Taste of You
Violet Theron
Copyright © 2019 Violet Theron
Cover Photo Credit: Deposit Photo
Cover Design: Canva
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Chapter 1
Scott
“Fine wine is like a beautiful woman. Full-bodied, sweet, and gives you a run for your money.” Paul Stanza, my client, simpers as he says. It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a beautiful woman, I think with some amusement.
“This is a Domaine Leroy, ’96. One of my favorite Burgundy.” He hands me a filled glass. His bald head glistens as he sips from his own.
I sniff and taste the fine red liquid. After a few swirls in my mouth, I nod with approval.
“And Scott, if you like whites, this Muller Riesling is my favorite.” He pours another glass for me. Paul is one of my oldest and biggest clients. He owns the second largest wine importing business in the country. Even though I usually enjoy a nice glass of wine with my meals, spending my time drinking with my client is not my ideal way of spending my Saturday evening. Nonetheless, I nod and smile as I entertain him. Or at least, let him entertain me with the best vintage in his stockroom.
“Paul,” I try to divert his attention away from his glasses. “Would you like me to walk you through the contract again?” I tap on the stack of papers on the table which is the objective of my visit. Which, in fact, Paul has ignored for the past two hours while he walks me through his entire collection of fine wines.
He shakes his shiny head and takes another sip. Instead of spitting the wine into the silver bucket, he swallows in big gulps. Right now, his brown face starts to turn red and his gaze becomes clouded.
“Scott, how many years have you known me?” he slurs his words.
“Ten? Fifteen?” I try to think. It’s been a long time. I got the Stanza account when I was a newly minted junior partner at the law firm. At the time, Paul’s business was small and shaky, and none of the senior partners wanted to waste their time with it. I, on the other hand, had little choice, being on the bottom of the totem pole, so I took it. Much to everyone’s, including Paul’s, surprise, he grew his business into a multi-million dollar business, despite his complete lack of business sense. I have to say, the man’s passion and instinct for wine are unparalleled and are probably responsible for much of his success.
“Yes, almost fifteen. And I have done well with this business.”
“Very well.” I set my glass down and rest my hands on my lap. I have not swallowed a drop while Paul has been drinking, so my mind is still quite clear.
“Yet now I’m forced to sell my business for pennies.” He bangs on the contract with his meaty fist. “This offer is insulting.”
“It’s your best shot for saving the company,” I answer dryly. We have been discussing this for months now. Despite Paul’s success, his incompetence in business eventually caught up with him. Either he sells his business now to his biggest competitor or risks losing everything. The negotiation took months and we are now in the final stretch. Understandably, he is reluctant to sell his pride and joy, but even I am losing patience with him. Paul is a generous and kind man, but he isn’t a decisive businessman.
“If I only have a son to help me.” He tosses the contract into a set of very expensive crystal wine glasses. The glasses crash and shatter on the ground into a million pieces. Paul has an only daughter, whom he treasures more than anything in the world. But he is traditionally minded and that means daughters are to be seen and not heard. I have never met the girl, but I heard she ran off to the West Coast for school as soon as she was old enough. Paul always says that she has a rebellious streak.
“You’re a good friend, Scott. You’re the most loyal person I know.” The man sobs.
I place a hand on the hunched over figure. “Paul,” I comforted him. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow.” He nods with his eyes closed. The man is visibly drunk and is in no condition to execute the sales agreement. I pick up the contract from the floor and stuff it back into my leather suitcase.
I leave the building and turn the corner before I see the old dirty sign “Stanza Wine Bar.” Now I feel like I really need a drink, although I feel a little silly to spit out very expensive wine that Paul was willing to pour for me for free and then turn around to pay to get drunk out of my own pockets.
Yet my feet slow when I spot a young waitress darting inside the bar. Her long raven curls sway with each move of her round hips and she glides through throes of customers with the confidence of a Flamenco dancer. Her skin is tanned and glowing and her bright blue eyes are beautiful and intelligent. Without thinking, I step inside the double wooden doors.
Serena
The weekend pre-dinner rush is always the worst. Most people, after a full day of spending time with their loved ones, need a nice glass of wine before they can face spending more time with their families at dinner time.
“Wine helps people forget their troubles,” my father would always say.
I wipe down the tables quickly so we can turn them to the next waiting customers. The line is out the door of our little wine bar. In fact, the line of waiting customers is snaking around the corner and spilling over into the next block.
It’s nice when business is good. Our wine bar has the advantage of being the only direct-to-customers seller of wine from the Stanza Wine Company. People can get rare and hard-to-find wines that are usually only available to special shops and wealthy collectors. For a fair price, of course.
This wine bar is where Paul Stanza started his first business. Over time, his focus shifted toward wholesale importing rather than selling directly to consumers. However, the wine bar remains a popular attraction in the city and part of the Stanza Wine Company history.
Beads of perspiration form on my forehead. I have worked two shifts today and my feet are sore from the high heels that I’m wearing. I turn to the waitlist for the next customer in line. A young tourist couple wearing jeans and t-shirts at the head of the line are waiting impatiently for their turn.
A man in a well-cut suit waltzes through the double wooden doors and smiles at me. He is in his forties, well-groomed with artfully tousled sandy hair. He has an athletic build with an almost boyish face. It is unusual for someone to be wearing a full suit on the weekend in the city. I quickly chalk him up to be a banker or a real estate agent.
“The line is back there,” I say coldly and point at the door. Other people have waited for hours for their turn. It wouldn’t be fair. I notice his deep-set eyes and dark brows. They give him a determined, focused look.
He flashes a campaign perfect smile at me and says in a smooth, deep voice, “I’m a friend of Paul Stanza’s.”
I roll my eyes. I wasn’t born yesterday. I have never seen this guy before in my entire life and he expected me to believe him? “I’m sorry, even if Mr. Stanza were here himself. I’d make him wait,” I state truthfully as I watch his dark brows furrow.
“Okay, how about this?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver money clip. He rips out two fifties from the roll of bills and hands them to me.
I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I hate rich, entitled men who think money can solve any problem. I cross my arms at my chest and refuse his cash. “I’m sorry, but these two people are next.”
Unlike most people, the man is completely unfazed by my rudeness. He turns to the young couple and flashes his smile again. “May I have your turn?” He hands them the money diplomatically.
Their eyes widen. One hundred dollars can buy a whole bottle of reall
y nice wine anywhere else. They take the money and almost run out the door. The man turns back to me and smiles again. My face feels hot. Money can buy you a lot of things in this city, including admiration and respect, but not from me.
“Right this way,” I welcome him with clenched teeth and seat him at the empty table. I toss the menu in front of him. “Here, let me know what you want,” I say rudely.
He seems unaffected by my open hostility and reads the menu. He slowly pores over the entire menu for a full minute, then he looks up and opens his mouth. “Do you have any recommendations?”
I want to shove my pen down his throat. I can’t tell if he is toying with me or not, so I take a deep breath and give him a fake smile. “Do you prefer red, white, or rosé?”
The corner of his thin lips raises just a touch. I’d consider him a very handsome man if I am not so annoyed with him right now. “What do you prefer?” He leans forward on the table and looks up at me with smoldering, deep-set eyes. His smooth baritone voice rolls in my ears. He acts with the confidence of man who is used to getting his way around women.
“It doesn’t matter what I prefer, what do you like?” I snap. I hate how hot and bothered I feel right now. I’m just angry, I try to convince myself.
The grin on his lips gets wider. “I was wondering if I can buy you a drink?” He smiles at me with boyish charm.
I roll my eyes. Working as a wine bar waitress means I get a fair amount of flirting from sloppy male patrons. Even though I’m considered a “big girl,” I have nice curves that men are always drooling over. But it is usually harmless and I always equate it with better tips. However, I just can’t go through the motions with this guy right now. He only sees me as a cocktail waitress and an easy target. I am seething inside right now.
“No, I’m working.” He is financially successful and irritatingly confident, just the type of man my father would like me to date and marry. Dad still thinks women shouldn’t work and should be taken care of by their husbands. I have a graduate degree in business for crying out loud!
“Then I’ll have a ’96 Domaine Leroy. Thank you.” He slams the menu shut and hands it back to me.
My eyes widen a little. That’s our most expensive wine. A rich asshole like him would order the most expensive thing on the menu. He probably knows next to nothing about wine except the price. I nod and ask mischievously, “The Merlot?”
“No.” His dark sexy brows furrow and he corrects me. “Pinot noir. And make sure it’s the domaine leroy, not the maison.” Who knew that a frown can be so sexy. Instinctively, I bite my lower lip to quiet the tremors in my chest.
Okay, fine, he actually knows a little about wine. I nod and flash him a smile. “Yes, of course.”
I return with a glass of the right vintage and set it carefully in front of him.
He takes a small sip with his magnetic eyes fixed on me. “Dark and full-bodied. Just the way I like it.” A shiver runs up my spine as if my body knows he is talking about me instead of the wine. To my chagrin, I feel a warmth spreading between my legs. His cockiness is way too attractive.
While I am trying to pretend that I don’t understand his insinuations, he looks straight up at me and asks, “I wonder how you taste.”
My head starts to spin before I pretend not to hear him and rush off to attend to other customers. He sits in silence as he sips his wine. Without looking over at him, I can feel his gaze on me all night long. When I turn to look at him, his eyes would still be fixed on me. A small part of me is thrilled by the blatant attention from a handsome stranger. All evening, I rehearse in my head of the words of rejection that I would inevitably need to say to him if he asks me again to have a drink with him.
After I seat a gaggle of women, I look up and see him strutting toward me. Each step he takes makes my panties slip a little.
“So how about that drink?” he asks in a husky voice as he pulls himself close to me.
With all the strength I can muster, I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“May I ask why?” he reaches over and holds a curl of my hair lightly between his fingers, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoots from his fingers to my body. His hand is slow and deliberate. Possibly a preview of what he would be like in bed.
“I don’t date rich assholes,” I state without mercy. I half expect him to protest and explain how he isn’t “one of those men.” For a second, I want to take perverse pleasure in making him fluster and sweat a little. Instead, he just cooly holds my gaze while smiling with a strange satisfaction.
“Don’t tell me, you also split the checks on dates and don’t let people hold the door for you.” Before my jaw drops to the floor, he grins mischievously and then turns on his heels and leaves. I feel a tinge of disappointment as I watch as his broad back disappears into the streets.
“Who was that, Ms. Stanza?” Silvio, the manager, asks me.
“I dunno,” I shrug and say, “he said he’s a friend of my dad’s.”
Chapter 2
Serena
I adjust the black lace on my sleeve as I listen to the men argue about what to do about the company. My company.
I sigh. I guess it is mine now. Dad has spent the past months trying to sell the business he built and then go retire in peace. He and his men were lucky to have found a buyer, who was willing to pay a decent price and keep the workers employed. Dad agonized the entire time about the handover and never felt it was right. Even though I am his only child, he kept me out of everything as usual. On the night before the contracts were to be signed, Dad had a massive heart attack and passed away.
Now, we are back at the negotiating table and ready to execute the sales agreement. My mom is still bedridden and crying at home. For the first time in my life, I am thrust into my dad’s world, and ironically, I am here to sell my way out of it.
“I think we should sign the original contract as soon as possible,” Greg, the soft-spoken CFO of the company, says, “before they change their minds. The death of the CEO can make the company seem unstable. The longer we wait the more reason they have to lower the price.”
“No.” Wilson, Dad’s oldest partner and the company’s second biggest shareholder, shakes his gray head. “This is our opportunity to negotiate for a higher price. We can change parts of the sales agreement that Paul wouldn’t agree to, in order to compensate them.”
“I’m sorry,” I ask. My voice comes out louder than I expected, and the two men turn to me in surprise. They didn’t expect me to speak, and their eyes widen as if they are seeing an inanimate doll turning into life.
“What are the parts of the agreement that Dad wouldn’t change?” I ask innocently. I have read the three-hundred-page document front to back several times, but I have always found the sweet, ingenue act works best with these machismo men.
Wilson turns slightly red and stammers, “Well, they aren’t that important, from your point of view. You’ll get more money, Serena.” He pretends to comfort me.
“So what are they?” I ask again pleasantly.
Greg presses his lips together for a second and watches Wilson as he speaks. “It’s the union agreements. Your father is- was very protective of his workers. He had put in protections for his employees not to lose their jobs over the merger.”
I turn to Wilson. Like an expert actress, I tilt my head back and widen my eyes. “And you want to get rid of them?”
Wilson opens his mouth for a second then closes it, like an old, wrinkly trout. Then he states slowly, “Serena, this will be very good for you and your mother.”
“Really?” I smile. “How much money would I get?” I place a strategic hand on Wilson’s arm. “You own some of the company too, don’t you?”
This has always been a sore subject between Greg and Wilson. Greg is inevitably the current mastermind behind the company. However, since he isn’t a cofounder like Dad or Wilson, his share is small. Meanwhile, Wilson, who spent most of last year at his beach house in the Virgin Islands with his th
ird wife, a blonde gold-digger, gets the lion’s share from the sale.
Greg frowns. “I don’t think we should renegotiate the contract anymore.” He holds his gaze steady as Wilson scowls back.
“But you will make more from the sale.” Wilson struggles to be patient with me. True, I am the biggest shareholder of this company and the sale would make me a very wealthy woman. But I can’t do it at the expense of the workers or Dad’s memory,
I watch him sweat as he clenches his fat fists together. I have known men like him my whole life. Rich, powerful, and with a complete disregard for anyone who isn’t like him. Dad never thought a woman could run this company, so he never allowed me to help him run it. Only in the last few years, he started to let me help with the operations of the importing business as well as the old wine bar. I now know the business like the back of my hand.
I look at both men with innocent, wide eyes. “I don’t want to redo the contract if that’s what Dad wants. In fact, I’m not even sure if I should sell.” Both men are startled by what I said. I have watched these two letting Dad make one bad business decision after another over the years. Now I have the pleasure of sitting back and watching them tear each other to pieces.
“Wilson,” Greg says in his threatening, soft voice, “this is your doing. Your greed will cost us the deal.”
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who would be out of a job after the merger. You’re costing me a lot of money.”
I am about to throw more oil into the flame when the doors of the board room swing open and I blink in confusion for a second. A dashing figure slips in between the doors and walks toward us in a familiar strut.
“Scott, there you’re. We’re just walking Serena through the sales agreement.” Greg stands up and shakes the man’s extended hand. He is as tall, confident, and irritatingly handsome as the day I met him at the wine bar. I have almost completely forgotten about him. Yet when he gives me a quiet, knowing smile, I feel my stomach flipping over.
Taste of You: Older Alpha Younger Woman Page 1