Hate at First Sip

I had precisely thirty minutes of smiling left in me. Events like Decanting for a Difference’s annual charity gala used to be something I looked forward to. But that was back when I’d come as a guest. The world looked awfully different from this side of the bar, where the fixed smile had to stay in place if I was going to be able to make rent this month.

“I’m telling you, my family’s collection would knock your socks off.”

Oh, gee willikers, would it? Why did all these high-society types insist on talking like they stepped out of 1955? Were any of them aware that the transatlantic accent wasn’t real, and they could stop doing it at any time?

Still…the guy in front of me was cute enough, if “cute” was your thing. He had one of those dimples you only noticed when he smiled—like a little surprise. I usually liked that. Too bad his personality reminded me of prosecco that had gone flat.

“I’m sure it’s very impressive, sir,” I said, keeping my professional, vague interest firmly in place. I’m sure I wasn’t the first woman to lie about how impressive he was in any number of ways.

My neutrality didn’t deter him in the slightest. “I could show it to you sometime,” he said, smirking at me over the rim of the merlot I poured for him ten minutes ago. He’d barely touched it, preferring instead to hold and wave around the crystal goblet the DFD shelled out for while he bragged about his stock portfolio and how his VIP ticket cost a “whopping” twenty grand. It didn’t seem to occur to him that most of the people he was rubbing elbows with blew their noses with that kind of cash. “What time do you get off?”

To quote Cher from the seminal classic Clueless: ugh, as if.

But I kept the smile on my face. Rent, Viv, think about your rent. “Thank you so much, but—”

The man standing next to my would-be paramour let out a rude cough, loud enough to make the people around us stare. Just glancing at him, I could tell he wasn’t one of the VIPs shelling out for the event; he was someone’s plus-one, and they hadn’t bothered teaching him about manners. “Don’t bother, man,” he said, and my stomach dropped into my knees. Just by his tone, I already knew what he was going to say next. “Don’t you know who she is?”

The dimple in Mr. Stock Portfolio’s cheek disappeared. “No.”

“That’s Vivian Burgess.” I didn’t love the way he pointed at me while he said my name, but his tone was the real kicker. He made me sound like I had a communicable disease. “You know, Asher Haas’s evil ex.” He didn’t bother keeping his voice down, and several heads snapped my way. Phones came up like a stadium wave. A woman in pearls actually elbowed her way to the front for the best angle.

The charmer’s eyes widened with recognition. He looked at me in the same way he might look at a grenade someone just pulled the pin on. “No way. The psycho who lost it on Gino’s Vintage Hour?”

Ding, ding, we had a winner. I flashed him my most winning smile. “That’s me,” I said, singsong. “My resumé should say sommelier, reviewer, and public menace.” At this point, I had stopped trying to explain what happened on that stupid podcast. Telling people that Gino had edited the interview to make me sound unprofessional only reinforced what they thought anyway. Sometimes, it was easier to lean into it.

My charm was, obviously, completely lost on them. The men turned and ambled away without another word to me, though I could hear Mr. Stock Portfolio saying that he “dodged a bullet.” As if I was ever going to go home with him.

Even still, the blow to my ego stung. I couldn’t tell which was more humiliating: that half of the people milling about the ballroom had no idea who I was or that the other half did and thought gawking at me and relishing my fall from grace was part of the evening’s entertainment. They milled around the bar, staring like I was a zoo animal.

“Hello? Miss?”

I snapped back and forced myself to smile at the man sporting an ill-fitting rental tux standing in front of me. He was staring at the bar like the back wall was full of severed heads instead of wine bottles. Yep, we had another plus-one—and this one seemed especially intimidated by all the choices on offer. “Sorry about that, sir. What can I get you?”

He gave me a helpless look, like he was flailing in shark-infested waters, begging me to throw him a life preserver. “I want a glass of the best red you have.”

I perked up at the prospect of a real challenge. “Do you have an idea of what kind of red you like?”

He shook his head. “I know as much about all of this as I do about underwater basket weaving. All I know is that if I bring my wife something sweet, she’ll file for divorce on principle.”

“Your wife and I should be besties,” I said with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll make sure you won’t be paying alimony anytime soon.”

I glanced at the half-eaten hors d’oeuvres on Mr. Hapless Husband’s plate. “Did your wife go for the same hors d’oeuvres as you?”

He looked at his plate. He had a small pile of chicken skewers and one of those fancy puffy pastries I knew was stuffed with tomato and fresh mozzarella. The caterer called it an inside-out bruschetta. “She really liked these pizza pocket things. Ate about a half dozen of them…though she’d probably smack me for telling you that.”

I had to cover a laugh. We were specifically told not to call the bruschetta “pizza pockets,” so as to not offend the DFD members’ refined sensibilities. Especially when they paid tens of thousands for the privilege of being seen here and eating such fancy food.

Sarcasm definitely intended.

Making a quick decision, I reached for one of the bottles beneath the bar and held it up. “This is a Chianti Colli Senesi,” I told him as I poured out a glass. “It’s high acid, has a clean finish, no oak tantrum.” I pitched my voice lower to him. “The exact opposite of most people here.”

He smiled gratefully and reached for the glass. Someone reached over, plucked it out of my hand, and set it on the bar. “Don’t let her convince you this swill is the best.”

God, not one of those guys. The armchair connoisseur with the best vintages ever, really in their wine fridge at home. “And what, exactly, do you know about—?”

I turned to face the interloper and found myself eye to eye with Dante Ossani.

Tall, muscular Dante Ossani. Sky-high cheekbones, Roman nose Dante Ossani. The kind of jaw you could open a wine bottle on Dante Ossani. The youngest, darling brother of the Ossani Company, one of the highest-rated wineries in the United States. He stood in front of the bar wearing a tux that had been tailored to perfection. Too bad it was topped by a bad case of resting CEO face. Only a few months ago, he and I had regularly attended the same industry events. I’d been introduced to him countless times, but looking at him now, I could tell he had no idea who I was.

What an asshole!

I didn’t come from a legacy winery, but that meant everything I’d built had been mine. And I’d been damn proud of my YouTube-channel-turned-regional-television-show, Vino with Viv. It wasn’t ego to say that it had been a good program—it was simply a fact. I had two People’s Choice Awards in the food and drinks category sitting on my shelf collecting dust. People respected my wine reviews. They respected me…right up until it all fell apart. But now here I was, just another anonymous member of the wait staff people thought they could talk down to. Unless they recognized me, and then I was persona non grata. So which camp did Dante fall into? Did he really not recognize me, despite Asher introducing us a dozen times? Or did he assume my knowledge vanished with the collapse of my professional reputation, like a tragic magic trick? Well, I refused to accept that. As soon as everyone forgot about that horrible podcast interview, I could get my life back on track.

I squared my shoulders, and there was a tittering from the gathering crowd. A man in a velvet jacket seemed to be narrating into his iPhone like David Attenborough. The sommelier appears to be bowing up to an apex predator, or some other such bullshit.

This could go so wrong, but something inside me wouldn’t let me back down.

I ignored Dante and, instead, addressed Mr. Hapless Husband. “Decanting for a Difference stocked the bar tonight with only the best vintages. There are no bad choices to be had.” Truth be told, there were a handful that really should not be paired with the hors d’oeuvres selection, but I’d been gently steering people away from those choices all night, unless it was clear they weren’t eating and were only in it for the wine. It was like gentle parenting for the rich and lushy.

But Dante wasn’t the type to be ignored. He leaned against the bar. “He didn’t ask for ‘not bad,’” he pointed out. “He asked for the best, and the best comes from Ossani.”

Objectively speaking, he wasn’t wrong. The Ossani brand was built on the foundation of a beautiful Chianti. But… “It’s a riserva Chianti.” I tried to keep the duh out of my tone. Surely, he knew that the assertiveness of a well-aged riserva would overpower these light hors d’oeuvres.

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t back down. “Which is undeniably more high quality than what you just poured.” Dante’s attention turned to the man beside him. “The Ossani Chianti is the best on the market. This bartender doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

He had some nerve, acting like my opinion didn’t count when he was the one who sounded like an idiot. Talking about his wine being the “best,” as if that was a single, set-in-stone classification. Newsflash, jackass—there’s no such thing as best when it comes to wine. It’s all a question about what’s best for the situation. For the setting, for the menu, for the climate, for the drinker’s palate. But no, obviously Mr. Big Shot Ossani couldn’t admit anything like that if it meant acknowledging that he might not be the very shiniest king on the very shiniest throne. His audacity burned in the pit of my stomach. I leaned against the bar, mimicking his position. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so confident and so wrong all at the same time.”

He scowled at me. “Excuse me?” His voice was steady, but booming, and the eager murmurs from the crowd grew louder as more people gathered to watch the show.

Logically, I knew I should just apologize and backpedal. This wasn’t the crowd to be a smartass in. Not with bills piling up and no one willing to hire me for anything but service sector jobs. But I wasn’t about to let this guy win. “The Ossani Chianti is aged for two years, correct? In oak barrels?”

Dante sneered, and I did not like how handsome he looked like that, all haughty and prideful. That shouldn’t be attractive on anyone. Especially not on the hot-as-Hades guy who had never bothered learning my name. “I see that you can, in fact, read a wine label. Impressive.”

My heartbeat was pounding in my ears. “Riservas pair great with a robust meal because the high acidity cuts through the fat, while the firmer tannins act as a palate cleanser.” I looked at Mr. Hapless Husband again, who looked even more confused now, eyes ping-ponging between us. “You said that your wife really enjoyed the bruschetta, right?”

The man nodded. “Yes, that’s right—”

“Can you attempt to reach your point sometime today?” Dante cut him off.

I blinked at him. “I am so sorry. I wasn’t aware that I was keeping you from your terribly busy schedule of eating finger food and belittling the wait staff.” I looked back to Mr. Hapless Husband and smiled at him again. “What I was saying, sir, is that while the Ossani Chianti is absolutely exquisite—” I was annoyed by the company’s head of production, but I wasn’t about to bash a damn good wine. “—it’s not the best choice for what you’re eating. Lighter foods tend to pair better with more fruit-forward red wines. A younger Chianti, like the Colli Senesi, would be optimal.”

Dante thumped his hand on the bar. “The Ossani Chianti has notes of cherry and leather that would complement—”

“Complement?” I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “Your Chianti doesn’t complement. It dominates. It’s a beautiful bully of a wine, and this isn’t its moment to shine.”

This conversation wasn’t getting us anywhere. God, winery owners could be stubborn. I clapped my hands together. “Why don’t we set up a little challenge?”

“A challenge?” Dante asked.

“Yeah!” A thrum of excitement fluttered through me. “Kind of like the Pepsi-Coke Challenge, you know?” Dante had the distinct expression of someone who sucked on a lemon. I glanced at Mr. Hapless Husband, who looked like he was already trying to divide his assets in his head. We needed to move this along before his wife came looking for him. “If that’s all right with you, of course.”

“I guess—”

I clapped again. “Great! Mr. Ossani, would you mind coming back here with me?”

For a moment, I didn’t think he’d do it, but then he came around the counter. One of the staff stopped passing hors d’oeuvres and gave me a look like are you crazy? But I waved them off.

“What am I doing back here?” Dante demanded.

I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you dirty up those pristine hands. I just want you to witness what I pour.” So you can’t claim that I cheated when I win, I left unsaid. I smiled at Mr. Hapless Husband. “Would you mind turning around for me?” The man gave me an incredulous look, but he did what I asked. “We’re going to test the Colli Sensei against the Ossani riserva.” I held up each of the bottles to the audience.

“Fascinating,” Dante said flatly. Having him standing so close to me was a mistake. Why did he have to be so damn tall? And smell so good? Dante was attractive from a distance. Up close? He was freaking deadly. “Now pour the wine.” Good, be an asshole. I needed that reminder.

I poured one glass of the Colli Sensei—a new glass, so again, no one could claim that I cheated in any way—and another of the riserva. I put both on the bar top. “Here you are, sir.” The man turned. “If you would, taste your food with a sip of each wine, and let us know which you prefer.” For a moment, panic painted the man’s face, but I kept smiling. “Don’t worry, sir. There’s no wrong answer here. This is entirely about what you like best.”

Dante made a grunt of outrage, and I shot a glare at him. We both watched as the man took a bite of the puff pastry and then a sip of the first wine. Then, he repeated the pattern with the second. After a moment, he held up the glass with the Colli Sensei, “I like this one better. Can I get a second glass of it for my wife, please?” After I poured it out for him, he lifted it, tilted it in my direction with a nod of thanks, and toddled away.

“Ha! Take that, Mr. Legacy,” I crowed. I didn’t need to be some snotty winery owner to know what I was doing.

There was a round of applause, and a few boos as people who’d been betting on the challenge had to fork over money, all of which reminded me just how many cell phones were pointed in our direction, like a sea of amateur paparazzi. Dante noticed at the same time, and his face flushed a deep red. Oh, crap. “Mr. Ossani—”

He snorted. “Now you’re choosing to be courteous?”

I could feel heat in my cheeks. “You were the one who started it.”

Dante leveled a look at me that would have weaker women cowering in a corner—or ripping off their panties. It really wasn’t fair that he was so attractive. “I started it? How hard would it have been to just give the man what he asked for in the first place?”

I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Are you kidding me?” I gestured in the direction the man had headed. “Did you not just watch that guy not pick your Chianti? If I didn’t know better, I would think—”

“Vivian!”

I jerked and turned to look at my boss, Curtis Mandel. He owned one of the most prominent catering businesses in Napa. He also had a spectacular temper and the impressive ability to turn the color of a nice cabernet.

“Vivian?” Dante asked, looking at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “As in, Vivian Burgess?”

I didn’t bother answering him. No need to add salt to that particular wound. “Curtis?”

“I believe when I took you on for this position, I told you that you were to keep things low-key. Demure, if you will. DFD didn’t want your kind of drama surrounding their event, and you assured me that you could handle the job without making any trouble. Do you remember telling me that?”

I fought not to fold into myself. My kind of drama…the reputation ruining kind. “Yes, sir.”

“I think you already know that you’re fired,” he said, looking down his nose at me, and the crowd erupted in a flurry of whispers.

Well, there goes my rent.

Dante cleared his throat, getting our attention. His expression was neutral, but I could see the clench and unclench of his jaw, like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Your bartender was just responding to my challenge.”

That word—bartender—yanked on every last one of my nerves. Did he know how hard I’d worked for my sommelier accreditation? I’d damn well earned that title. But…wait…was he actually trying to defend me? It would have been less shocking to watch him sprout wings and fly around the room. “Actually—” I started, but Dante’s eyes snapped to mine, and he shook his head minutely.

Curtis, however, wasn’t one to be swayed. His day job might be crafting canapés for the wealthy and wealthy-adjacent, but anyone who had ever worked for him knew that his true passion was for destroying dreams. “I apologize, sir, but she should have never agreed to that. No matter who you are.” His eyes lighted on me, nose wrinkling in a sneer.

My throat went tight. The thing that hurt the most about the whole mess with Asher was the way everyone questioned my professional integrity. I used to have a damn tasting room. People trusted my opinion. But now, I was reduced to second—and third—guesses from people who used to swear by my reviews.

Now I didn’t even have that.

I tore off my apron and threw it on the bar. “Are you going to mail my paycheck, or am I getting cash now?”

Curtis harrumphed and walked away without answering me. Mailed to me, then. “You know,” Dante said, still standing behind the bar, “if you had listened to me in the first place, you would still have your job, and there would be one more happy Ossani customer in the world.”

“Are you serious? You don’t bother to recognize the difference between a sommelier and a bartender, but I should have listened to you?” My voice pitched up, and I heard the oohs from the crowd. I suppressed a cringe, knowing that video was going to land on social media. Well, it wasn’t like my reputation could get much worse at this point. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Legacy.”