Of the many hobbies he gave up when he abandoned city life, wine connoisseurship was not one of them. She had no way of knowing — but beneath her feet was a whole wine cellar where bottles with French, and Italian, and Californian labels were being aged to perfection. But that revelation could wait for later in the tour. By the sink was a bottle of red that thad already been opened but barely emptied. As he fetched glasses and began a generous pour into each one, he motioned to the shelf of cook books by the refrigerator.<br/><br/>"I had to learn," he answered her question, "I can cook a mean trout but I'm still far from a master chef."  He handed her a glass. Even though he fancied himself a progressive — both politically and socially — he'd be lying if he said he didn't like the idea of having a woman on the ranch to cook for him. He'd had a few female visitors in the last year; a redheaded waitress from a local diner, a sexy reporter from the small town newspaper, the college-aged daughter of his closest neighbors (who were still several miles away). But they only ever stayed long enough to make him cum and scramble some eggs before going back to their lives.<br/><br/>He clinked the rim of her wine glass against his and almost immediately resumed the tour, taking her back to the living room and up the grand staircase, the railing of which was clearly carved from an actual tree trunk. He explained how the last staircase was a death trap and he owned the property for a month before ever being able to safely go up to the second level. You wouldn't know it now. The hall way was wide and lit by skylights that were quickly being blanketed with snow.<br/><br/>"If this storm keeps up," he said, "you may have to stay a few extra days."<br/><br/>He showed her each of the guest rooms, each with their own color scheme and layout, but still not deviating from the overall aesthetic he curated for the house. They inched closer and closer to the double doors at the end of the hall which clearly led to the master bedroom.<i>His bedroom</i>.<br/><br/>It was large, with a bold colored, southwestern style carpet on the floor. Above his bed, an Alex Katz painting that no doubt cost a small fortune gave the room an unexpected urban flare. His bed was immaculately made and looked distinctly like a stage in need of dancers. "And this is where I sleep," he announced, putting his hands on her hips as she took it in.