The glass of deep, bruised liquid was swirled and danced beneath the golden lights, and it was lifted to the man’s face, to which Ashlynn eagerly watched, gauging each minute reaction. There had been a distinct luminous glow that lit his features, diffusing along the steel ring of his eyes, of profuse relished luxury that she mirrored in turn, though for herself it was not for the rich scent of the wine, but for their flirtatiously entertaining banter, of her keen interest. One word was all that he’d given initially, ‘masterful’, after he’d been graced with the intensely tailored aroma. One word was all it really needed, and she knew that, though her expression glimmered with no less illustrious satisfaction, as if his reaction to it had been something vital. In a way, it had. As she had thought and as she had always felt, there was no better way to cement an impression than a good, red wine, and she knew he wouldn’t be able to forget her, even long after he’d walked away - both for this remarkable handmade creation of her own and for other reasons that she unabashedly had intentions for. Still, she moved with all the graceful patience of any hunter, allowing his moment to tease his lips at the edge of the glass without sipping from it, his gaze flicking from bottle and back to her. She liked when he looked at her. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, encompassing. They tantalizingly guarded the secrets of his life behind impish iron.<br/><br/>A brow of curiosity had lifted at his statement, an exception beginning to follow along behind his admission of the serallia’s perfection, but she was not left with any sense of disappointment. A high praise, a charming call to her skill, in the request of a second bottle secured by scent alone, and she acquiesced with a grin, colored with pride, with simple and raw gratification. It had brought her briefly back to her younger years, when she’d just been getting into making her own brews, a year or two before - legally - she should have been. The Rochdales had a plethora of heirloom grapes, saving genetic lines that died out generations ago in other parts of the States due to the commercialization of the popular ones. She had worked tirelessly with most of them, generating batches too sour or too sweet or with a flavor profile that argued with itself. There was little other pleasure than when she’d designed one that she was confident in, that even Eric tasted and praised, and excitedly helped her distribute samples amidst the immediate family. The pride she’d felt then was a mere echo to now, when she was astute, still enchanted by each victorious barrel as though the practice was still new and she was still plunging herself into the world of it. The pride she felt now, of the Mountain Mist, was for more than herself - it was a culmination of her accomplishments, of her future, and anyone who praised that gathered her affections all the more.<br/><br/>As the man had slightly lifted the glass once more, Ashlynn felt something cool brush against the edges of her senses, carrying the dark scent of the wine, of subtle fascination, of something more. It brought with it distinct memories, gripping nostalgia, where her feet were hitting the ground in a chill morning and she was following the aged deer path, surrounded by the strokes of the breeze rustling the trees. Of crinkling oak leaves beneath her shoes and salty rock and must. The mountains loomed beside her, around her, beneath her, calling her name in aged voices, dashing their image across the rippling, glassy lake far below. One moment her skin was prickling with sweat and the next she was laughing, hidden in the shadows with friends, in the throes of childhood. Another moment she was a woman again, against the ground in a passionate, fevered tangle, fingers digging into the earth, sound swallowed by the chorus of the forest. The visceral brush against her cheek brought heat with it, unfairly intimate, existing just barely beneath her consciousness and she’d almost lifted her hand. This sudden, strange effect. It was him. He was watching her like a beautiful bird of prey above the peaks, playful, teasing.<br/><br/>“I suppose I could do that. I do close up fast, and I like to be home quickly, though, you’re free to join me even then,” she spoke plainly in her offer, shed of any sort of coyness, naked and upfront as any decent wolf was wont to be. With that being said, she reached over to a small tray on the counter and plucked from it a card. She wrote something on it and placed it in front of him. The card was headed in the store’s name, in their stylized wolf, but on the center was her information. ‘Ashlynn Rivera’, it pronounced in dignified type, and beneath it was, ‘Store Owner & Manager’, followed by a work number of contact. In black pen, written in clear, small numbers, was the personal phone number that she’d scrawled. She was, at present, working to ignore the conversation that she’d held with her friends the night prior. Jaime would have laughed to the high heavens, at her bold and forthright manner, and Janis possibly would have entirely disapproved. After all, she still didn’t know his name. She only knew that he was powerful, that he was not merely human. At the very least, he wasn’t a city pup and she did not believe he was an actor. “You can call me Ash, if you’d like.”