Page 6 of Legs

I should never have walked into Vesper. I’m not sure what idiocy drove me there. Curiosity, maybe. Wondering if I’d feel like an outcast, or if the clinking of glasses and flashing of perfect teeth would prompt nostalgia. I didn’t miss it, exactly, but the familiarity scraped at me. Two years ago, my styled hair and designer shirts would have fit in with the Rolex-wearing crowd. But that was an eternity and a different guy ago.

The Blue Door was more my speed—unpretentious people, guitar licks strumming from the speakers, hushed conversations at cramped tables, and, most important, a killer wine list.

I fell onto a stool at the empty bar and pushed my hand through my hair. I nodded to Cameron. “Any good Russian River Pinots?”

He spun around like usual, no hesitation in his reach. He pulled the Lynmar Pinot Noir down from his wall of bottles and held the label toward me. “Black raspberry on the nose, floral notes, smooth tannins.”

He nailed all of that, even if he hadn’t mentioned the hints of cardamom, but he should have known better than to offer me a 2011 Pinot. “Are you new?” I said, and he chuckled. “I’m not after anything from that mess of a drenched season. Try again.”

Instead of telling me off, he smirked. A smirk that widened as he put me on hold to check his phone. His gaze jumped to the door, then back to me, his grin widening as he texted someone. “Something tells me I have just the thing for you tonight.” He glanced over my shoulder again, and I frowned at the still-closed door.

“Hit me with it,” I said, unsure what he kept staring at.

Cameron, with his inked sleeves, didn’t look the part of the wine geek. Not that I did anymore, either. But I’d warmed that barstool enough to test his wine knowledge, and he rarely disappointed. He went right for the 2013 Foursight. That killer season had produced fruit-intense grapes, and Foursight was a boutique winery, everything made in small batches. My weakness.

At my nod, he grabbed a glass from the rack above his head. The deep ruby liquid swirled up the sides as he poured.

I stuck my nose in the crystal and inhaled scents of ripe berries and damp earth, hints of rhubarb teasing me. Fucking sensual. “Why didn’t you start with this?”

My first sip was perfection.

“I like screwing with you. Most people pretend to know their wine. It’s nice serving someone who isn’t full of shit.”

“I know a thing or two.” Or a thousand and two. My blood practically pumped with the divine nectar, my ancestors having grown grapes when all of Greece revered the gods.

Two years ago, when my life imploded, I avoided anything and everything to do with wine. I tossed my collection and drank beer and hung out in dive bars, hair growing longer, tattoo collection building. Buying the Harley I’d had a hard-on for since twelfth grade eased the sting, but nothing erased my anger. Still, I couldn’t stay away. Not from wine. Not from the lure of a Pinot as pure and ripe as the Foursight. Plus, staying away meant my family won, when they all deserved to be gloriously, ceremoniously fucked over.

Cameron grabbed a glass from the washer behind him and shined it from stem to rim, before hanging it on the overhead rack. The same end-of-night routine I did when closing up Rudy’s Tavern.

His attention kept flitting to the door, but he said, “You should enter that sommelier contest. Odds are it’ll be filled with wannabes and egos.”

I swished a sip around my mouth and swallowed. “What contest?”

He dropped his cloth, grabbed a flyer farther down the bar, and slapped it on the wood next to me. “Sommelier of the Century. Some lame attempt for the Adriano brothers to dig themselves out of the hole they’ve sunk in. Their restaurants have been tanking, and they’re trying to attract attention. Press.”

“Sounds like bullshit.”

“Maybe, but the opportunity is no joke. Head sommelier position is up for grabs, for all three restaurants, and it’s open to anyone who’s ever uncorked a bottle. With that kind of prize and no background needed, it’ll be a circus. But entertaining.”

Probably would be a laugh, but if Cameron knew my background, he’d never have suggested it. My résumé was a wet dream for most restauranteurs, no sommelier position out of my reach. My lats bunched as memories scratched under my skin, the thoughts more unpleasant than sipping a corked Merlot.

I stretched my neck, and my mind wandered to the club and that proper girl and her dirty mouth. A nice diversion for my acerbic thoughts.

She’d sat at her table, back straight, shoulders locked in perfect posture, hands folded on her lap. It had me wanting to unlace her fingers, dip my head down, and lick her until she pulled my mouth against her wet heat, her crossed legs trembling for hours. She was even better close up, a spray of freckles covering her sun-kissed skin.

So California. So innocent. A princess with a dirty mouth.

Who’d turned me down.

While Cameron continued with his nightly clean, I blinked the disappointment away and read the flyer on the bar. The Adriano brothers were San Francisco celebrities, but their restaurants had slipped from hot spots to backup plans. The contest was smart marketing, a way to shine a light on their venture while involving the city. What caught my eye, though, and halted my throat mid-sip of wine, was the bullet point at the bottom:

After two months of tasting sessions and elimination rounds, the best two contestants will work the restaurant on June 28th, serving top wine writers and reviewers to determine the winner.

Top wine writers. In one place. On one night.

An idea caught, a taste of justice a hell of a lot sweeter than the Pinot Noir finally traveling down my throat. A chance to right a wrong that should never have happened. It would mean being a finalist in that farce of a contest, but like Cameron said, the circus would attract more wannabes than wine devotees, and I could taste the best under the table. I’d just have to use a different last name.

As I sipped my wine, my tension less acute, a feminine voice said, “Is that drink still on offer?”