He nods, the tea lights sprinkling the bar catching the flush creeping up his neck.

“And you said yes,” I say.

The flush deepens. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Ashleigh tips her head back and laughs. The man to her left turns at the sound and gives her a flirtatious body-scan, which she, in her delight, entirely misses. “I love this so much.” She claps to emphasize each word.

“I’m never lying again,” I say.

“Except if Katya walks up to you and says, Hey, you’re sleeping with Miles, right?” he jokes. “Because if you tell the truth, this will all be very embarrassing.”

“You told her we’re sleeping together?” I say.

“Yeah, she said, Is that your girlfriend, and I was like, We have sex, and we’re in love. Someday, when we have a baby, we’re going to name her Sue Ellen after my mom. No, Daphne. I didn’t tell her we’re sleeping together. Petra told her I’m living with my new girlfriend. I’m just guessing Katya might do some high-level deduction here. But if you want me to go ask whether she thinks we’re having sex, I can.”

“How soon until everyone in Waning Bay hears this lie,” I groan.

“I’m sure the paparazzi are gathering as we speak,” he replies. “This is the 2020 Chardonnay, by the way. People think they hate Chardonnay because they’ve mostly had shitty Chardonnay. It’s a misunderstood wine.”

“Aw,” Ashleigh coos, clutching her heart. “Misunderstood little wine.”

“Don’t feel too bad for it,” I mumble. “Sounds like it gets laid a lot.”

Miles gives me a teasingly admonishing look and goes on: “Ours is pretty restrained.”

“Okay, I take my last comment back,” I say.

“See, Daphne,” he says, meeting my heckling with over-the-top sobriety, “the Chardonnay grapes themselves are pretty neutral. That’s why they can take on too much oak for a lot of wine drinkers’ tastes. But ours has a nice peach nose, and this pinch of lemon zest, and a faint, warm oakiness, but not so much that the wine’s overpowered.”

“It really is a lovely nose,” Ashleigh says.

“Thanks, I think so too.” Miles angles himself back to me, clearly waiting for me to try it.

I make a big show of swirling it around and studying it from various angles, then very, very slowly lift it to my lips and take one tiny sip.

Still, that one sip makes the inside of my mouth feel sunlit. Like I’ve just tasted a day on the Michigan coast.

“Wow,” I say.

Miles straightens, grinning. “It’s good?”

“It’s good,” I answer.

A bright flash pops to our left and I glance over at Ashleigh, little colorful circles still dancing through my vision. “Aw,” she says, looking down at her phone. “Your first couples’ candid.”

The man behind her taps her shoulder. “If you want one of all three of you,” he shouts over the music, which has gotten louder as full night has fallen, “I’d be happy to take it.”

“That’s okay,” I try to shout back, but Ashleigh is nodding enthusiastically.

“I’m vetting my friend’s new boyfriend,” she tells him. “Aren’t they cute?”

“If anything,” I say to Miles, “we’re still vetting her.”

He looks over, smile deepening. “I say we keep her.”

“Who’s going to feed and walk her?” I say.

“I will,” he insists. “Every day. I promise.”

Ashleigh drags her stool around mine and pops back onto it, leaning in against my side as her suitor lines up her phone for the shot. Miles slides one elbow further over the bar, leaning in on my other side, his chin resting on my shoulder.

“Everyone say wine,” the man says with a wink. Under her breath, Ashleigh mumbles, “I can look past that.”

8

In the corner, Ashleigh and Greg-Craig (can’t be sure which one he introduced himself as) are fully making out. They went over there to exchange numbers, roughly six minutes ago.

Everyone else in that corner of the tasting room has since fled. In Ashleigh and Greg-Craig’s defense, that might have more to do with the fact that it’s nine fifty-seven, and Cherry Hill closes at ten.

Sure, it’s a Friday night, but this is a winery in Northern Michigan, not a rave in Ibiza, and all the customers probably need to be up bright and early for yoga, boating, or doing yoga on a boat.

“She okay to drive?”

I turn to find Miles slipping through a portion of the bar that lifts up, with his wallet, phone, and an apron clutched in one hand. “Oh, she’s not drunk,” I assure him. “She didn’t have a sip of the last two pours. She’s just horny.”

He nods somberly. “Being single in the woods is rough.”

At that moment, Ashleigh extricates her tongue from Greg-Craig’s mouth and flounces our way. “So.” With a furtive glance over her shoulder, she drops her voice. “What are the odds you can ride home with Miles?”

I look to him.

He flips his keys. “Fine with me.”

“Thank god.” Ashleigh gives me a brief, firm, yet vanilla-scented hug. “Don’t make this weird at work, okay?”

“What, the fact that I’ve now seen someone lick your tonsils?” I say.

“It was bound to happen eventually! Get home safe, lovebirds.” She’s already on her way back to Greg-Craig. He slips a hand through hers and waves as she steers him outside.

“So,” Miles says, “Craig’s friend wasn’t up to your standards?”

I’m embarrassed to realize Miles witnessed my painful attempt at conversation with Craig’s wingman, a guy in a V-neck so deep I caught a flash of belly button.

“I wasn’t up to his standards,” I say. “He got a pretty urgent work-related text and excused himself. Then I went to the bathroom, and when I passed him, he was playing solitaire on his phone at the far side of the bar.”

“What the fuck,” Miles says.