Page 22 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
“Yes, you were. Right before the water arrived. You said my name.”
His brow furrowed, and either he had a good poker face or he really hadn’t had anything of importance to say. “I don’t remember, I guess.”
My chest caved a little, and I picked up my water. What is this? Why am I getting weird and mopey about Lucas? Last night I hadn’t even liked him that much. So my first impression of him had been off, so what? I found him attractive in spite of the scruff, big deal. So beyond the smartass mouth was a curious mind and a romantic soul, whatever. I hadn’t come here to meet a man; I’d come here to forget one. Straightening up in my seat, I vowed to quit allowing serious thoughts to get in the way of a good time.
Our wine arrived, and I watched as the waiter poured the ruby-colored liquid into glasses. My insides got quivery with excitement the way they always do when I’m anticipating a really good glass of wine. I must have bounced a little in my chair or something because Lucas laughed. “Excited?”
“Totally. Can I drink it now or do I have to let it sit for a while so oxygen wafts around above it or something?” I waved a hand in the air over my glass.
“No, you can drink it now.”
“Good.” I picked up my glass and breathed in the aroma as if I knew what I was doing. “So you know about wine?”
“A little. My family has a small vineyard in Provence.”
I lowered the glass. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. In fact, this wine is very similar to one we make. Try it.”
“Say no more.” The wine was cool on my lips, and I let it linger in my mouth a few seconds before swallowing. “Mmm. Delicious. I wish I knew better how to describe it. Soft? Silky?” I took another sip. “God, it’s just so good. Sorry I don’t have better words.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you like it.”
The waiter brought our salads and Lucas set down his glass in favor of his fork, but I wasn’t quite ready to part with mine yet.
“So tell me something about this wine.”
“Well, I don’t know nearly as much as my brothers, and I’m not much into rules about wine, but the first thing any expert would tell you is that this is the wrong wine to have with these salads.”
“Who cares about that? I’m with you—no rules.” After one more sip, I swirled it around in the glass. “But what’s something about it you can teach me?”
“Well, this wine is a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, which can have up to thirteen different varietals—but don’t ask me to name them all.”
“How about just one?”
He thought for a second. “Grenache.”
I nodded. “Good enough.”
As we ate our salads and polished off the bottle of wine, Lucas and I chatted easily about wine, our families, and our childhoods. His mother had been a film actress.
“But she only acted for maybe five, six years before quitting to marry a Count,” he said.
“A Count? Really?”
“Really. Old name, old money. That’s where the vineyard comes from. She had two sons with him before he admitted he preferred men.”
I paused with a bite halfway to my mouth. “No way.”
He nodded. “They stayed good friends, though. He’s a great guy. He and his partner run the vineyard and my mom is a constant guest there in the summertime.” He paused before adding, “With her new husband.”
“What? God, that’s so French. Is the current husband your dad?”
“Nope. My dad was an American musician on a European tour. He met my mom here, fell in love, and left the band to stay and marry her. When I was about six we moved to the U.S. When I was twelve, she decided their affair had run its course and moved back to France. Now she’s married to the tennis pro at her club, who’s ten years younger than she is.”
“Oh. Well, good for her.”
“And for the pro too. He spends his summers sunning himself at the Count’s pool and practicing his serve on the Count’s court.”
