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

undertones." I had a hard time thinking of wine as creamy. Ethan leaned toward me and asked, "Are you
enjoying yourself?"

After three glasses of wine--even if I didn't drink the whole glass--I was feeling pretty good, regardless
of whether this event was my cup of tea--make that glass of wine. "Sure!" I said cheerfully, raising my
glass to him.

If I was feeling good, that was nothing compared with the rest of the guests. They were practically
swooning in rapture with each sip. I'd thought I'd be a lightweight in a group of real wine aficionados, but
they were acting drunker than I was--a lot drunker. The woman seated next to me was nibbling on her
husband's ear and halfway crawling into his lap, while he had a hand up her sweater. I fought back the
impulse to tell them to get a room and turned to the other side of the table, where a man who'd
introduced himself as a cardiologist was wearing his necktie around his head like a bandanna. This felt
more like a frat party than a wine dinner. I appeared to be the most sober one there, except for Ethan.

I leaned over to him. "Do these things usually get like this?"

"I've only been to one other, and behavior there was a little more restrained. Frankly, this is a lot more
fun."
They switched to a red wine with the main course, which meant I could finally tell the difference from the
last few wines. I still didn't taste the clove, coffee, or wood flavors Henri promised, for which I was
somewhat grateful. It seemed to me that if your wine tasted like wood or coffee, you'd throw it out. The
other guests knocked back the wine like they were doing tequila shots, so I doubted they were noticing
the flavor nuances, either.

By the time we got to dessert, I was barely registering the life story Henri told us about the wine. I
thought he said something about moldy grapes, but that couldn't be right. It didn't sound like the sort of
thing you'd brag about. I did like the wine, though. It was probably my favorite of the evening because it
was so sweet. They served it with poached pears that would have been a challenge to eat under the best
of circumstances. As tipsy as I was, it was nearly impossible. I spent about five minutes chasing a pear
around my plate, only to have it leap onto Ethan's plate.

"Oops, sorry about that," I said, hoping my words didn't slur too much.

"No problem." He gently returned the pear to my plate with his fork. I thought I detected a wink behind
his glasses when he added, "Want me to cut that up for you?"

"What, and then have multiple moving targets?"

He chuckled. "Good point. You're not used to having this much wine, are you?"

"Is it so obvious? I'm not even drinking the whole glass. Well, except this one. I like this one."

"Don't worry. It only looks like a slight bit of motor coordination difficulty. In this crowd, you look like
the picture of sobriety. I'm not sure you could be obnoxious, no matter how drunk you got."

Aww, wasn't he sweet?

By this time, the party was in full swing. I shouldn't have worried about people noticing me struggling to
eat my pear. Their attention was more likely focused on the female stockbroker standing on the table and