there were stalls decked out in regal purple and gold, showcasing bottles of wine that gleamed invitingly. The rich aroma of fermented grapes filled the air, blending with the undertones of oak and musk.
I had been to my fair share of wine conventions, but this one was unlike any other. This was The Convention, the one where the biggest names in the business congregated, and its magnitude was palpable. However, as prestigious as the event was, I couldn’t help but feel out of place. As much as Valle di Sole was my home and its vineyard my pride, the bustling environment of these events always made me feel like a fish out of water.
As I navigated through the throngs of people, I couldn't help but overhear snippets of conversation – talk of vintages, soil quality, and the latest trends in winemaking. Business cards were being exchanged, deals were being made, and everywhere, glasses clinked in celebration.
I found myself at a particularly grand stall. The banner read “Château du Soleil”, a renowned name in the industry. The bottles on display seemed to capture the very essence of sunlight, gleaming invitingly. I was soon approached by a tall, thin man with silver hair and a goatee.
“Ah, Mr. Austin of Valle di Sole, am I right?" he greeted, extending a hand which I shook firmly. "I've heard a lot about your vineyard. Especially that new label of yours."
I smiled politely, internally proud of Paisley’s work and how quickly it had become the talk of the town. "Thank you, Mr...?”
“Lancaster,” he filled in with a grin. “Call me Harold. Everyone does.”
Harold Lancaster was a titan in the wine industry. To have him recognize my vineyard was an honor.
We exchanged pleasantries, talking about our respective vineyards, the weather patterns, and how it affected our crops. As we chatted, I could feel multiple eyes on us, watching our interaction keenly. The weight of those stares made me slightly uncomfortable, reminding me of the intense scrutiny and competition in this industry.
Taking a break from the crowd, I decided to step outside for some fresh air. The cool breeze was a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. I leaned against a railing, letting the sights and sounds of the city wash over me. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional bird's song, and the soft rustling of leaves brought a sense of peace.
As the evening set in, the convention transformed into a more relaxed, sociable affair. The grand hall, earlier filled with the hustle of day-time networking, now exuded the soft glow of golden lights and the pleasant hum of mellowed conversations. Jazz music played in the background, the gentle melody punctuating the air.
I found myself seated at a round table with a few familiar faces from the industry. We talked shop, reminiscing about past vintages, discussing the potential of this year's harvest, and predicting future trends. Glasses of exquisite wines circulated, each one seemingly more refined than the last.
But as the night progressed, the laughter around me started to sound distant, and the conversations became mere murmurs. My mind had already traveled thousands of miles away, back to Valle di Sole, back to Paisley.
I remembered our last morning together, the way the sunlight framed her face, the laughter in her eyes, and how she'd teased me about staying back in bed for "just five more minutes." It was a simple, mundane moment, yet thinking about it amidst this grand convention brought a pang of longing to my chest.
John, a fellow vineyard owner from a neighboring town, noticed my distant look. “Austin, you alright there?” he nudged, a smirk on his face. “You look miles away, my friend.”
I attempted a smile. “Just thinking about home, that's all.”
He raised an eyebrow. "Or someone at home?"
I chuckled, taking a sip from my glass. "Perhaps."
As the evening wore on, my discomfort grew. Every face I met, every conversation I had, the thought of Paisley was omnipresent. It was as if a part of me was missing, an essential piece that had been left behind in Valle di Sole. The realization was unsettling.
Later, as I found myself in a more private corner with a glass of red in hand, Harold Lancaster approached again. “Austin,” he said, “I couldn’t help but notice you seemed a tad... distracted tonight.”
I gave a sheepish grin. "It's just... there's someone back home. Someone special. It's strange being here without her."
Harold nodded, understanding. “Ah, love. It has a way of sneaking up on you, doesn't it? You know, in my younger days, I traveled extensively, always away from home. But there was always that one person who made every place feel empty without her."
His words resonated with me. "It's a new feeling for me," I admitted. "I've been to many conventions, traveled often, but this is the first time I've felt this way."
Harold clapped me on the back. "Then, my boy, you've found something truly special. Cherish it.”
As the night transitioned into the early hours, the convention's glamour faded into the background. I realized that no amount of success or recognition could compare to the joy and warmth of being with someone you genuinely cared about. I missed Paisley deeply, and the sooner I could return to her side, the better.
During a break between sessions, I found myself wandering through a gallery showcasing wines from around the world. I was engrossed, examining an Argentine Malbec, when a familiar, sultry voice coiled around my ears. "Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Delaney."
Turning, I met the penetrating gaze of Isabella Cortez. A cascade of raven-black hair framed a face adorned with striking features and a confidence that was hard to miss. Isabella, or Izzy as I used to call her, and I had a history. Our paths crossed at various conventions over the years, and our chemistry had always been undeniable.
For a split second, memories of our past encounters flooded back—nights filled with passion, mornings that began with lingering touches, and the secret smiles we'd share across crowded rooms. Our dalliances were never about love but the thrill of the moment.
"Well, well, Izzy. You look as radiant as ever," I responded, trying to sound casual but feeling the electric charge between us.
