Chapter One I should have brought flowers. A pacifying bouquet of lilies, hydrangeas, and daisies. Instead, foolishly, I brought wine, and left myself open to a world of criticism from my boyfriend's judgy family. Because the wine isn't merely some label I picked up at the corner store-pricey enough to impress but not so much to blow my budget-it's my own craftsmanship. "Colorado wines will never be as flavorful as Napa's," Camilla, the matriarch, says in a superior voice. She purses her lips in disapproval. With her perfectly styled coiffure and Jackie cardigan, she hails from an era of class and sophistication that apparently doesn't extend to present conversation. "Everyone is entitled to their own opinion," I say, my cheeks aching from the forced smile on my face. "My wife is right," Gary chimes in from across the rustic wooden table, his cable-knit sweater the same shade of burgundy as the pinot we're tasting. "If you had done your research, Napa would have been the smarter choice." "Perhaps," I say. "But I love Boulder, and the market is just getting going here. It gives me the opportunity to carve a niche for my business." Which I've already done, I want to add. My winery, Vino Valentine, is thriving. I can hardly keep up with demand thanks to a rave review from a popular food-and-wine blogger, monthly VIP parties, and, most recently, supplying varietals to the hip new establishment we're dining at now. And while I don't own my own vineyard, the grapes I order from growers on the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains are chock-full of flavor. The higher altitude yields a deeper pigmentation and a more concentrated sugar content, making the fruit-in my humble opinion-ideal for winemaking. Gary sniffs at his glass surreptitiously and says, his tone veering on mansplaining, "Red wine really ought to be aged in oak." "Agreed," I say, and add, with relish, "which is why I aged it in oak for six months before moving it to steel." Gary shoots me a look of utter distrust, clearly one of those people who doesn't believe what he can't see-or rather, taste-and Camilla not so subtly checks the gold-plated watch on her wrist. I remind myself that I'm doing this for Reid, my boyfriend extraordinaire. I was honored he asked me to come tonight and more than a little curious to meet the family he hasn't spoken to in more than a year. That is, until Camilla pierced me with an icy stare and asked where I got my cute dress-the word cute sounding like an insult-and Gary's gaze drifted a few degrees south of my face. And now I'm on my own for this tte-^-tte with his parents since we're dining at Reid's restaurant, Spoons, where he's both the owner and executive chef. He claimed his sous chefs would be able to handle most of the cooking tonight, but then, as soon as we were seated, he dashed back to the kitchen to help with something or other. And his older brothers are conveniently MIA, one having stepped away from the table to take a "very important" business call and the other running late. I take a large gulp of wine and desperately scan the spacious room for a neutral conversation topic, anything that might turn around this disaster of a dinner. The chatter of happier tables rises around us, their carefree laughter filling me with envy. Spoons has been packed since it opened last month, and tonight is no exception. The decor is upscale with musical influences-glass lanterns painted with staves, old records that have been fashioned into coasters, trumpets repurposed into sconces, and a stage where local acoustic bands play on Friday nights. "So are you going to do any hiking while you're in town?" I finally venture. Colorado is known for outdoor sports-hiking, biking, and climbing in the summer, and skiing, snowboarding, and snowshoeing in the winter. The mountains are the perfect canvas for whatever alfresco adventure you want to try. Camilla primly adjusts her cardigan. "I'm not sure we'll have time." "Well, if you change your mind, I'd be happy to go with you," I say, perking up. "Chautauqua Park is especially beautiful right now with the fall leaves changing color, and you'd get an up-close view of the Flatirons." The Flatirons are majestic geological formations overlooking Boulder, giant slabs of slanted rock that look like they've been expelled from the mountainous backdrop. Gazing at them always gives me a sense of perspective: that my troubles are small in the grand scheme of things. I could use that reminder now. Gary tilts his head and sniffs at his wine again, apparently not deeming my offer worth responding to. It's okay, though, because Camilla answers for both of them. "We don't hike," she snaps, attracting the attention of a neighboring table. Thoroughly reprimanded, I stare at my place setting: navy napkin with copper flatware nestled on top and a simple white bread plate, my half-eaten roll forgotten. Hurt, anger, and, worst of all, shame course through my veins and thrum loudly in my ears. My face flushes with heat. Winemaking is littered with pitfalls-sluggish fermentation, stressed yeast, unbalanced sulfites. Most of the time, if you catch the problem early enough, you can course-correct by adjusting the temperature or adding fresh yeast. If only real life were as easy to correct. I wanted so badly to help Reid heal whatever is broken in his family, and, fine, I'll admit, maybe dazzle them with my wit and charm. But instead, I'm only making things worse. Luckily, Reid's older brother Tristan chooses that moment to show up. "Sorry I'm late. The last session ran long." Tristan just so happens to be in town for an anesthesiology conference and managed to squeeze in time for this family dinner. He drapes his suit jacket over the back of his chair and takes a seat next to his father. He could be Reid's twin-they have the same build and thick sandy-blond hair, although Reid inherited his mother's green eyes while Tristan got his father's brown ones. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, a leather cord necklace peeking out, giving him a suave yet relaxed demeanor. "Duty calls, son," Gary says, clapping Tristan on the back. I wonder if anyone else would receive that sort of response to being almost an hour late. I reach my hand across the table. "Parker Valentine. Nice to meet you." Tristan's smile holds a hint of mischief as he takes my hand. "Where are we in the interrogation?" he asks, pouring himself a generous glass of pinot. "We weren't interrogating her," Camilla says. "We're simply trying to get to know the girl." Reid's oldest brother, Ben, returns from his phone call, his client apparently appeased for the moment. He tugs at the tie around his neck, his shoulders so tense they might as well be attached to his ears. He has more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and thinner hair than his brothers, but he clearly keeps himself in just as good shape. This family certainly lucked out in the gene department. I'm not sure how I ever thought I could impress them. Or convince them of anything, let alone that Reid is deserving of their support, even if they don't see his profession as being as important as, say, a lawyer or a doctor. Ben flashes me an encouraging smile and eyes Gary, eyebrow cocked. "Did you swear her in before you started questioning?" Ben followed in his father's footsteps, working in corporate law at one of the top firms in the country, as both parents proudly told me. When he heard about this little family reunion, he decided to tag along to see his youngest brother in action. Only, he isn't seeing much more than the screen of his phone. "We were talking about my business," I say, wringing my napkin in my lap. "Which isn't fair since this night should really be about Reid." As if on cue, Reid appears with a steaming plate of food in each hand and one more balanced on his forearm. Even though we've been dating for nearly four months, his handsome features still take my breath away. Cocksure grin, expertly mussed hair, strong arms lined with silvery scars from oven burns, and eyes that flash with a hint of danger. His chin is covered in scruff from the beard he insists on growing for football season. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It adds to his intoxicating devil-may-care attitude. But the best part: he can cook. Reid deposits plates around the table and my mouth instantly starts watering. The dishes are from the seasonal menu, vetted by yours truly. Butternut squash soup topped with chopped dates and crispy prosciutto. Stuffed pumpkin ravioli in a rich sage and butter sauce. Perfectly grilled flank steak drizzled with roasted salsa verde. Holy carne asada, Batman. Reid lingers at my side after relinquishing the last dish, lightly brushing my hair behind my shoulder, the simple touch of his fingers against my skin sending a jolt of electricity snaking down my spine. To the outsider, he may seem like his usual cool self, impossible to rattle, but I know him well enough to recognize the nerves. The extra fidgeting, the furtive glances toward his parents, the inability to stay seated. "How's everything going?" Reid asks. "Great," I say a little too loudly, clapping my hands for reinforcement. "Just great." Camilla and Gary look at me like I'm nuts, which isn't a completely outlandish deduction. I mean, honestly, why did I clap? "Look at our little bro," Tristan says, gesturing from Reid to our surroundings. "You've come a long way from making mystery hot cocoa." "And mud pies in the backyard," Ben adds. Reid sinks into the chair at my side and gently squeezes my knee beneath the table. "Hard to beat Connecticut soil, but I tried." I feel a rush of gratitude toward Reid. Perhaps we'll be able to salvage this dinner, after all. But then Oscar Flores, one of Reid's sous chefs, arrives with yet another plate. He sets it in the middle of the table and says with a flourish, "Scallops seared with saffron and lemon, on the house." Oscar is an old friend of Reid's from culinary school who recently moved back to Boulder to be closer to his family. He has chin-length black hair he keeps tucked behind his ears, rich brown skin, and eyes framed by these long, dark lashes that make him a very eligible bachelor. He's a fantastic chef in his own right but has this rather pesky habit of talking back in the kitchen and experimenting with tried-and-true recipes. While Reid sees these quirks as an asset-always striving to make his food the best it can be-other chefs aren't as understanding. Which is why Oscar's stuck working as a glorified line cook. An awkward silence falls over the table, so complete it's almost as if we're absorbing the sounds around us. The tension grows until it's as palpable as tannins in a full-bodied cab. Eyebrows furrowed, I study each person in turn, trying to figure out what I'm missing. Gary tightens his grip on his wineglass, his face twisted into a scowl, and Tristan's smile turns almost predatory. The only one seemingly unaffected is Ben, but that could be because his attention is once again on the screen of his phone. Camilla eyes Oscar from head to toe, not hiding her disdain. "I didn't realize you were working here." Of course Oscar would know the Wallace clan, having been good friends with Reid for the past decade, but the level of undisguised animosity is baffling. I spare him a pitying glance, selfishly enjoying the momentary relief from the spotlight. Oscar chuckles nervously and tugs at the neck of his chef's coat. "Reid can't seem to shake me." "As hard as I keep trying." Reid winks and, in an attempt to diffuse the tension, says, "Let's eat. The scallops are best fresh from the skillet." Oscar takes one step backward, then another, and when no one protests, makes a hasty retreat. He glances over his shoulder at our table, a strangely hopeful gleam in his eyes, before pushing the door open at the back of the restaurant and disappearing into the kitchen. The mood slowly returns to normal. And by normal, I mean charged with skepticism. While Reid doles out the heavenly morsels, I give myself a silent pep talk. If there's one thing I can talk about unabashedly, it's wine. "The scallops pair best with the Mount Sanitas White," I say, pouring several tasters of my trademark white blend from the second bottle on the table. "It's a lighter blend, especially perfect after a day of hiking. Not that you hike," I add hurriedly to Camilla and Gary. "Just, you know . . ." I trail off and clear my throat. Camilla and Gary make a show of daintily slicing into their scallops, Tristan maneuvers his silverware with the exacting precision of a doctor, and Ben attacks his plate with gusto. Following Reid's lead, I take a small bite of scallop and chase it with a sip of wine. And I blanch. Because something is wrong. Very wrong. Instead of savory, sweet, and citrus flavors melding together on my tongue, all I get is an overpowering taste of burnt saffron. It's so bitter and intense, my eyes begin to water. I spit my bite into my napkin. For a moment, I succumb to panic. Sweat beads on my forehead and stars swirl in my vision. Earlier this year, when my wine didn't taste right, the most renowned critic in the Front Range ended up dead at my tasting bar. I take a deep yoga breath-in with the good, out with the bad-and ground myself by focusing on the custom-made ceramic tiles on the floor. Finally, I bring myself to look at Reid. His face is deathly pale and his eyes are horror-struck. Because it's not just our table whose food isn't right. There's a flurry of activity as protests break out across the entire restaurant. Chapter Two The damage is random and inexplicable. On the outside, the dishes are the pinnacle of fine dining-the meat roasted or seared to perfection, the vegetables boasting impeccable knife cuts, the drizzled sauces and colorful garnishes a thing of beauty. But on the inside, well, not so much. The problems are varied. Some of the fare is overly salty or spicy, have sauces that are tart or acrid, while others have contradicting herbs sprinkled on top. The one thing they have in common is that the deficiencies have to do with flavor. Complaints reach our ears. Loud, impatient complaints that make me wince. Excerpted from A Pairing to Die For by Kate Lansing All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.