The champagne was gone. So was the wine and the dessert wine. And the two glasses of port that Kyle had ordered because Jane made a joke about "needing something warm" and the waiter looked horrified.
Kyle wasn't drunk. He had learned years ago how to hold his liquor—a survival skill, not a party trick. He was tipsy, maybe. Loose around the edges. But his mind stayed sharp, watching Jane with something close to wonder.
Jane, on the other hand, was gone.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were glassy. She laughed at everything—the way the candle flickered, the shape of a bread roll, the serious face of the sommelier who had just described a wine as "having notes of melancholy."
"Melancholy!" Jane repeated, slapping the table. "Who tastes a grape and thinks, 'Ah yes, sadness'?"
Kyle grinned. "Maybe it's a sad grape."
"It's a grape, Kyle. It doesn't have feelings," Jane fired back with a chuckle, not caring about anyone around them. She no longer was being self-conscious.
