Page 31 of Third Time’s a Charm

All this overthinking—which is the strongest of my aforementioned superpowers—has me taking another gulp of wine before I’ve eaten anything.

I promised myself no swallowing, but spitting is only appropriate in a tasting setting, clearly it isn’t a good plan at mealtimes.

It’s rare for me drink enough to get drunk, but I am a little light-headed. I think back, trying to calculate. It’s been two glasses. Pretty sure. Or maybe three? The staff have been topping me up, so it’s hard to tell.

I put the wine down and reach for the carafe of water with lemon slices that’s sitting in the middle of the table. Water and something to eat will help.

Jasper is sitting opposite me. Which is better than next to me, where I would be able to smell his delicious, and no doubt expensive, aftershave. From here, all I can smell is the mouth-watering food. Then again, it means I get an uninterrupted view of his face. His curls shine under the fairy lights in the pergola above us. He listens with serious intensity to the junior winemaker sitting next to him.

As one might expect from someone who grew up in the upper middle classes of England, his table manners are faultless. The smooth, capable movement of his hands offering platters to his neighbours, wielding cutlery, curling around his glass, engross me.

I blink and take another sip of water. Oops. It was wine. Never mind.

The eye fillet is cooked to perfection and paired with a silky, velvety red wine jus that I surreptitiously mop up with my fresh bread roll.

I try really hard to focus on my water, but somehow my hand keeps bringing my wineglass to my lips.

Food has helped a little, though. I’m not drunk, but I’m not entirely sober either. Tipsy, my mother would say with a frown of disapproval.

Dessert is massive platters of local fruits and cheeses along with tiny, bite-sized lemon tarts, which the chef knows are my favourite.

Much to my embarrassment, the staff bring out the sparkling wine and Grahame stands, catching me with an entire tart in my mouth. Okay, they’re bite-sized. But that doesn’t mean eating them in one bite is elegant.

“I’d like to propose a toast to our wonderful friend and colleague, Louise Baker. Her commitment to the wine industry in this country, and her support of little wineries like ours, is unparalleled. May the year ahead bring us both success in working together on exciting new ventures.” He raises his glass, as does everyone at the table.

My cheeks burn, and I look across at Jasper. There’s warmth in his gaze. Admiration even. Not quite the impenetrable mask he usually wears.

While the staff clear the table and make room for the traditional bush dancing that follows dinner, I take myself off to the bathroom and splash a little water on my face, running my damp hand around the back of my neck.

I need to get a grip. And not drink any more wine.

Certainly not the white fortified that’s one of my weaknesses. Bottles dot the table beside cheese platters. Surely, if I have some cheese and crackers first, a tiny glass of the fortified wine won’t hurt?

I’m saved from myself by Grahame’s son asking me to dance. There’s not much that’s more laugh-out-loud fun than a good barn dance. It also serves to help me sober up. At least a little.

Jasper doesn’t join in the dancing, despite being asked numerous times by female guests with hearts in their eyes. Instead, he chats with Grahame and a couple of the staff. But the whole time, I feel his eyes following me from the shadows as I move through the partners in the dance, dizzy with exertion and maybe a little too much wine.

I wish he would dance. Wish he would spin me in his arms and laugh with me. I could go over and ask him, but something stops me. Some long-disused sense of self-preservation maybe.

“We’ve got an early start tomorrow. I think it might be time to turn in, don’t you?” Jasper says from close behind me as I take a break to guzzle some water between songs.

“It’s only early,” I scoff.

Wordlessly turning his wrist towards me, he proves it’s closing in on midnight.

“How did it get that late?” I look around, and now that he mentions it, the crowd has thinned out. Even David and Val are saying their goodbyes to the staff.

“Well, the day is divided up into twenty-four hours, or one thousand four hundred and forty minutes …” Jasper starts dryly.

“Yes, alright. Ha ha. Very funny.” I steady myself against a table. The dancing has sobered me up, but all the spinning has left me a little off-balance.

“I think Grahame and his team want to call it a night.” With a pointed look at the staff clearing the last of the glasses from the tables, Jasper makes short work of our thank-yous and leads me out into the fresh night air.

We’re silent as we wander down the path. My cheeks begin to cool. I run a hand across my forehead, smoothing back the damp frizz that’s fallen from my French braid during the dancing.

He doesn’t touch me, but I sense his hand hovering by my elbow. A gesture that’s proved necessary when I trip over a tree root in the dark and his fingers take a firm grip on my arm.

I lean into his side and giggle. “Oops. Looks like I’ve got the wobbly boot on.” Dear God. Did I actually say that? What an idiot.