Chapter 1

“Les hommes ont oublié cette vérité, dit le renard. Mais tu ne dois pas l’oublier. Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé.” — Antoine de Saint Exupéry, “Le Petit Prince”

The ice-blue lake shimmered in the bright noontime sun. Luke squinted into the light, moved by the beauty of his surroundings ... natural and otherwise.

I knew they were wealthy, he admitted as he turned his attention to the house. I wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. But I guess I didn’t realize just how wealthy.

At first glance it was a vacation home well-suited for its environment, resplendent with all the rough-hewn wooden beams and vast window-scapes one would expect in this peaceful and isolated lakefront setting. It was larger than most, perhaps, and there was an unusual secondary structure in which he knew he’d be spending the majority of his time, but it was still the sort of place in which a family might quite happily escape the rigors of the city.

And now it was a full-time residence. The owners maintained an apartment in the city they’d fled as a fallback option on nights when the long drive home seemed unwise or unmanageable. But almost two years ago — three weeks into what was supposed to be a restful but temporary relocation — they’d decided that their relocation was going to become permanent.

Aware that his presence was expected for lunch, and unwilling to be late on his very first day, he finally closed the car door and thanked the driver ... leaving his luggage in the middle of the driveway, just as he’d been instructed. Now that the hum of the limo’s engine no longer flooded his ears he could finally hear the subtle soundtrack of a lakefront forest: bright and conversational birdsong, the soft susurration of leaves in a gentle breeze, the intermittent crackle of unseen woodland creatures searching for a meal.

I am hungry, he acknowledged as his stomach growled in anticipation; for an unfortunate number of reasons, he’d been unable to manage breakfast. But when he attempted to announce his arrival his finger hovered over the bell, unwilling to move the last half-inch necessary to formally announce his presence. Behind this door lurked more than one opportunity. While he was immensely grateful for one, he was wracked by unresolved guilt and unworthy anticipation over the other.

Am I really going to do this? Am I actually ready to face them? Both of them together? To accept the inevitable consequences of my leap into the unknown?

Luke closed his eyes and took three deep, lung-filling breaths; a calming technique he’d learned from an old girlfriend obsessed by such things. She was one of the most openminded people he’d ever dated, and he’d experienced so many unexpected yet extremely pleasurable things due to that open-mindedness that he’d let the relationship linger long past the time he’d lost interest in the rest of it, or her. They’d parted on bad terms when, frustrated by his inability to bring an end to their relationship due to its erotic physicality, he brutally mocked her belief in some form of antiscientific quackery and she stalked out, half-naked, flinging his few decorative possessions to the floor as she departed.

Ironic that I should be thinking about her right now. She’s probably one of the few people who’d not only understand what I’m about to do, but would actually encourage me to take such an unfathomable chance.

Nerves steadied and heart rate slowed, he rang the doorbell.

Luke Bronson loved his family, but he’d never quite come to terms with his name, believing it more appropriate for some sort of cowboy or country music singer than a sybaritic urbanite. He’d insisted on being called Lucas for as long as he could, but by the time he reached college he’d accepted how quixotic his demand was. Luke was easy, Luke was short, and Luke was — for better or worse — his name.

Sometimes he wondered if the choices he’d made were, at least in part, an attempt to flee the assumptions surrounding his name. Studious to the point of stultifying seriousness in his youth, he’d excelled at academics but took little interest in anything else. He was athletic and kept himself fit, but he’d never embraced team sports, nor was he passionate enough about individual pursuits to borrow the necessary time from his schoolwork. For lack of a more compelling alternative he’d entered his university career in pursuit of an economics degree, but it was his part-time job at a restaurant of considerable repute that set him on his true path.

Just how he’d lucked into The Savoy he still didn’t quite understand. He’d more or less painted his school’s environs with applications in the weeks before his freshman year, figuring he could turn a few years of experience waiting tables during high school into enough spending money to go on the occasional date, a luxury he’d largely denied himself before college. The offers poured in — inexpensive but experienced college-age help was an opportunity few cash-strapped restaurant managers could turn down — but once he heard from The Savoy, there was no question which one he’d accept.

As with “Luke Bronson,” the name of the restaurant didn’t quite conform to its reality. To most, “The Savoy” suggested white tablecloths, frequent changes of silverware, white-gloved waiters in tails, and bills only the elite could afford. The restaurant itself checked only one of those boxes (flatware ... none of it silver ... was indeed replaced after every course), but it was an establishment of immense ambition, critically acclaimed and very nearly famous, yet still within the economic reach of many. A table was as likely to be occupied by jittery twenty-somethings on their first formal date as it was by bankers who’d asked their personal assistants to make a reservation, and the carefully managed atmosphere leeched any hint of stuffiness from the room. People arrived hoping to have a good time, and left having had an even better time.

The restaurant’s ambition extended to its beverage program, and it was there that Luke accidentally stumbled upon his calling. One day, he walked through the doors the requisite two hours before service and was immediately buttonholed by the sommelier. Paul was his name, though the staff called him Pierre because he often conducted their pre-service wine tastings in an outrageously awful French accent. Luke’s experience of wine had been minimal at best — his father was a bourbon drinker and his mother a near-teetotaler — but (like most of the waitstaff) he adored Paul and his bawdy sense of humor, and eagerly soaked up every bit of knowledge that he could.

“Listen, I need a huge favor.” Paul was breathing heavily and looked uncharacteristically out of sorts; it was clear that he was harried. “Carolyn quit, right in the middle of lunch service. No notice, just got up and walked out. Can you fucking believe that shit?”

The truth was, he could. Carolyn was Paul’s assistant-in-training and had, to him, always seemed flighty and irresponsible. Worse, her aspirations were more openly mercenary than Luke preferred. Soon after he started the job she’d blatantly flirted with him, making it clear that a sufficiently lavish date would almost certainly end up in her apartment. While he already knew that he generally preferred bold, sexually aggressive women, something about the naked avarice in her tone put him off, and he turned her down. In the aftermath, she came as close as possible to acting as if he didn’t exist.

But this was no time to add to Paul’s distress by recalling his history with Carolyn. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Sure, anything I can do.”

If Paul was relieved, he didn’t look it. “I need you to take over her job. Tonight.”

Panic immediately set in, and a jumble of words emerged. “But ... Paul, I don’t know enough about wine, and I’m not even twenty-one so it might not be legal, and I’m sure someone who’s been here longer could...”

Paul cut him off with the faintest hint of a smirk. “Don’t worry, it’s legal. In this state, you can serve booze before you can drink it. Crazy shit, eh? Second, I already talked to the GM and she’s not only okay with it, she thinks you’re the perfect candidate.” With a wink, he added, “For what it’s worth, she didn’t care for Carolyn either. Yeah, yeah, dude, I know all about your history with her. Don’t worry; the word is that everyone who said yes ended up disappointed. Apparently, she’s a lousy lay. Hot body, dead fish. Just lays there with her legs open, theatrically fakes it, then tells you to get out.” Luke’s mouth fell open; he had absolutely no idea what to say in response. “The only worthwhile part was that she’d reliably brag about how good you were to the rest of the staff in order to get you to keep doing whatever it was she wanted, though once people caught on to her bullshit even that wasn’t much compensation.”

“Anyway, let me make something clear: unless you completely fuck it up this is a promotion, not a temporary substitution. Your regular position’s gonna be filled by tomorrow. It’s a relatively slow night ... only a little over half the tables are turning ... so we can handle being a man down. Don’t think you’re not still waiting tables, though. You’l just be doing it with me barking orders in your ear all night. Sounds like fun, right?”

Skill at adaptation is supposed to be one of my strengths. I put it on my resumé, didn’t I? Verbatim. Well, time to prove it. Straightening his shoulders, he nodded, “Okay, okay, I’m in. What do I need I do?”

“First, we’re gonna do a quick run through the cellar. I know you can count and I don’t think you struggle with the alphabet, so the codes on the bins shouldn’t be difficult. But while I’m not worried about you being able to find bottles, there are some tricks to the inventory system. And listen very carefully: the inventory system is the organizational and financial lifeblood of my job, so if you fuck that up I’m gonna kick your ass so hard that it gets stuck in the ceiling. During service you’re gonna shadow me whenever you’re not toting plates. Just listen and watch for a while. Later, when it slows down, I’ll let you take over wine service, though I’ll still be with you in case there are questions you can’t answer. And then, the next time you’re on the floor...” Paul rambled at great pace as they descended into the wine cellar, while Luke did his best to absorb a virtual flood of information.

Two years later, Paul received a job offer from a famous Los Angeles restaurant that he couldn’t reasonably refuse, and Luke — still only a college junior, his twenty-first birthday mere weeks in the past — was named wine director of The Savoy.

That he loved wine was something he realized the first time he tasted one that didn’t come from a jug or a box. That he loved serving it to others, sharing his enthusiasm and his growing knowledge, he discovered by his second week working with Paul. That he also loved knowledge as an end in itself became increasingly clear the more he tasted and learned.

He switched his major to business, figuring that it gave him the best opportunity to monetize his enthusiasm. There was also an unexpected bonus from the change to a slightly easier major: he had more free time. And so, when the general manager at The Savoy (with Paul’s long-distance encouragement) suggested he enroll in formal courses to become a sommelier in title rather than just in function, he leapt at the opportunity. Especially as the restaurant offered to pick up most of the outrageously expensive tab.

Luke worked harder at his newfound passion than anything else he’d ever pursued, and though he was careful to not let his grades slip, he was driven by an unspoken desire to become the youngest person to ever pass the prestigious and legendarily arduous Master Sommelier examination. Which he did on his first try at only twenty-six years of age, beating the previous record by almost two years. Though neither of his parents quite grasped the extent of his arcane knowledge, they were exceedingly proud of him, especially when he added the title to a college degree festooned with honors.

As for The Savoy, they closed the restaurant and threw him one hell of a party. Even Paul, who’d flown in from LA to surprise him, was surprised and delighted by just how quickly his career had ascended. But while Luke enjoyed himself to the fullest, and did his best to earn the punishing hangover from which he’d suffer the next morning, he was nagged by a secret melancholy all night. For though no one else knew, he was already halfway out the door.

The very next week he quietly gave notice. Two months’ worth of notice, giving him plenty of time to finish grooming his replacement, but notice it was.

The party they threw for his departure resulted in a hangover that lasted the better part of two days, but it was well worth it. Especially when he awoke the next morning with a head full of hammers and tongue made of lead, opened his eyes, and realized that he wasn’t alone. He rolled over ... only to discover that he wasn’t alone on the other side of his bed, either.

Best of all, he remembered everything they’d done. And so, as soon he was able to rouse them from their own boozy slumber and herd them into the bathroom for an titillatingly snug shower, the three of them enjoyed a lengthy (albeit considerably more sedate) encore.

When Luke left The Savoy for his next job, he was straightforward about his intentions: to acquire as much knowledge as he could, then move on. That honesty helped him sail frictionlessly through a series of short-term gigs that might otherwise have earned him a reputation for being unreliable. But he felt a need to personally experience every aspect of the wine business, and so he ran the gamut: a small local retailer, a prestigious and nationally known retailer, a wholesaler, importers both gigantic and niche, and (of course) multiple stints at wineries both domestic and otherwise. Along the way, he dabbled in writing and other media — nothing paid well, or often not at all, but it helped solidify his reputation — until all he had left to try was an auction house.

It was during this final engagement that Luke finally recognized where he’d been headed all along. Interacting with extremely well-heeled wine buyers all day, every day, he learned that while the field was littered with pretenders — new money attempting to buy their way into connoisseurship without having any actual idea of, or affection for, what they were drinking — there were some true aficionados who simply couldn’t keep pace with a rapidly changing wine world. Usually, they were people consumed by careers that afforded them the monetary opportunity to indulge in fine wine, but not the time. Sometimes all they wanted was a brief consultation, but more often what they sought was a longer-term relationship. And Luke — confident, whip-smart, occasionally coming across as brash to those who decided beforehand that they didn’t like him, but endlessly ingratiating and agile enough to handle the most fragile egos — would be their spirit guide. Literally and figuratively.

He’d been drifting away from auctions in favor of lucrative private consultations for just over a year when his worlds collided and William Harris called. Luke managed to hold on to his phone throughout the conversation, and to his credit managed to say enough of the right things to secure the job, but the moment they disconnected it left his hand and crashed into the floor, shattering the screen.

It didn’t matter. Not really. He could afford a new phone. What he couldn’t afford was making the wrong decision. But as his broken phone glittered on the unspoiled hardwood floors of his stylish new apartment, he couldn’t decide which decision that was.

While Luke was rampaging his way through the wine world, he was careening at a proportional pace though what passed for the modern dating scene. He’d always been handsome, and aging out of adolescence had been nothing but beneficial to his looks, but he’d had less success with women than he might otherwise have enjoyed due to his intense focus on school and work. Now, however, he was making up for lost time.

As with his employers, he was always scrupulously honest; “I’m not ready for anything really serious right now,” “I’m open to this working out, but I don’t want either of us to come into it with undue expectations,” and so forth. They weren’t lines, exactly, because he did mean them, but they accomplished the same results as a less ethical womanizer’s repartee: a procession of shortish-term assignations that revolved almost entirely around sex, punctuated by the occasional relationship that, ultimately, never went much of anywhere.

It wasn’t that he was immune to feelings. He’d caught them from time to time, though perhaps not as often as his partners. Frustratingly, though, something was always missing. Since people his age rarely “dated” in the traditional sense, finding someone willing to seriously engage with his passions proved virtually impossible. Plenty of women liked wine, were interested in it, were even reasonably knowledgable about it (in a non-professional sense), but few wanted to sit down with a bottle or two over dinner and talk about what they were tasting, night after night after night. The obvious solution — dating within his field — was even more restricted to fleeting sexual release, for few of his peers had time for an actual relationship; most such hookups were followed by weeks or even months of unintentional ghosting until the next hastily arranged rendezvous. Worse, professional competitiveness too often intruded on the good times; a failing to which he unfortunately succumbed on more than a few occasions.

So while he was confident enough to approach almost any woman, and most certainly (or so he was assured by his partners) knew his way around a woman’s body, in romantic terms he was perpetually spinning his wheels. In the beginning, his career was advancing so rapidly that it didn’t matter all that much, and so getting laid on a regular basis felt like reasonable compensation. Anyway, he repeatedly consoled himself, I’m not even thirty yet. There’s plenty of time to worry about finding The One and settling down. But as women came and went, and as more and more of his older friends paired off — most temporarily, some permanently — he began to view the absence of true connection in his life as a tangible form of ongoing heartbreak.

Which when he met her.

“Here’s to drinking alone on a Tuesday night,” he muttered to himself, pulling the glass away from his inquisitive nose just long enough to take a sip. He swirled and analyzed in a distant, mechanical way ... going through autonomic motions and processes he barely noticed were part of his consumption patterns anymore ... and stared at the parts of his face visible in the mirror behind the bar’s tiered liquor bottles.

“Whaddya think?” called a voice from somewhere he couldn’t see without leaning over the bar. Wendy owned BTG, a cozy and casual wine bar in a rapidly gentrifying but still edgy part of town, and she remained one-hundred percent of its front-of-house staff ... save for weekends, which sometimes featured another server. She and Luke had hit it off at trade tastings back when he was a freshly minted wine director at The Savoy and she was slinging bottles at a series of retailers, and since she’d opened her own place he’d been one of her most devoted regulars. He knew he could, with a phone call or two on any given evening, be marinating in a Bacchanalian procession of expensive and legendary wines with clients or other industry friends, and when he was in the mood he indulged, but the truth was that he preferred drinking with Wendy. She shared his taste for quirky, offbeat wines that spoke of soil and soul, and frequently offered him those rarest of elixirs: wines he’d never tasted. Even better, he genuinely liked her ... and despite the abrasive way she usually acted around him, the feeling was mutual.

“It’s fascinating. Intense weight. A little oxidative, maybe, but there’s so much density. I like it, but it needs some warming up. Or maybe I do.”

“And...?” She was forever challenging his highly trained palate, but he enjoyed blind tasting with her, because the stakes were so much more enjoyable than they were with a group of overly competitive professionals. If he got it more or less right, she’d snort derisively, comp the glass, and move on to the next test. If his guess was egregiously wrong, she’d mock him all night and then make him buy her a glass of something expensive while she closed up shop. But despite countless late nights accompanied by a little too much wine, and despite the fact that Wendy was (in her aggressively quirky fashion) objectively attractive, they’d never hooked up, for Wendy’s sexual preferences didn’t include the Y chromosome. It was something he regretted, for in almost every other way they seemed almost perfectly matched. One night, deep in his cups and disconsolate over his inability to do more than get casually or transactionally laid, he’d asked if she couldn’t just try being straight, or at least bisexual, for a while.

“Honey, listen. You’re cute for a boy. And honestly, I really wouldn’t mind banging you. I’m in a dry spell right now, and I’m horny as fuck, I’m tired of my toys, and compared to most dudes you’re not completely awful. Don’t spread this around, but I’ve tried dick, you know. I prefer them made of materials that don’t come with baggage or, y’know, men attached, but flesh-and-blood dicks are alright. I almost came on a dick once, though I’ll admit there was an unfortunate amount of Ecstasy involved, and I’d been making out with a straight girl for a while before I agreed to let her boyfriend defile me like that. If you really wanna fuck, then let’s go back to your place and fuck. I won’t suck you off, because that’s disgusting, and you’re not going down on me either — there’s no way you’re gonna measure up — but I’ll let you do my ass if you want. I know you heterosexual sickos like that sort of thing, because it allows you to have gay sex while pretending you’re not gay. But if we do it even once, you’re never coming ‘round my bar again ... because there’s not gonna be a next time, straight men can never handle that, and I won’t have you moping around here pussy-blocking me when my dry spell’s over. So what’s it gonna be? One-time offer.”

He nursed a fiery but sensuous Romano Levi grappa that had to be one of the rarest things in Wendy’s stash and carefully considered her warning. Eventually, he concluded that she was right to be wary, and that he valued their friendship far more than her body. That night, just before she locked up, they hugged for an unusually long time — like lovers saying their final goodbye — and agreed to never speak of it again. It was a promise they’d broken on countless occasions, albeit (almost) always in a joking fashion. In a strange way, he felt that they’d become even closer in the aftermath.

Back in the present, he offered, “Friuli, maybe? Skin-contact, though not too long. A few hours, I think. Vitovska?” It was an absurdly specific guess ... naming an obscure white grape from a reasonably obscure region and identifying the exact amount of time the wine spent on its skins, accumulating the tannins that brought it closer to the characteristics of a red wine ... but he was feeling both cocky and in the mood for Wendy’s artfully profane mockery.

She reappeared behind the bar, eyeing him speculatively and daring him to recant, but when he resolutely refused to second-guess himself, she snorted. “Not bad, you incredible nerd. Not bad at all. Yes to the skin-contact. It’s some weird-ass muscat clone I’ve never heard of. I gotta check Jancis when I get home, though it’s possible that even she hasn’t heard of it because I’m told this is the only place that grows it. That said, you missed pretty badly on the place. It’s from Georgia.” He knew she didn’t mean the American state. “And,” she added, “it’s fermented in amphorae.”

“Don’t you mean kvevri?”

Wendy grinned. “No! Amphorae! You can just imagine the scandal, bringing one of those outlandish Greek vessels into the ancestral home of the exact same damned thing.”

Luke added his own smirk. Though she’d gleefully called him a nerd, this was extreme wine dorkery. “But they’re so different!”

“Yeah, huge difference ... one has handles and the other doesn’t, except when it does. I’m surprised someone hasn’t started a war over it. I gotta bring table four some food, but try this one next. It’ll wipe that smug look right off your face.” She poured a glass of pale, pinkish-amber liquid from a bottle she’d mischievously wrapped in tinfoil in anticipation of his visit, then stuffed it underneath the bar and headed for their tiny kitchen. Luke was still deep in thought over the remnants of the first wine when he caught a flash of color in the mirror.

“That almost matches my hair. I think I need to try some. What is it?”

Luke looked to his right and everything stood still; his breath, his heart, and his world. Perched on the stool next to him — and there was no obvious reason for her to have chosen it, for the bar was otherwise empty and only one table was occupied — was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Tall, slender (but far from skinny), with piercing green eyes framed by a boisterous riot of long, flame-red hair. She was wearing a sleek patterned dress that revealed just enough cleavage for him to be unable to avoid sneaking the briefest of glances at the enticing curves on display, though he came to his senses quickly enough that he hoped he’d gotten away with it. If she was wearing makeup, it wasn’t much; her skin was a flawless porcelain that needed no concealment, and her features were so dramatic that they needed little delineation.

He found himself momentarily unable to speak, and instead focused his attention on the glass Wendy had just poured. He realized that it was refracting light from a red-shaded lamp at the end of the bar, and did in fact rather perfectly match her hair. Unable to think of anything better to say or do, he passed the glass to his new companion. “Please, have mine.”

The woman arched an elegant eyebrow as she studied his face. God, even her eyebrows are perfect. “I repeat my question: what is it?”

He shrugged, offering his most guileless smile. “I have no idea.”

“Not much of a wine guy?”

Though he was once again rendered speechless, he was rescued by Wendy’s sudden return. Or so he thought, at least until she started talking. “Him? No, he’s a complete idiot. Utterly hopeless. Every week he comes in and asks for our fruitiest, sweetest chardonnay.”

Without breaking her penetrating stare, the woman raised the glass to her nose. “Whatever it is, it isn’t chardonnay. Are you trying to corrupt the poor lad?”

To his consternation, Wendy’s initial response was uproarious laughter. He reddened, then blushed even more deeply as he realized that the woman still hadn’t stopped looking at him. “While I’m sure that would be someone’s idea of a good time, I try to focus my corrupting influence on gullible visitors of the ladyparts variety who don’t suspect what sort of den of iniquity they’ve stumbled into. I don’t suppose you...?”

A mysterious smile curled flawless lips brushed by the merest notion of a color that also matched her hair. “Sadly, no. Not recently, anyway.”

Alongside his ongoing inability to speak, Luke was painfully aware that he was slowly hardening in his pants. This never happens to me. Never, ever. Silently, desperately, he prayed that the woman would look away for a moment so he could adjust himself into an alignment more easily concealed.

Finally, Wendy cast him a lifeline. “That’s too bad. Anyway, the nerd here’s one of the smartest wine people I’ve ever met. He’s got fancy papers, letters after his name, and everything. I hate to admit it, but he knows a hell of a lot more than me. Unfortunately that’s gonna go straight to his head, so make him guess what’s in that glass. It’ll be hilarious to watch him be wrong over and over again.”

The redhead looked down at the wine for a moment, then back at Luke. “I think there’s something in the ‘women sitting alone in bars’ handbook about not accepting already poured drinks from strange men.” Her expression hadn’t changed, at least not visibly, yet Luke could feel the challenge in her voice. Despite turning even redder, he summoned up the courage to speak and, as casually as possible, hold out his hand.

“Luke. Luke Bronson. Now I’m not a strange man.”

If she was amused by his boldness, she didn’t show it. Nor did she shake his hand. Nor did she respond with her own name. Instead, she pushed the glass back in his direction and turned to Wendy. Luke couldn’t be sure if he saw, or only imagined, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “I’ll have the same, please.”

Chapter 2 »