The Pairing(21)

“You got all of that?”

He looks vaguely hurt, as if his nose has betrayed him by not providing the richest possible sensory experience. Instead of answering, I take a sip, and he watches me pull the wine over my palate, turn it over in my mouth, settle its weight on my tongue. His eyes follow my throat as I swallow.

“Hm. Yeah, definitely black cherry on the front.” I lick the back of my teeth. “Dried, though. And some plum jam.”

Kit says gently, under his breath, “C’est quoi, ce bordel?”

The other wine is a younger Pomerol, a round, fruity summer wine that Gérard promises will go perfectly with lunch. This time, Florian pours.

“Hello,” Florian says as he fills my glass, his voice close and warm and earthy.

“Thanks so much,” I say, smiling at him.

It happens so quickly, it’s hard to say if it happens at all. Florian finishes my pour, and then he flutters his eyelashes in what could be interpreted as a flirtatious wink. He moves on to Kit, who says something in French that makes him laugh, and he winks at Kit too. Before I even have time to summon indignance, we’re whisked out to lunch.

Blankets and quilts spill across the sun-soaked lawn, each with a numbered serving board and our lopsided baguettes. Two more farmhands emerge with platters of meat and cheese and fruit. Kit and I have been assigned to a blanket so small, I have to wonder if Baguette Husband was involved.

We sit one careful inch apart and pile our board with little pots of seedy fig jam, orange crescents of melon, slices of Jambon de Bayonne, and hunks of soft, stinky cheese. Baguette Husband returns to laugh at the dog as she runs happy laps and sniffs everyone’s ham.

Kit procures a tiny jar of cloudy honey from his bag, and I can’t resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Did you really bring your own special honey from home?”

“The restaurant where I bake sources our honey from a lavender farm,” Kit says. “It’s ruined me for all other honey.”

“Oh, sure, we can’t have you eating just any old honey.”

As lunch goes on, Florian stays busy refilling everyone’s wine. When he kneels beside us, I catch a hint of his scent on the midday breeze. Soil and sweat and a bit of thyme.

“Do you like the wine?” he asks me.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” I answer honestly. Then I think about him winking at Kit. I look into his eyes and sink to the bottom of my voice to add, “Structured. Muscular, even. I can tell you work hard.”

Florian stops pouring a second too late. When he leaves, Kit is staring.

I tear a piece of bread off and smear it with cheese. “What?”

“You know what. You were flirting with Florian.”

“So?” I shrug. Kit’s face is unreadable. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” Kit says instantly. “I mean—yes, because he was flirting with me at the tasting. I thought he and I had something special.”

“Sorry, he’s mine now. Look at this pour.” I gesture extravagantly at my half-full glass. “Maybe if I show a little leg he’ll give me the whole bottle.”

Kit looks down at one of my legs sticking out of my shorts, blinks slowly, then drains his glass.

“Pardon, Florian!”

He says something that must be French for Can you top me off? Florian’s eyebrows say Kit has found a way to make it sound just as suggestive as it does in English.

This time, when Florian holds the bottle over Kit’s glass, Kit loosens one of his shoulders and tilts his head to the side. He slips Florian a languid smile, letting the sunlight gild the ridges of his jaw and throat.

Oh. That’s someone I haven’t met before. The Sex God of école Desjardins.

When Florian leaves, Kit’s glass holds more than mine. He turns that smile toward me, eyes bright with laughter and something else I can’t name.

“Well.” I take a swig that’s somewhat bigger than necessary. “We’ll see who wins the next round.”

“In the meantime,” Kit says, passing me a honey-soaked piece of baguette, “taste this.”

I take it in the name of friendship, doubtful his boutique honey can possibly be as good as he says. Kit is the kind of person always pursuing the most of everything—the highest thread count, the ripest peach—but sometimes he gets lost in aesthetics. I’m not expecting much when it hits my tongue, especially not with my mouth still coated in sugars from the wine.

But then the flavor blooms.

“Damn.”

“Right?” Kit says, positively beaming.

“It’s actually fucked up how good that is,” I say. “The lavender with the floral notes from the wine, the violet and peony.”

Kit sags onto his elbows, gratified, and regards me from under heavy eyelids. “When did you become so good at wine tasting?”

Unlike with Maxine, I have no problem flexing for Kit.

“I’m the assistant sommelier at Timo now.”

His eyes widen. “You are? Since when?”

“Unofficially, like, three years? But I didn’t fully switch over from bar manager until last year.” I pause, then decide to just say it. “After I took the certification exam.”

“You—” He sits up. “Theo, you passed the sommelier exam?”