I huff out a breath and flip the phone back down again, feeling a stab of irritation, not at Oscar, but at Reece.

Oscar’s busy schedule hadn’t bothered me until Reece walked back into my life, and though I can’t figure out how the two could possibly be connected, it feels good to have someone to blame.

I pick up the menu, contemplating the crab cake appetizer when I feel the entire atmosphere change. It’s like the room gets hotter and colder, and my body goes on high alert.

I know before I look toward the door what I’ll see.

Reece’s icy blue gaze locks on me, and I hear his silent groan echoed in my own head. Of all the restaurants…

Seriously though. Of all the restaurants, he picks this one?

Even as I think the uncharitable thought, I realize it’s not all that surprising. I’m betting Reece picked this place for the same reason I did—a better-than-usual wine list.

Surprised? I know. Reece has beer guy written all over him, a dude’s dude through and through. And I’m betting he’ll finish the night with Jack Daniel’s.

But, like me, Reece grew up in wine country. Like me, the grapes and the wine world are a part of him. We’re always watching, seeing what restaurants are serving, what customers are buying, what our competitors are up to.

I’m betting his phone’s search history looks a lot like mine: best wine list in Wilmington.

For one heat-filled moment I’m afraid—and hopeful—that he’ll walk this way. That he’ll join me, and we’ll pick up where we left off earlier with our fight, or our remembering or…whatever.

His gaze drags away from me, and he gives the hostess a quick smile before sauntering to the bar and taking a seat there, back to me.

Okay then.

I glance back down at my menu, trying not to feel stung. Trying also not to feel so aware of the fact that the cute blond hostess had been giving him some trashy come-hither, and he hadn’t exactly looked disinterested.

I don’t care. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care. I have a boyfriend, and Reece Sullivan is fully in my past.

“Miss, can I get some food started for you?”

I look up at the server as he sets my second glass of wine in front of me. He’s super skinny, a bored-looking twentysomething for whom I’m betting this is a forgettable summer job.

“I’ll start with the crab cakes,” I say with a pleasant smile. “Still deciding on my entrée.”

“No problem,” he says, scribbling my order on his notebook.

Really? How hard is it to remember “crab cake” from here to the computer?

I push the petty thought aside. It’s one of the curses of being in the hospitality industry. It’s darn hard to go out to eat without analyzing everything.

Okay fine, judging everything.

Still, I picked wisely. The restaurant’s actual by-the-glass wine list is even better than the one listed on the website, and the restaurant’s got a good vibe, a perfect combination of upscale and approachable, and…

The vibe is ruined when Reece drops into the chair across from me.

He looks irritated, as though he’s found himself at my table against his will, and I totally get how he’s feeling. It’s the same reason I didn’t back out of the road trip. We may hate each other, but we’re a part of each other. Moth to the flame, or whatever.

Except I really want to be the flame in this situation—wouldn’t mind watching him turn to ash at my very touch.

His eyes are on my wineglass. “Italian pinot grigio?”

“California chard,” I say, pleased to be able to inform him that he doesn’t know me as well as his smug expression suggests he thinks he does.

He merely nods. “Been drinking some of those myself. Research.”

I’m interested, although I tell myself it’s because I’m interested in his new job at the winery, not because I’m interested in him.

“Abbott does chard?”

His eyes flick up for a second, a little surprised that I know and remember the name of his new employer.

Reece nods once. “It’s their bread and butter.”

I lean back and look pointedly at his glass of red. “Interesting. You’ve always been a Bordeaux-blend guy.”

“I can work with anything.”

His quiet confidence gives me an unexpected thrill, and a grudging stab of admiration, because I know it’s true. Back when we were…together, Reece had been as passionate about the grapes as I had been about the sexiness of the finished product.

He’d turned that passion into a serious skill. I’d die before admitting it, but I’d followed him in the past few years. He’d gotten a dozen write-ups as a new up-and-coming winemaker, even giving a handful of interviews to some of the big-hitting wine magazines about why Virginia was earning its rep as the next big thing in wine.

I watch as he picks up his glass, giving it a quick swirl and sniff before taking a sip.

Oh mama.

My stomach gives a little flip, because damn if he doesn’t take an otherwise stuffy, wine-snob habit and make it sexy as hell. There’s nothing fussy about the way his long fingers wrap around the glass, the way he savors the wine as though he owns it.

“Good?” I ask, my voice a little husky.

He looks back to me. “It’s all right.”

Reece hesitates just the briefest of seconds before extending the glass to me. His glower tells me it’s not a peace offering so much as a reluctant acknowledgment that we’re in each other’s elements right now. We may hate each other, but we both love wine.