by HELEN HARDT
“Flirty? I agree with you on the tannins, but what the hell does flirty mean? Is that a technical term that they teach you in doctor of wine school?”
I expect her to get angry, but she doesn’t. Instead she smiles—a gorgeous smile that lights up her whole face. “Yes. Flirty means it dances across my tongue. It teases my tongue and throat. The tannins are bright rather than all-consuming. This is a versatile wine, Dale. Perfect with or without food.” She takes another sip. “Truly delicious. Plummy. Jammy, even. Medium-bodied but unforgettable.” She pauses once more. “This is unlike any Cab Franc I’ve ever tasted.”
I hold back a smile, but I’m not sure why. “That’s because you’ve never tasted my Cab Franc before.”
“This one’s yours?”
I nod. “I personally believe that Cab Franc is underrated. I love it.”
“I thought Syrah was your favorite.”
“It is. But where Syrah is dark and smoky—lusty, as you’d say—Cab Franc is more versatile. As you said, it can be paired with food or not. Easily enjoyable when done right.”
“Wait, wait, wait…” She sets down her wineglass and advances toward me. “Did you just give me a compliment?”
Did I? I raise my eyebrows.
“Don’t try to deny it. You said, ‘As you said, it can be paired with food or not.’”
“That’s a compliment in your eyes?”
“You agreed with me. It’s the best I’ve ever gotten out of you, so I’m taking it as a compliment.” She takes another step forward.
My groin is on fire. Any closer, and—
I grab her, bringing her to me in a sharp embrace as I crush my lips to hers.
She parts her own instantly, and I swoop between them with my tongue. The tannins, the plum jam, the oak. All on her tongue and in her mouth, all touching her own sweetness.
She kisses me back, entwining her tongue with mine, and a small moan escapes her throat and resonates into me.
She tastes like heaven. Pure heaven, and—
Footsteps clomp outside.
Shit! The tasters. What time is it anyway?
But, God, this kiss.
I want it to go on forever. I could taste her forever. Kiss her mouth, her nipples, her pussy. Every part of her.
I deepen the kiss, taking more of her—
She breaks the kiss and pulls away. “They’re coming, I think.”
Her lips are pink and swollen, even from the short kiss. Too damned short, but it was a hard kiss. An amazing kiss.
A kiss I need more of.
One of the workers knocks softly and then opens the door. “You guys ready in here?”
“Sure,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can.
Then I leave to greet our guests and bring them back.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ashley
My lips are still tingling. I touch them, and they seem to vibrate lightly under my fingertips.
He kissed me.
Dale kissed me.
It didn’t last long, but it was even more amazing than his first kiss.
He wants me. I felt it. Not just in the kiss but in his erection pushing against my belly.
And God…I want him. I want him like I’ve never wanted anything.
“We have a treat for you,” Dale says as he ushers the guests into the tasting room. “Only a few cases remain of our Fuji apple wine from last season. We’ll be tasting it today, along with three of our reds. Take a seat if you’d like, and help yourself to some cheese and fruit. You’ll need the cheese to cleanse your palate between each wine.”
He’s smiling as he speaks. Dale Steel is smiling, and two young women, both blond, are hanging on every word.
I have plenty of people skills. I use them when I need them.
Apparently he spoke the truth.
Jealousy rears its ugly green head.
He’s smiling. Fucking smiling at these women! I can’t ever get him to smile.
The other guests are mostly older. Middle age and one couple who look like grandparents.
“This is Ashley White,” Dale says, gesturing to me. “She’ll be helping with the tasting today.”
Am I supposed to say something? I’m not sure, so I nod.
A couple more people straggle in.
“Come in. Welcome,” Dale says. “I’m Dale Steel, the assistant winemaker. Come in and join us. Get some fruit and cheese.”
The smile never leaves his face.
Ryan said he needs to improve his people skills? Seems his people skills are just fine at the moment. Until I notice the tension in his jawline, almost as if he’s grinding his teeth when he’s not speaking.
This is difficult for him. Probably as difficult as calling the apple wine a special treat for the tasters. He doesn’t consider it a treat at all, but he knows his job is to sell the last few cases of it. I have no doubt he’ll be successful.
Once everyone has a plate of food, Dale nods to me. “Let’s start with the apple, Ashley.”
I widen my eyes. He wants me to start? He’s not going to show me how tastings are done here by going first himself?
I inhale a deep breath. I’m almost a doctor of oenology. I can do a tasting in my sleep. So why am I suddenly freaked out?
Because I want to make a good impression on Dale. I want him to… Oh, God. I want him to like me. To respect me as an oenologist and sommelier.
Fuck.
I paste a smile on my face and hold up the bottle of Fuji apple wine. “I’m sure most of you are familiar with the top-notch apples and peaches grown here at Steel Acres.”
Lots of nods and vocalizations, except for one of the blond girls.
“Not really,” she says.
“Our apples and peaches are award winning,” Dale intervenes, nodding at her plate that contains a slice of apple and several slices of peach. “Take a taste for yourself.”
“Or don’t,” I say. “Let this gorgeous wine speak for itself.” I pour a tasting portion into a goblet with the Steel Vineyards logo on it and hand it to her. “Tell me what you think.”
“Really?” she nearly squeals. “You want me to go first?”
I fill several other goblets. “If you’d like to. Please, everyone else, take a glass. Swirl the wine around for a few seconds and then tell me what fragrances you smell.”
Blondie number one walks over to Dale. “Will you help me?”
“Of course.” He smiles.
And I shoot daggers at her with my stare.
She needs help smelling wine? No way will Dale fall for this flirty bullshit.
“I like the aroma,” one of the tasters says. “Smells just like a fresh apple.”
“Yes,” I say. “Fruit wines—other than grape of course—almost always mimic the fruits they’re made with, but try to dig deeper. See if you can catch some of the floral scents.”
She nods and sticks her nose back into her glass. “Honeysuckle?” she asks.
I smile at her. “Excellent. I’m also getting a touch of citrus. Anyone else?”
Several nods and “mm-hmms.”
“This is what we call a semi-dry wine,” I continue, “which means it’s on the sweeter side, but it’s not sugary at all. Go ahead and taste. Let me know what you think.”
“Light and crisp,” a taster says.
“Like an apple but not as sweet,” from another.
“Mmm. I love it. This is perfect for a summer evening,” from an auburn-haired woman.
“Yes,” I agree, even though we’re now in autumn. Maybe she’ll buy a case anyway.
A middle-aged man shakes his head. “I’m not a fan.”
“Oh?” I smile. “What don’t you like about it?”
“It’s too simple. I didn’t come here to taste ornamental wine. I want to taste the famous Steel Syrah.”
“I’m afraid we’re not tasting Syrah today, sir,” I say, “but I think you’ll love our Cab Franc. Unless you want to bring out the Syrah, Dale.”
Dale
looks up from Blondie at the mention of his name. “Sorry. What?”
“This gentleman wants to try the Syrah,” I say, “but we’re not tasting it today. I think he’ll like the Cab Franc.”
“Not a big Cab Franc fan,” he says.
“You haven’t tried this Cab Franc,” Dale says, his tone not even slightly amused. “We’ll get to that one next.”
The man nods, seemingly satisfied.
“I love this,” Blondie gushes. “I’ll take three bottles.”
Dale smiles. “Don’t you want to try the other wines before you decide what to buy?”
“I can’t imagine I’ll like any of them as much as this.” She flutters her eyelashes.
I smile, self-satisfied. In Dale’s eyes, she just made a huge error.
“Would anyone like to try more of the apple?” I ask. “Otherwise, we’ll move on to the Cab Franc.”
“I’d like another taste,” Blondie says.
“Of course.” I approach her and pour another tasting portion.
“More please?” she says.
“This is a tasting, ma’am,” I say, well aware that I just called a woman who is likely younger than I am “ma’am.”
“Yes,” she says, “and I’d like another taste.”
Dale takes the bottle from me and pours her a couple ounces. “Of course.”
Did I do something wrong? I’ve done tastings before in class and in labs. We always pour no more than an ounce. But this is practice, not theory. Blondie likes the apple wine, which should not endear her to Dale. However, he gives her what she wants.
Dale hands the bottle back to me with a smile. I resist the urge to frown. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be getting sad because Dale is paying attention to a customer. That’s what we’re both supposed to be doing.
The customer is always right.
Those words were from the manager at the grocery store where I worked when I was in high school to help my mom pay bills. I’m not in a classroom here. I’m in a commercial setting, and part of my job is to sell this wine.
I just made a big mistake. I know better. And I know exactly why I did it—because Dale is paying attention to Blondie.
So immature. Nice job, Ashley.
“Take a bite of cheese, everyone.” I set down the bottle of apple wine and pick up an already opened bottle of Cab Franc. “Cheese is a great palate cleanser. Save the fruit for after the tasting.”
While the tasters munch on cheese, I pour tasting portions of the Cab Franc. Once all the jaws stop moving, I hold up the bottle.
“I’ll be honest with you. I know a lot about wine. I’ve studied it in depth, and I’m almost done with my PhD in oenology.”
“What’s oenology?”
Oddly, the question doesn’t come from Blondie. It comes from the auburn-haired woman.
“It’s not a word a lot of people are familiar with.” I smile. “It’s the study of wine.”
“You can study wine?” This time from Blondie.
“Yes. I have a master’s in oenology, and I’ve almost completed my doctorate.”
I glance at Dale. His jaw is still tense. Not surprising, since I know how he feels about my doctorate of wine.
“That’s fascinating,” the woman says. “I love wine and I always thought I knew a fair amount about it, but I had no idea there was actually a discipline related to wine.”
“A lot of people don’t know that,” I say.
“I’m too old to go back to college now,” she says. “I wish I’d known.”
“There are a ton of online courses you can take,” I tell her. “Some from the world’s most famous sommeliers.”
“Do you have an online course?”
I laugh. “Goodness, no. Maybe someday, though. Is everyone ready to try the Cab Franc?”
Syrah man smirks. “It’ll have to be exceptional to impress me.”
“It is.” I smile. “And I should know. After all, I’m almost a doctor of wine.”
He smiles, then, and I know I’ve won him over. He’ll like the wine. I hand him a glass and then distribute the Cab Franc to the others.
“Swirl it around in the glass,” I say again. “This time, notice the color as well as the aroma. Red wines vary a lot in color. What do you notice about this one?”
“What should we be looking for?” a quiet-until-now taster asks.
“Good question. Let’s start with intensity.”
“If by intensity you mean darkness,” Syrah man says, “this is lighter than a Syrah.”
“Yes, it definitely is.” I pick up a glass and swirl the wine in it. “Notice the color doesn’t cling too much to the glass. The color is less intense than a darker wine, such as a Syrah or Zinfandel.”
“You mean white Zinfandel?” Blondie says.
God, please help me. “No. Zinfandel is a black grape. I’m talking about the red wine made from that grape.”
“What’s white Zinfandel then?” she asks.
Dale’s jaw tenses up again. If I had x-ray vision, I’m sure I’d see his teeth clenching.
“White Zinfandel is a blush wine made from the Zinfandel grape. It’s made in a sweeter style than red Zinfandel.”
“I love white Zin,” she says. “It’s almost as good as this apple wine.”
Oh, God. Dale’s whole body is rigid now. He may very well explode on the spot.
“Is a blush wine anything like a rosé?” another taster asks.
I look toward Dale. He nods his head slightly. I take that as my cue to explain a little bit about pink wine.
“All right. Let me go off the subject for a few minutes so I can answer this question. We’ll get back to the Franc in a minute. Does anybody know why some wines are white and others are red?”
Syrah man jumps in. “Of course. White wine is made from white grapes, and red wine is made from red grapes, or black grapes as they’re sometimes called.”
“You’re generally correct,” I say. “But you can make white wine from red grapes.”
“How would you do that?” he asks.
“You simply remove the skins before making the wine. The flesh of all grapes is white. This is common in sparkling wine. You often see a sparkling wine labeled blanc de noirs. That’s French for white of black. In other words, a white wine made from black grapes.”
“Interesting. So that’s what those French words mean. I’ve seen them.”
“Then you must be a fan of sparkling wine.”
“Oh, yeah. Love the stuff.”
“Then of course,” I continued, “we have pink wine, which is called rosé. This is where blush wines come in. The term blush originated a couple decades ago and was used to describe very light-pink wines that only had”—air quotes—“a blush of color. Later the term came to mean rosé wines that were sweeter in nature, like white zinfandel. Rosés are normally dry. Anyway, rosé wines are made with dark grapes that are crushed, and then the skins are only allowed to stay in contact with the juice for a little while. They can be refreshing and delicious, and because the skins are only in contact for a short time, they usually lack tannin.”
“What’s tannin?” someone asks.
I smile. “I’m glad you asked that, because it segues nicely back to the Cab Franc. We’ll touch on tannin when we taste the wine. Let’s get back to our discussion of color. After intensity, the next thing to look for is opacity. How opaque is this wine? Can you see through it at all?”
Glasses swirl.
“It doesn’t seem to be completely opaque,” one woman says.
“Good,” I reply. “Cabernet Franc is traditionally lighter than a Cabernet Sauvignon or a Syrah. Take a look at the bottom of your glass. See anything there?”
Murmurs of “no” flood the room.
“That’s because this one is filtered. In unfiltered wines, you’ll see some sediment at the bottom. This is common in Italian wines and some French wines. Most wines made here in the US are filtered. Now, take a look at the actual color of the w
ine.”
“It’s red!” Someone laughs.
I join in the laughter. “There’s one in every crowd, folks. Look closer, though. It’s actually not red. It’s more of a maroon or burgundy. When you think of red, you think of a candy apple or a fire engine, right?”
More laughter along with agreement.
“Look at the color around the inside of the glass as opposed to the color in the center. Is there any difference?”
“Is it a little lighter?” someone asks.
“Yes, it is. The main value of the color is in the center. Does anyone see anything other than a dark red in this wine?”
Negative murmurs.
“Good job. There’s not a lot of differential in this particular wine color. As red wines age, though, you’ll typically see a little orange and a little brown. If any of you ever have the chance to try a fully aged Bordeaux from France or an aged fine Cab from California, take note of the color. It will look a lot different than this wine. Now let’s get back to the nose.”
“The nose?” Blondie asks.
“Yes. The nose is how we refer to the smell of the wine. With the apple wine, we found scents of apples, of course, along with honeysuckle and citrus. With red wines, however, you’re going to be able to discern a lot more fragrances. So swirl it in your glass, and then take a good long sniff.”
“Blueberries.”
“Or blackberries.”
“Try to be more specific,” I say. “You’re saying blueberries, but I think you mean currants. Specifically black currants, also known as cassis.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled a black currant,” the taster says.
“I understand. Blueberries makes sense, if that’s the case. I’m also getting blackberries, as the other gentleman said. What else? Don’t limit yourself to fruit. Good red wine exhibits all kinds of fragrances, some not related to fruit at all.”
“It’s got a spiciness to it,” Syrah man says. “Some black pepper, maybe?”
“Very good. I definitely smell black pepper. What would you say if I told you I’m also getting a scent of green pepper?”
Fourteen noses dip back into the goblets.
“Maybe,” someone says. “I can almost smell green pepper.”