“Stem, not bowl.” His fingers adjust my grip. “You’ll warm it otherwise, which will change the temperature and ruin the taste. Hold it like this. Gently. Like a lover.”
His breath ghosts across my ear, and I have to lock my knees to keep from swaying back against him. This is torture. Exquisite, confusing torture.
“Good. Now, swirl.” He guides my hand in a circular motion. As I rotate, the wine climbs the sides of the glass in elegant, swishing waves. “Feel that weight? That’s how you know it’s real. Good wine has presence.”
“Like you?” It was supposed to be a sarcastic joke, a real zinger, but somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the tone of the message got switched around, so it comes out instead like a husky, Marilyn Monroe-esque come-on.
I feel rather than hear his laugh—a rumb
