Max took a deep breath and picked up the invitation. I watched silently as he read the words embossed on the front. “Fancy,” he said.
I held my breath as his gaze skirted over the chocolates, leaning forward to read the descriptions that sat in front of each. His eyes squinted and his eyebrows furrowed. Something was wrong.
“You hate it, don’t you?” I asked in a whisper.
Max sighed before answering. “It’s not that I hate it. It’s just . . .” He finally looked up at me. “These are very specific palettes to pair with. I mean, a raspberry and rose filling?”
“Right, okay, well, I also,” I said as I pulled out my notes, “mapped out some potential pairings that you could use with some of them. I’m no sommelier, but I love wine with chocolate, so I just thought about what I might like.”
I turned the list over to Max so he could see what I’d put together. I’d thought of everything. I wanted this event to be a huge success for him. A chance for him to show off his knowledge and take people on a tasting experience. Heck, I couldn’t wait to try the pairings, so the clientele at the club would love them.
“Ornellaia, Masseto . . . Penfolds.” Max read the list of growers of the wines on the list out loud. “These are some of the most well-known growers, Isabella.”
I didn’t say anything as I tried to think back and process his meaning.
“I specifically told you that’s not what I wanted my events to be about,” Max continued. “These growers get a shit ton of press and orders every single day. They aren’t hurting. The purpose of these events with our rich-ass members is to show them something new. To give a smaller establishment a chance to get put on the map.”
“If you had looped me in first,” he continued, his voice sounding tired, “I could’ve given input on some of these choices. On how I wanted this to be . . . presented.”
Max let out a long, weary breath, his eyes still locked on the list of renowned wine labels before him. The room seemed to hold its breath with him, the thick tension palpable between the ornate chocolates and the gleaming invitations that lay untouched on the counter.
I felt a sudden tightness in my chest, my own excitement over the preparations melting away into a pool of anxiety. I’d been so wrapped up in wanting to impress that I had missed the heart of what he was trying to do.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Max. I thought?—”
Max cut me off gently, but there was a sharpness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You thought you were helping, I know. But this isn’t just about putting on a successful event or pairing the perfect wine with chocolate.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the quiet ticking of the kitchen clock. My eyes traced the lines of concern etched into Max’s face, realizing for the first time how deeply his passion ran for not just wine but for the stories behind them—the unknown vintners, the hidden gems of vineyards that so rarely found their way to the spotlight.
“This is about advocacy, Izzy,” Max said softly, his voice a blend of frustration and earnestness. “It’s about using our platform to lift up those who don’t have the means to do it themselves. It’s about discovery, about connection. Not just the wine but the hands that toiled to make it. The small businesses, the families. That’s where my passion lies. That’s the direction I want to take.”
I felt a flush of shame wash over me. All my attempts at perfection, at creating the “ultimate event,” now seemed superficial in contrast to Max’s genuine ambition.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding with a mixture of regret and a new understanding. “I . . . I missed the mark. I get it. You shared that with me, and I didn’t realize that?—”
“Do I want more?” Max finished for me, his gaze dropping away from mine. “Yeah, most people don’t. They see the sommelier title and they think it’s all about sniffing, swirling, and sipping the most expensive bottles I can get my hands on.”
I took a step closer, my voice a quiet whisper now. “Tell me, then. Teach me, Max. I want to understand. I want to help make this right.”
For a moment, we just stood there, the air between us thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts and realizations. Then, slowly, Max’s expression softened, and something like forgiveness flickered in his eyes.
Max’s enthusiasm was palpable as he leaned closer, his excitement breaking through in a smile. “We start with the wine,” he explained, his tone turning earnest. “There’s this vineyard I’ve had in mind for a while now, Linden Hollow. I’ve followed their journey for years, admired their dedication to sustainable practices and the unique way they craft their wines. I think showcasing their products at our event could really highlight what they’re about.”
Genuine passion sparkled in his eyes as he spoke about the vineyard. It was clear this was more than a choice of convenience. Max saw a kinship in their mission, a shared goal that went beyond wine and chocolates. “I was thinking,” he continued, his gaze meeting mine, “are you up for a road trip there? It could be a great opportunity to really understand their philosophy, pick out the perfect pairings for the chocolates you’ve selected.”
Heading to the vineyard with Max sounded like a blast. I was all-in for getting a firsthand look at how they made their wine, especially since we’d be matching it up with some delicious chocolates. I got the sense we were teaming up for something bigger than wine or chocolate—it was about shining a light on a place that was doing cool stuff with their grapes. “Count me in,” I said, thrilled Max was bringing me into this part of the project. I was all geared up to dive into the vineyard scene, eager to soak in the sprawling fields and the stories they harbored.
EIGHT
MAX
I zipped out of Isabella’s place with a plan in motion, taking the tunnels through the city to make sure my car was prepped for our little adventure. While she got herself ready, I swung by the store, picking up an arsenal of road trip essentials—snacks that ranged from the healthy to the decidedly not-so-much. It was all about balance, after all. Tossing bags of chips, fruit, and a couple of indulgent treats into the backseat, I made my way through the dense New York City traffic back to Isabella.
As I pulled my car up to the curb, her front door opened, and I had to actively lessen the joy that spread over my face at the sight of her. Isabella walked down the front steps, a tote bag full of our fancy chocolates in hand, and sunglasses on her face. The sun was shining, and her hair was a mass of unruly curls, but the sundress.
Were women aware of what they looked like in sundresses? Did they know when the sunlight catches the fabric the right way, you can see the outline of their hips? Did they know how many times we’d imagine sliding the hem of that dress up to discover what was underneath? How we wanted to bunch up the fabric in our fists?
I shook my head as I walked around to the side of the car to open my door. I pasted a friendly smile on my face, hoping like hell I could hide the lust I felt in my eyes.
