Night and Day

It took a few weeks before she confessed that her given name was Beatrice.

"It's just so weird," she told me. "Such a weird name. That's why I go by Bee."

I told her I didn't think Beatrice was a weird name, not at all--maybe not super-common, but pretty. Still, I liked calling her Bee.

When she first came into my wine shop, I'd thought she was maybe about 22, if even that. She was thin and attractive with delicately sharp features, and had wonderful wavy-curly brown hair that ran past her shoulders. Oh, and big tits. She was wearing a cream-colored fitted tank top, and her large bust stood out in stark contrast with her slim waist and narrow build. I thought her jeans fit her well, too; she had a cute, bubbly little ass.

Still, she looked like she was a kid, either still in college or maybe fresh out. I turned my attention back to upcoming orders--or at least I tried. Sure, she was probably old enough to be in the shop, old enough to buy wine. National laws had changed within the past couple years, and the legal drinking age for women was now 18 (for men it had been bumped up to 23). This girl had to be older than 18, so yeah, she was old enough. I doubted she knew anything about wine, though. At her age, I figured she probably thought of margaritas and mojitos as sophisticated drinks.

OK, I admit I took a couple sneak peeks at her tits while she browsed the aisles. No harm in a quick glance.

"Do you you carry the Woodwright anniversary cab?" She stood in front of the checkout counter, looking up at me earnestly. I fought to keep my eyes from drifting too far downward.

"Yeah, I do--it's in the back, in Specialty."

One of her eyebrows raised. "Is this your store?"

Apparently she noticed I'd said "

I

do," not "we do." Perceptive.

I nodded to her. "Yup. It is."

"So you're the sommelier?"

"I am, yeah," I told her. The name of the shop was The Sommelier. She knew how to pronounce the word correctly, I observed.

"

Are

you a sommelier?"

Maybe she did know something about wine. "Yeah. Just own the wine shop now, though; no more restaurants. Working with the public got on my nerves."

That made her laugh a little: "But you still work with the public here, don't you?"

She had me at the obvious, of course. "Yeah, I do," I admitted. "But it's not the same. Being the guy in a restaurant, there's all this pressure. Here, there's pressure, I guess, but not as much, and it's

my

place. You either like my curation or you don't. You would think it'd be the same in a restaurant--"

"Where you're the one who makes the wine list," she cut in.

"Yeah, exactly--other stuff, too, but yeah, the wine list. And people get really demanding when they're paying inflated prices for expensive bottles and they're gonna drink them right there on the spot. Here, I don't jack up the prices, and they drink the wine later. I think people's expectations get a little lower by the time they get home."

She was nodding, grinning a little. "I never thought about it, but I bet that's true."

Something about this girl was enchanting. I tried to be subtle as I watched her scurry off to the Specialty aisle. It was her smile; she had a cute smile. Yeah, sure, she had a lot of other nice things, but her allure started with her smile. And it wasn't just a cute smile. It was also kind of sultry.

I'd gone back to perusing orders when she arrived back at the counter with two bottles of Woodwright Vineyards Anniversary Cabernet Sauvignon. I adored her hair; it ran over her shoulders in lovely little ringlets, and the way it framed her pretty face was really nice. I noticed a few tiny freckles around her nose, cute. She also had a tiny diamond nose stud, also cute.

I'd developed the beginnings of an erection, and was happy that the checkout counter was high enough to hide it. When I got a hard-on, it was pretty easy to tell--big bulge.

Before I could ask her if she was ready, she asked me a question. "This is Sinatra," she said, indicating the music playing in the background, "but it sounds really early. Is this from when he was still with Tommy Dorsey?"

I was astonished. Of course, neither of us was anywhere near old enough to have been around when Sinatra was the singer for the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, eons ago, back in the 1940s, but the fact that she even knew who Sinatra was, much less how he got his start--that was really unusual for someone so young.

She also knew enough to recognize that Woodwright was a good producer, and that the anniversary blend was something special. I was starting to let my guard down.

"It's with Tommy Dorsey, yeah," I said, more brightly. "This is 'Night and Day'--it's just from a greatest hits thing,

Dorsey with Sinatra

. Don't be all that impressed; just a greatest hits collection."

"Yeah, 'Night and Day', Cole Porter. But I

am

impressed," she said, flashing that cute, enticing smile again. "A lot of people don't even know Frank sang with Dorsey. "

She really had my attention. I mean, sure, she'd had it right when she came in; she was pretty and had big tits, and I had a terrible weakness for that. But now she'd started to reveal how smart and well-informed she was--she'd heard of Cole Porter! The combination of her intelligence with natural beauty and a very attractive figure

really

triggered a weakness in me. Shame she was so young. Probably

way

too young. A real shame.

"How do you know about all this?" I asked. "Sinatra, Dorsey, Woodwright..."

She showed me her super-cute smile again. My knees felt a tiny bit weak, and my erection grew some more. "Wine, I know from my dad; he taught me a ton. Sinatra, well, I like jazz and I love big band especially, so I guess I just sorta know."

"That's pretty cool."

Smile again. "Thanks." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Bee."

"Jeff. Nice to meet you, Bee." We shook; her hand was warm and gentle.

I intended to ring up her purchase then, but we ended up talking for another 15 or 20 minutes. In the meantime, two other customers came in, picked out wines, paid, and left. Bee just stood patiently by while that went on, and then we resumed our conversation.

Finally, after a lot more talk, she said she had to go--it was her dad's birthday, and she said one of the bottles was his gift. "The other bottle's for me," she said, again with the smile. That smile made me feel like having an orgasm; it was overpowering. I had a full erection now, and I leaned into the counter a little to make sure no sign of it was visible.

"Well, we'll see you next time," I said, trying hard to not to seem so smitten.

"Definitely," she said, and then she walked out. I ogled her flared ass as she shifted sensuously away.

I cursed myself;

she was too young

. I shouldn't be having feelings like that, I said silently. Yeah, she was hot, and there wasn't anything wrong with finding a girl attractive. But I had started to get involved. That wasn't right.

I tried to forget, but that night in bed, I wound up watching porn and jacking off with lube. When I came, there was a huge explosion; I had stopped watching the video and had been thinking about Bee.

---

She came into the shop two days later, ostensibly just to pick out a pinot. She was wearing a short black gauzy skirt with another tank top (white, and not quite as tight as the one from before, but with about an inch of cleavage). I thought she looked fetching. I really liked her legs--and I hadn't thought I was all that into women's legs. But Bee had nice legs.

At her request, I went with her to the section marked "Pinot Noir (non-French)" to help her pick something out. We discussed the merits of a couple of bottles before she settled on one.

"For a date?" I asked.

"What, the bottle? Sorta. Date with my dad. We like drinking wine and critiquing it together." She was smiling again and I melted. "I don't have a boyfriend, so no, not for a real date. Just me and my Dad."

---

Bee started coming in a couple times a week to buy bottles, either just for herself, or for another wine evaluation session with her father. She and I invariably got into protracted conversations; my employee Jason usually ended up having to cover the register for me.

I was always sorry to see her leave.

"Dude, I'm pretty sure she likes you," Jason told me after one visit.

"Naw," I said. "Don't think so. We're just wine nerds. And she's way too young. She wouldn't be into older guys with gray hair, anyway."

"I dunno, man, I hear some chicks like that kinda thing."

"Naw. Come on. Bee? I doubt it."

As the weeks went on, it got to the point where even when I was in the back room, preoccupied with unpacking boxes or sorting bottles, I'd hear Jason shout, "Jeff! Bee's here!" and I would stop what I was doing to come out and say hello. And of course we'd get to talking. Again.

I always thought she smelled really nice. For a while, I couldn't put my finger on what her soft perfume actually was, even though the scent seemed familiar. Finally one day I realized: patchouli, an understated patchouli. It fit her perfectly: rich, earthy, and sensual, with an air of mystery.

---

There was one time when I thought I'd blown it; I managed to piss her off. I had casually mentioned that it was a shame I didn't have an opening there at the shop, or I would have offered her a job.

She sniffed at that. "I already have a career," she said curtly. "But thanks."

I didn't know why that hadn't occurred to me already, and I told her so. I was trying to give her a compliment and had completely misfired; I apologized. (She seemed a little young to be using the word "career," but I didn't say that.)

It was the first time, after many weeks, that I'd seen her get even a little bit miffed. Bee seemed to forget the incident quickly, though; I felt grateful. The next time she came in for a chat, she acted like it had never happened. She did seem pretty mature for her age, whatever exactly it was.

---

We did sort of get into again another time, but this was less contentious, and more eye-opening. I was explaining all the testing I'd had to go through to be certified as a somm, and the subject of blind tasting came up.

"Oh, I've done that with my dad. We did a little contest. I kicked his ass." She gave me an evil grin. "I'd kick your ass, too."

"Blind tastings are not easy," I said reverently.

"I know they're not easy; I'm just good at them. I mean, for one thing, I'm a woman."

I just gave her a puzzled look.

"Women are awesome at blind tasting, way better than men. It's biology. We're just a lot better at that stuff--scents and flavors, things like that. It's in our brains--way better sense of smell and taste, better olfactory bulbs. We have a lot more taste buds than you, too." She seemed just shy of smug about it. "Like twice as many."

"I don't think I've ever heard--"

"Oh, it's true. Women are better at this kind of thing; look it up. Or we could have a little contest sometime, if you're up for it."

And so we did just that, the next week. I arranged four wines for her to taste--the same four I had correctly identified in my somm testing, in fact (different vintages, of course).

Bee nailed all of it. She got the grape varietals, the blend proportions, the country of origin, even got the region correct--for all four. She correctly guessed the producers for two of them, which was a really hard thing to do. I'd put the bottles into tall paper bags before she even showed up, so there was no way she could known ahead of time, and no way she could have cheated, not that she would have.

I was blown away by her natural ability.

For my part in it our contest, I left the store while she picked out four bottles for me to taste--and she swore Jason to secrecy. ("I'm not gonna help him, don't worry," he promised her.)

I got the varietals and countries right for two of them, and guessed the varietals and blend

almost

right for another. (The fourth one I got completely wrong.) I mean, look, I don't do blind tastings very often, and I was never great to begin with, just good enough to pass the exam.

But Bee didn't really have much experience with blind tastings at all, and she had no formal training. None.

And still, she kicked my ass (as she put it). She even started making guesses about the wines faster than I was able to. She'd sip, and almost immediately she was able to name the grapes, regions, and so on. I had to pause at least 15 or 20 seconds before I could do the same thing. Sometimes it took me closer to a minute.

What made the whole thing even worse: Jason, ever the smartass, produced another open bottle and a challenge. "True or false: the wine in this bottle is corked."

When a wine is "corked," it means that it's been ruined by a fungus growing in the cork. A corked wine is said to taste "off," not right--but it can be a subtle thing, sometimes a little difficult to detect.

I rolled my eyes at Jason, and then Bee and I both poured a little of the wine into our glasses.

I sipped. It tasted OK, but I was a little wary of Jason; the guy could be wily. Still, though, it didn't really taste off. "Seems fine."

Bee then took a tiny sip, and immediately piped up: "It's corked." She took another tiny sip. "Yup. That bottle is corked. It's definitely off. Kinda musty and moldy."

Jason had a shit-eating grin: "She's right: it's corked. Someone brought it back. A

woman

, by the way."

"Fuck," I said.

Bee cackled.

After another few sips, I could finally taste it, too: it

was

off. But she had been able to tell right away.

"Don't feel bad," she told me. "There's a ton of stuff women are just better at; it's biology."

I could have been mad about the whole thing, but instead, I was really happy for her. I told her that if she ever did want to get into the wine business, I would be very happy to help. Weird thing was, I sincerely meant it.

---

"So are you ever gonna ask me out, or what?"

Bee was standing at the counter, glaring at me. She'd waited until all the customers had left. Jason wasn't in that day.

I hadn't seen this coming, and I was in complete and utter shock. We were just wine nerd buddies, right?

"Well, I didn't--" I started.

"I know you like me," she said, "and you can tell I like you. You don't wear a wedding ring and you've never mentioned a girlfriend. I flat-out told you I don't have a boyfriend. And I'm pretty sure you're not gay. So why haven't you asked me out?"

I took a beat. "I think you might be a little young." I tried to say it delicately.

"I don't think so. You're what, how old?" she demanded. "40? 43?"

"42," I said quietly.

"And I'm 28," she said. "Not a child."

Oh. That was older than I'd thought. Old enough to maybe make a difference? I wasn't sure.

"Well, yeah, but still, that's--"

"It's not that big of an age gap," she said defiantly. "And girls mature faster than boys, a lot faster. It's what, a 14-year difference? Not really that much. Maybe it sounds like it is, but it's not. I know you can tell I'm as mature as you are; I'm a grown woman. We're two adults who like each other a lot. So why shouldn't we go out?"

Well, she had me there. My dad was 82, my mother 67--15 years. They were still married, and yeah, by all accounts, happy. I started thinking of all these famous couples with big age gaps--various actors, musicians. I wasn't a celebrity, though, and I wasn't an aging rock star.

"But--" I started, then faltered. "Why do you want that? Why would you want to go out with an old guy like me?"

She smiled, and the entire room brightened. "Because you're hot," she said. "I like older guys--a lot more on my level. I don't really date guys my age; they're boys. And you: you're smart and you're nice and you treat me like an equal--which, of course I am, but I'm glad you think so, too. And you're a grown-ass man."

There was something about the frank way she spoke to me that was refreshing. And, well, it kind of turned me on a little, as much as her intelligence and her pretty face and her beautiful body did.

Truth was, I could easily imagine going on a date with Bee. I had to give in.

We decided to go to a restaurant on Saturday night.

---

Bee had insisted on paying; I probably should not have been surprised.

"This was my idea," she explained. "I know I said I wanted you to ask me out, but that was just to get your attention. I was really asking

you

out. So I'm paying."

Fine, fine.

The restaurant she picked was Le Brasserie, a place I hadn't been to before. Nice, and kind of expensive; when I showed some concern about that, she let me know it wasn't a problem at all. "I do OK," she told me. "I can afford it. And I think you're worth it, anyway." She gave me that super-cute killer smile again. My dick flinched.

That night, Bee was wearing a low-cut sleeveless blouse (black with white piping) with a short pleated skirt (also black)--she looked incredible. I was again surprised at how much I liked her pretty, pale legs; I never thought I was a leg man, but apparently I was at least a Bee leg man.

Normally she didn't wear much makeup (didn't really need it), but that night she did. And of course, she smelled nice. Patchouli again.

I couldn't believe this girl liked me.

She had rumbled up to my house in a small, jet-black '50s-era coupe, in perfect condition. It was a stylish model, one I'd never seen before--it was a 1959 Ford Anglia, she told me, imported from the UK, steering wheel on the wrong side. It had been kind of difficult for her to track one down as a buyer. I liked it a lot; there was something very unique about the car's streamlined, compact design, and I thought its contours gave it an aura of mystery. The deep black paint job made it look kind of gothic, almost spooky.

I thought the personality of the car really suited Bee. For that matter, I thought words like streamlined, compact, and nicely contoured might be used to describe her, too. (Go ahead, roll your eyes. I was in love.) I let her know that I was impressed yet again.

Bee smiled and said she'd let me drive it sometime.

We decided to take a Lyft to the restaurant--well, it was really her idea. "That way we don't have to worry about how much we drink," she told me.

---

One thing I really liked about Bee was her interesting demeanor--she always came off as open and straightforward, even to the point of being shockingly blunt on occasion. Sometimes she could be cocky as hell. But she was also laid back and unflappable, easygoing, kind, thoughtful, pleasant. Sure, I'd managed to piss her off once, but it didn't last long and she never mentioned it again. And I hadn't seen her get the slightest bit irritated by anything ever since, save for the confrontation about the two of us dating. And even then, she was really just trying to get my attention, regardless of how perturbed she'd seemed at the time.

"This is nice, isn't it?" Bee said to me.

We'd been seated a couple minutes before, and we were getting comfortable in the little booth, facing each other. The wine order had been placed (a Bordeaux, from the Left Bank), and we were both just starting to relax. I really liked the top she was wearing.

"It seems like a nice place, yeah," I said. "Haven't been here before, and I always wondered about it. I don't even know the somm."

"Yeah, I like it," she said, "but I meant, like--" She gestured between the two of us. "Like, you and me being together here. I dunno, but for me, it kinda feels like this isn't the first time, even though it is. You know? It just feels natural, kinda easy."

I knew exactly what she meant; I'd been having the same thoughts. I was reluctant to effuse too much, though, so I just nodded and smiled at her. "You look really nice tonight, by the way."