As the enigmatic man took hold of the pencil, fingers long, grasp notably gentle, Ashlynn leaned against the counter, acutely, achingly aware of him in a way that tantalized her, made her feel like a pup encountering first moon. The skin nearest him along her arms, the dip of her chest, prickled in the aftermath of his aura, stroking it in subtle brushes, like the graze of a finger. It fiercely enticed her curiosity, and though she wasn’t apt to be verbally nosey, dark eyes flickered over the visage of him, veraciously consuming each detail as though they alone would bleed his secrets. Not speaking it out loud, she did love a good puzzle. The smaller scents were becoming apparent now, peeling from him like delicate, symbolic layers. Gossamer dreams spoken in liquid whispers, and each was a journal, a gratitude. They told a story, his story, and she disentangled each until the bare pieces of him offered themselves to her. He was devastatingly clean, a scent touched with the heat of a man, the frayed edges of fresh linen on a line. Even despite the tempest of the city, leaving him untouched by its gasoline and charcoal fumes. He may have been vegetarian or vegan, a smell she was slowly beginning to know in L.A., alien as it was in Rochdale. Visually alone, he was a sight. She barely had to watch the decorum of each dextrous movement or scan the cut of his shoulders to guess that he was vigorously fit, religious to his routine of choosing. And, he was no self-proposed ‘alpha’ male, lacking the forceful aggression even as he consumed her piece by piece, two tactful predators entwining in the brief dance of a casual meet. She was unwavering when he looked from the list back up to her, unashamed of her open inquisitiveness, expression lively and graceful when she returned his charming smile.<br/><br/>The tale as to what he was here for, what had brought him to Wolford seeking a bottle, was as honest as it was strange. It was sincere well enough and Ash tilted one of her brows in a sort of half-bred question, a glimmer of humor teasing her lips, painting her with intrigue of the odd details, but she still yet held her tongue. It had paid out, him making the quick observation that red was the top choice, if for its luxury, its beauty. It was in her stark belief that there were few things to make a woman, or man, remember you like a sumptuous red wine. At once, she knew what it was she would have him take home, though she had paused against that counter, listening to him speak like she was bathing beneath falls. She didn’t know if it was because she liked the way he spoke or just the way that his gaze moved across her features, unabashed, naked, as though she was the very liquid he hoped to imbibe. Unfettered by even the glance at her chest, it was when she knew those steel eyes were weaving through her freckles that a soft crimson overlaid them, lips parted becomingly, mischievously. It was then that she knew she wanted him, something feisty and rapturing alighting in the depths of her.<br/><br/>“Avoiding death at the hands of frightening women does require something special, doesn’t it?” She laughed when she collected herself, and slightly shook her head. “You’re not going to find what you’re looking for on that list.” She pointed to the paper resting beneath his right hand and smiled. “But you’ve still come to the right place,” she grinned and held up her finger to beg him to wait. Turning away, she disappeared into a door behind the counter, framed by wooden racks of bottles, their names proudly displayed on copper racks above them. It was only a moment later that Ash returned, a long, maple box tucked beneath her arm with the wolf’s head carved onto its face. After closing the door behind her, she approached him again and slid the box’s cover off. Within was a matte black bottle, wrapped in a glossy label. It bared a beautiful photograph of Mount Tunstead in the morning, surrounded in the thick valley of verdant trees, blanketed in a tapestry of creamy mist. A fragment of Lake Aria stretched beneath it, reflecting it like a mirror in its glassy, serene surface. Beneath, in elegant cursive that Aunt Maddy drew herself in patient calligraphy, was ‘Mountain Mist’, and smaller beneath that, ‘Serallia’.<br/><br/>“This, I<i>believe</i>,” she added with a measure of playfulness, “Is what you want.” She displayed the bottle carefully between her hands. “It’s made with an heirloom grape that you could only find in Rochdale called ‘serall’. They’re picked fresh after the morning mist rolls its way out of the mountains and the frozen dew is still prickling against its skin. We only make it once a year, when the spring is still frosty. I made this batch myself, so I can attest to its quality,” she spoke with a confident pride, before placing it back into its box. Much as she was attracted to him, it wasn’t the kind of thing you handed over without a first and last name basis prior to purchase. She knelt down and plucked from beneath the counter a small, opaque bottle and one small glass. “This isn’t the kind of thing you try from a plastic cup,” she admitted when she rose, opening the small bottle and pouring a taste into the glass before passing it to him. “It’s thick and sweet like a port, but not as cloying. It’s fresh, full of body. Like a blackberry and hickory fusion without tart or smoke,” she described, having done batch after batch after batch just to get to the right profile.<br/><br/>“It’s almost shame that you won’t be drinking it with her.” She frowned at the confession, still keen to his reaction, the honest glint in his gaze after it touched his lips. “You’ll just have to enjoy yourself while you can tonight,” she added, teasing grin brilliantly lighting her expression.