Page 47 of Broken Dream

A miniature schnauzer runs to the door, yapping its head off.

Angie scoops the small dog into her arms. “No, Tillie,” she says.

The dog shuts up.

She looks back at me. “I was just making myself a little bit of dinner.” She drops her gaze to the bottle of wine. “Did you…need something?”

“I got some good news today, Angie. I was hoping you might help me celebrate.” I hold up the bottle.

She widens her eyes. “I… Sure. Come on in. I’ll put Tillie out.”

I reach toward Angie and scratch the schnauzer’s ears. “Is that this little pup’s name?”

She smiles and kisses the dog’s head. “Yes. Tillie is my own little hellspawn, but I love her to pieces.” She walks into the house, looking over her shoulder. “I’m just making tomato soup and grilled cheese. Would you like some?”

“You know what? Tomato soup and grilled cheese sounds awesome.”

“My mom is a gourmet cook,” she says. “It’s her tomato soup recipe. I didn’t make it, though. She sent it to me in one of her care packages. But it’s absolutely delicious if you like tomato soup.”

“I love tomato soup.” I press my lips together. “But honestly I’m not sure I’ve ever had anything other than Campbell’s.”

Angie smiles then, and it’s a beautiful smile. “Then you will love this, I promise you. Come on in.”

I follow her inside. “So is your mom a chef?”

She frowns. “Yes and no. She’s had culinary training, and she’s as good as any chef at any restaurant, but no, she doesn’t work outside the home.”

Right. She’s a Steel. She probably doesn’t have to work.

But damn it, I am not going to let the fact that Angie Simpson was born with a silver spoon in her mouth—or that she’s my student—bring me down tonight.

“Do you like wine?” I ask.

“Oh, love it.” She opens her back door and puts the dog down on her back porch. She closes the door and looks back at me. “My uncle and my cousin make some of the best wine in—” She stops abruptly.

“It’s all right. I know all about your vineyards. I’m afraid this isn’t Steel wine. It’s”—I quickly read the label—“a classic red from some vineyard in California.”

“I’m sure it’s great.”

“I don’t know anything about wine. I’m not even sure where this bottle came from. Someone must’ve brought it to me, and I stuck it in a cupboard.”

Which means I’ve had this bottle of wine since…

Since before.

I shake the thought out of my head.

Angie takes the bottle from me and walks into her kitchen. I follow. She grabs a corkscrew out of a drawer and expertly removes the cork. Then she grabs two goblets, places something on top of the wine bottle, and pours the wine through it.

“What’s that?” I ask her.

“It’s an aerator,” she says. “It negates the need for decanting. It breathes the wine for you.”

I cock my head. “Breathes the wine?”

She nods. “Gives it a little more body. Lets the flavors bloom.”

I didn’t even know wine should breathe. Tells you how much I know.