pretty, and so is her friend. Donny or Brock would be all over this, but the thought of going to dinner with two strangers—albeit two attractive strangers—makes me want to break out in hives.
Plus there’s a bigger reason I don’t want to go, and she’s finishing up the Cab Franc tasting at this very moment.
“Excuse me,” I say to Katie, “but it’s my turn to lead the tasting of the next two wines.” I walk toward Ashley.
“How’d I do, Coach?” she asks coyly.
“Adequate,” I say, taking care to keep my voice monotone.
“It will just kill you to give me a compliment, won’t it? Well, at least I got one before the tasting started.” She smiles sweetly and gestures to the other bottles of wine. “It’s all yours.”
I nod, paste on my smile, and get ready to go into wine guru mode. I’ve perfected my fake personality over the years. I smile and I talk about wine. The wine talk is easy. The smiling not so much.
Funny, though. For the last couple of days, since Ashley arrived, I find myself having to keep from smiling. Something about her tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I know enough about myself to realize it’s not just the passionate kisses.
This woman touches something inside me—something I’ve never let anyone touch.
My broken soul.
I’ve been through therapy with the best, and I’ve learned to live with what happened to me all those years ago. I have a wonderful life and wonderful opportunities to fulfill my creative aspirations. I’m content. Yes, I still have the nightmares sometimes, but I accept them for what they are, for what they will always be. A link to my past that I can never change.
Acceptance.
The last stage of grief.
I accepted long ago that those experiences changed me, almost at a molecular level. In some ways, I actually find myself embracing them, for without them, I wouldn’t be me.
I wouldn’t be Dale Steel.
Dale Steel is far from perfect, but he’s me, and I’ve learned to live with him.
The status quo works for me. Bringing someone else into the mess inside me wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
No matter how much I yearn for Ashley White.
I clear my throat. I want to give her something, so I open my mouth to speak.
“Ashley is our intern this season,” I say. “Let’s give her a round of applause. She’s great, isn’t she?”
I steal a glance at Ashley, whose jaw has nearly dropped to the floor, while the tasters clap for her with enthusiasm.
“She’s a tough act to follow,” I continue, “and I have about a tenth of her personality, but I’ll do my best to make the rest of the tasting entertaining for you.” I pick up the Ruby. “We’ve been making this wine since before I was born. When my uncle Ryan took over as master winemaker, he wanted to create a blend as close to a red Châteauneuf-du-Pape as possible. This has been one of our most popular wines since he introduced it, and we continuously improve on it with every bottling. We use the GSM blend—Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre.”
“Love me some Syrah!” says the gentleman who’s been talking about Syrah all afternoon.
“You’ll definitely feel the Syrah in this blend,” I say.
“Does this blend mimic the northern Rhône or the southern Rhône?” he asks.
“That’s an excellent question. Châteauneuf-du-Pape comes from the southern Rhône region of France. Red wines from the northern Rhône area are made with mostly Syrah, so I imagine you would love them. Some of them are very age-worthy, such as Hermitage. Southern Rhône blends tend to be more drinkable when they’re younger. We age this wine in stainless-steel barrels for at least two years before bottling.”
Ashley takes the lead and pours the wine into another set of clean goblets. She begins to distribute them.
“Let’s start with color,” I say. “Ashley guided you through the color of the Cab Franc. Do you see any differences in this wine?”
“Is it called Ruby because of its color?” Katie asks.
“No. If you look closely, it’s darker than a Ruby. My uncle named it after his wife.”
“It’s beautiful,” a woman says. “Like a clear garnet.”
“Definitely,” says someone else. “I don’t think it’s lighter than the Cab Franc, just a slightly different hue.”
“Swirl it around in the glass,” I say. “Does the color coat the sides of the glass?”
“Maybe very slightly,” the man who likes Syrah says. “Just the slightest tinge of pink.”
“Let’s go ahead and check out the nose,” I say. “What