“Will it be weird if I ask you to come sit by me?” I asked as I reached out, my hand brushing Max’s as I passed back the bottle. The contact was brief but electric, a current that seemed to flow through both of us, leaving a lingering warmth. “Or will that break some sommelier rule?”
Max’s smile broadened, a soft light glinting in his eyes as he inched even closer, erasing the scant space that had remained between us. His presence was a tangible warmth, a magnetic pull I found myself powerless to resist. Every brush of his clothing against mine, every shared breath, proved our very heartbeats were syncing in that moment.
“Your turn to impress me,” Max said, popping the cork of the Cabernet Sauvignon. “Describe this one.”
I took a slow sip, my gaze never leaving Max’s. “Bold,” I started, each word deliberate, “with an unapologetic intensity. It doesn’t ask for your attention, it demands it. Just like someone I know.”
“Bold and demanding, huh?” he echoed, his voice laced with an undeniable intrigue that sparked a flutter in my chest. His gaze lingered on mine, deep and searching, as if he was trying to read the unspoken words dancing behind my eyes. “Sounds familiar, but I’m curious to hear more about this . . . intensity.”
The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken promise, a silent acknowledgment of the connection unfurling between us. The outside world seemed to fade away, leaving the two of us in our bubble of shared glances and whispered words. The wine, rich and complex on my tongue, was no match for the complexity of emotions swirling within me.
We were down to our last wine, but I didn’t want the night to end. I liked how I felt around Max. Like I didn’t have to pretend to have it all together for once. I could sit here for hours, sipping wine and flirting.
As I reached for the lone piece of chocolate, our hands brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Max’s eyes, usually so confident and focused, held a softness, a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before. It was as if, in this secluded space, we were allowing ourselves to drop the façades, to truly see and be seen.
“What about the port? The one that pairs with the dark chocolate and sea salt.” I eyed the lone chocolate left on the platter. The only one without a chunk bitten out of it.
“The problem is, ports are notoriously harder to select,” Max said. “Smaller vineyards typically don’t attempt to make them so we might have to go with something more well-known.”
“Well,” I started, my voice teasing the edges of a playful scheme, “we could always raid my parents’ cellar.”
There was a look on Max’s face that I couldn’t quite pin down. But the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile, and I knew he was in.
TEN
ISABELLA
I didn’t know why it felt like I was sneaking a boy in as I brought Max through the front door of my childhood home. But I pressed a finger to my lips for him to be quiet as the latch clicked shut.
I reached for his hand to guide him up the dark stairs since I knew every floorboard by heart, especially the extra creaky ones. His palm was warm and wrapped around mine, expertly intertwining his fingers through my own. Max’s hands found my waist as they reached the landing, and I passed my hand over the wall looking for the light switch.
I didn’t miss the squeeze of his hands or how large they felt wrapped around me. Finally, I found the switch and slid the dimmer up a tad, enough to light our path to the arched door that led down to the cellar.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Max’s voice came out in a whisper over my shoulder.
“Definitely. They won’t mind if we drink all of their wine, but if we wake up my mother, we’ll have hell to pay,” I replied.
Another squeeze at my hips in response and I almost leaned back into him to feel more of his touch. Somewhere between the lounge and my parents’ foyer, we had escalated our flirtatious banter to flirtatious touching. I wasn’t mad about it one bit.
I guided us through a tucked-away door hidden at the back of our butler’s pantry. A skinny set of stairs led down to a temperature-controlled room where my parents stored their favorite wines. They weren’t wine snobs by any means, but my parents held memberships in various wine clubs around the world, which meant a fully stocked wine cellar at all times.
The room was long, with shelves on three sides, a stunning arched brick ceiling, and a large table in the middle. An iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting the cedar wood in a beautiful glow.
“Wow, this is quite the collection,” Max whispered, even though it was no longer necessary, as he looked up at the shelves stacked high with bottles.
“Yeah, I don’t think my parents have as many people over these days, so they don’t go through the bottles fast enough,” I said.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to take some off their hands,” Max said, winking.
“All the ports are in this section.” I turned and pointed to an angled section of the cellar, small, but stocked floor to ceiling with various ports.
Max walked over, eyes wide, as he took it all in. I leaned against another shelf, watching him. I eyed him as he picked up bottles, read the label, put some back, and circled back to others. “You’re taking this very seriously, Boss.”
Max turned to me, placing another bottle back on the shelf, with an odd glint in his eye. His lip turned up in a slight grin as he said, “Well, you picked out a fine chocolate for this wine, so it has to match it in quality, yes?”
In the tight space of the cellar, I had to look up to meet his eyes. They were eyes worth staring into, getting lost in, lingering on. The golden-brown flecks glimmered in the cedar-colored light of the cellar. I felt drunk just from the sight of him.
Max turned to face me, put his hands back on the sides of my hips, and grazed his thumbs over the edges of my hip bones through the fabric of my dress.
