"Shanna Swendson - Once Upon Stillettos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swendson Shanna)

one I left when I joined MSI. They'd all probably be shocked and horrified that a small-town Texas girl
was in their midst. I was careful to suppress my accent while making small talk. These were the kind of
people who'd automatically look down on me for not being a born-and-bred city slicker. I felt a bit better
when I saw that Ethan looked stiff and uncomfortable, too. He didn't know anyone there, either.

He edged closer to me after one waiter passed by with a tray of what looked like liverwurst on toast.
"Sorry about this," he said in a low voice. "I didn't realize we'd be dealing with the yuppies from hell."

"Just as long as you promise to defend me," I whispered back.

The host urged everyone to take their seats. Fortunately, Ethan and I were seated next to each other so
we had a chance at private conversation. The array of silverware on the table was intimidating, not
because I didn't know how to use it (my mother is a good Southern woman who taught us proper table
manners, so I knew to work from the outside in), but because of the number of courses it implied. A
glass of wine with each course would mean I'd be horizontal before we got to dessert. My bigger worry
was that alcohol might lower my inhibitions enough for me to talk about work, which was not a good idea
with a job like mine. Then again, everyone would probably write off any weirdness to the drunkenness. I
vowed to myself that I wouldn't finish each glass of wine.

At the head of the table, a well-dressed man stood up and tapped his water glass with his knife. He
reminded me of the man who'd tried to start a community theater group in my hometown. Even though he
was in a tiny Texas farming community, he'd acted like a theater impresario. It took him a while to figure
out that avant-garde surrealist drama didn't go over well in that setting.

This guy wouldn't have looked out of place wearing a sweeping cloak and a monocle. He was introduced
as Henri, a representative of the winery providing the evening's selections. "Good evening, everyone," he
said. In spite of his French name, his accent was pure American. "Welcome to tonight's dinner. You've
already been enjoying our Estate Sauvignon Blanc with the canap├йs. I'm sure you noticed the lush texture
and hints of passion fruit and pear."

Frankly, I hadn't noticed any of that. I pretty much just tasted wine. If it was all made out of grapes, how
was it supposed to taste like passion fruit?

"With our first course," Henri continued, "we'll be serving our famous Pinot Gris. You may detect flavors
of apple and lemon, with a midpalate burst of ginger. It complements the salmon with mango salsa we'll
be serving."

Waiters brought out fresh wineglasses, then filled them with a wine that looked to me a lot like the one
we'd just been drinking. I followed everyone's lead in swirling the wine--only sloshing a little over the
edge--and sniffing it. Yep, smelled like wine. Everyone then took a sip and seemed to ponder the flavors.
I couldn't taste anything but wine. No apple, lemon, or ginger. I was horrified when I noticed Ethan
nodding sagely. Was he really into this stuff? On our first date, he took me out for hamburgers. This was
a real switch.

Then again, was it so bad if he was a wine fanatic? Learning something new would be good for me. I
complained all the time about feeling like a hick in New York, and here was my chance to do something
to change that. I took another sip of wine and tried desperately to taste all those delicate flavors that
were supposed to be there.

We went through another course that came with a wine Henri described as "creamy with citrus