Chapter Text
Napa. Gross.
You’d tried to convince everyone to go to Sonoma, where things were less commercial. Fewer bachelorette parties. Higher caliber bachelorette parties? But no, it was Jenny’s 40th and while you and she both lived in Oakland and could do this anytime - but didn’t - her friends were coming from Texas, and they wanted NAPA.
You knew you were in trouble when one of Jenny’s Texas friends, from back in her flight attendant days, threw a hissy fit in the local grocery store when you were stocking up the Air BnB fridge - they were out of White Claw, and she didn’t recognize any other brands of bullshit-too-sweet-barely-alcohol. Apparently, this was a sign of a bad grocery store. And she sulked the rest of the night, demanding hamburgers instead of the farm-to-table restaurant which Jenny had booked months in advance. For her own damned birthday.
The first day went predictably poorly. It was a holiday weekend, and no one had anticipated closed wineries. You’d Uber to one - closed. Another - the waitlist to get seated was too long. Calling around, you were able to salvage a bit of the day. But the Texas crew had been buying bottles and drinking in the back of ride-service cars all day, so the day ended with being physically escorted from a winery for public intoxication. You apologized on the way out, so embarrassed, but Jenny was livid. She talked all evening about the shitty winery, but you suspected that she was bumping up against the realization that she’d outgrown old friends.
Jenny is pretty. And smart. And thin. You hung out a lot, talking about her relationships, watching her get hit on. You never knew if she was just clearly hotter than you (you’re pretty sure she is), or if she’s just more confident (you’re certain).
That first night, you excused yourself as they watched tv about celebrities you’d never heard of and called around to find places that were actually open tomorrow. It was mostly smaller tasting rooms, which would be perfect. You booked a few tastings online and swanned back into the living room stating, “I’ve got tomorrow covered!” No one was impressed, but Jenny did give you a weak smile.
It was good. Ish. The first couple of wineries were nice, smaller places: tasting rooms, tours, winery dogs. The Texas crew downing their glasses quickly and flirting with servers. Jenny and you were desperately attempting to keep up the talk of oaky notes and caramel finishes. Wine was not your thing, but you and Jenny were the only ones treating the wait staff, sommeliers, and sometimes the owners with anything like respect.
At the third spot, things started going downhill. Your group wash pretty trashed, and the dude pouring was wearing shorts (it was like 60 degrees in the sun) and his Hawaiin shirt was wide open. Clearly a man who could use a wide berth. But it was his winery, and he’d made a point to say that he’d given staff the holiday weekend off. You couldn’t quite tell by his smile if he meant “I care about my employees” or “I’ve got all you women to myself.” Was it sly? A little sad?
Why do you care? You want to be a million miles away from these annoying women, from this overindulgent hobby world, and definitely from this bro and his partially exposed hip tattoo.
But now that Jenny was a little buzzed, she was gravitating more to her old friends. And now that you’re buzzed, you’re getting quieter. The proprietor - Miles - must have noticed the divide, and he jumped up from attempting to engage you in conversation about your home and work, clapped his hands, and declared “time to say ‘hi’ to the grapes!” He marched out of the bar, clearly intending that you all follow.
So you did.
You were past the courtyard with its little bandstand and well into a dusty row of vines before you noticed that the rest of your group had not heard him. Now you were alone with this guy who clearly thought that because he had abs, he was slick. He was talking on and on - probably thought he was doing the unpopular girl a favor.
“And my best friend’s dad was a consultant for growers at several wineries. He convinced me to buy this place, but he’s the one who does the magic with the soil.” He prattled on, and you hopped back into the flow.
You were feeling uncharitable - mean even. “I guess not many people have the luxury of buying a winery or know friends who can run it for them.”
His face fell. It was only when his eyes sunk to the floor that you realized how intensely he’d been looking at you.
“Hey, I’m a little tipsy, and I’m a little pissed at my friend’s friends. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” You backtracked. “Just must be a hard business. Must be nice to know people who can help.”
He brightened a bit and went back to talking about his work, glossing over something about an accident and a settlement before jumping back to praising his friend’s dad. “Do you want to see where we ferment?” You’d come to the end of the rows and a large door directly in the earthen side of a small hill.
“Of course!” you said a little overeagerly, compensating for feeling rude.
Rows of barrels lined the walls of a wide, gently sloping packed-earth path into the hillside, leading to a small event space. “In the summer we do tastings down here. Events. Sometimes music. Weddings.” The walls were lined with faux-Edison-bulbed fixtures and the warm, crackling glow was honestly lovely. You had forgotten about the smell of being underground and found the whole effect instantly calming.
Miles jumped to action behind a freestanding bar and swiftly uncorked a bottle. You took a seat atop a heavy oak table, watching him work. His explanation - some mixture, a reserve - was clear that this was a pretty special treat.
“Can I admit something to you?” You asked, and he again caught your eyes in his laser beam of focus. You hadn’t realized how close he’d sat when he joined you - but now that you were face to face, it was really only inches.
“Anything,” he nodded, and you could believe that this stranger actually meant it.
You laughed at the sincerity, “I don’t really know anything about wine.” He laughed too. “I don’t want you to waste the good stuff on me.”
Again with the eye contact, he looked with curiosity in your eyes and frowned a little. “You deserve nice things.”
Confused, and feeling more than a little awkward, you turned your head, grateful for the permission to look away and take a sip. Miles did likewise and allowed silence to hang in the air.
You held the wine in your mouth, really trying to understand what people talked about when they did this. The stillness settled, and you closed your eyes, inhaling deeply through your nose. That deep earthy cool smell was so soothing.
When you came back to yourself, you realized Miles was staring at you again. “So?” he asked.
“I like it,” you offered tentatively, “I just don’t know if it’s good.”
His peal of laughter gave you emotional whiplash - from embarrassed of your ineptitude to pride at being able to inspire that reaction in no time at all. “That’s what good is. You can trust your own taste, silly.” He reached up toward your cheek, and you automatically tilted your head toward his hand only to lean into your empty glass that you’d been holding there. Oof, he was reaching for the glass, not you. Mortification - there was no way he missed that sheer neediness.
He smiled softly and took your glass. “That was just a taste, but let’s top you up, since you like it.” He filled the glass but, turning back, set it on the table behind the two of you. He then repeated the gesture, reaching toward your cheek, this time cupping your jaw and soothing the tension he found there with the pad of his thumb. “Is this okay?” he asked, and you melted into his hand in answer.
Drawing small circles along your jaw line, Miles then traced the outline of your lips with next to no pressure. Your mouth fell slightly open almost without your permission. He did not have to move far to bring his lips to yours, whispering into your mouth again, “Is this okay?” You closed the last centimeter as assent.
Slow, shallow kisses began to deepen as his tongue explored the soft interior edges of your lips. You pressed a little harder, asking him to open his mouth to you with your curious tongue. You both began to readjust your legs so that you were more bodily facing one another, alleviating the strain on your neck. You explored his bare thighs with your hands, his toned quadriceps twitching under your palms. His hands explored your shoulders, soothed your upper arms, trailed down your forearms before taking your hands in his and raising them to separate your faces.
You searched his eyes, curious. “Are you still tipsy?” He asked.
“Just a little.” You disentangled your hands and reached toward his temples, scraping your nails through his hair. He closed his eyes and shivered. “Not too tipsy to know my own mind,” catching his meaning.
You drew small circles through greying curls until you reached the base of his skull. His eyes closed, you could study his guileless face as he thoroughly enjoyed this touch - something, though, at the corners of his mouth and his eyes a little sad. You pulled him close. “We should get back,” you whispered into his mouth as you physically made it clear that you wanted to stay.
You don’t know what you expected. The swagger of someone wearing so little belied the tenderness of his touch. You guess you expected the rough barroom back hallway gropings you consented to from time to time to assuage your sense of self-worth.
You were therefore more surprised when he reached for his wine glass as you came up for air again and asked about the drive to your home. “It’s not really that far, is it?”
You looked at him confused. Shook your head in an attempt to reset. What was he asking? Was he trying to get rid of you?
“You’re right, we should get back - your friends will be wondering. But you don’t live too far to visit, huh?” He tucked your hair behind your ear, got up from the table, and offered you a hand.
On the walk back, through grape vines in the dusk light, you realized that you couldn’t remember the last time someone held your hand with tenderness.
This actually might be the first.