“Are you always this tough on your customers?” he asked.

“Only the ones who want to take me to new Thai restaurants.”

“Next time, then, I’ll suggest Italian.” With a wink, Cal grabbed his gloves off the counter and left the store.

Jordan watched as he walked past the front windows and noticed that snow had begun to fall outside. Not for the first time, she was glad she lived only a five-minute walk from the shop. And that she had a good pair of snow boots.

“My God, I thought he’d never leave,” said a voice from behind her.

Jordan turned and saw her assistant, Martin, standing a few feet away, near the back hallway. He walked over, carrying a case of zinfandel that he’d brought up from the cellar. He set the box on the counter and brushed away a few unruly reddish brown curls that had fallen into his eyes. “Whew. I’ve been standing back there holding that thing forever. Figured I’d give you two some privacy. I thought he was checking you out when he came in last week. Guess I was right.”

“How much did you hear?” Jordan asked as she began to help him unpack the bottles.

“I heard that he’s Cal Kittredge.”

Of course Martin had focused on that. He was twenty-seven years old, more well read than anyone she knew, and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was a major food and wine snob. But he knew everything about wine, and he’d grown on her. Jordan couldn’t imagine running the shop without him.

“He asked me to go to some new Thai restaurant on Clark,” she said.

Martin was instantly impressed. “I’ve been trying to get reservations there for two weeks.” He lined the remaining bottles on the bar and tossed the empty box onto the floor. “Lucky you. If you start dating Cal Kittredge, you’ll be able to get into all the best restaurants. For free.”

Jordan modestly remained silent as she grabbed two bottles of the zin and carried them to a bin near the front of the store.

“Oh, right,” Martin said. “I always forget that you have a billion dollars. I’m guessing you don’t need any help getting into restaurants.”

She threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. “I don’t have a billion dollars.” It was the same routine virtually every time the subject of money came up. Because she liked Martin, she put up with it. But with the exception of him and a small circle of her closest friends, she generally avoided discussing finances with others.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, however: her father was rich. Okay, extremely rich. She hadn’t grown up with money; it was something her family had stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those success stories Forbes and Newsweek loved to put on their covers: after graduating from the University of Illinois with a master’s degree in computer science, Grey Rhodes went on to Northwestern University’s Kellogg business school. He then started his own company in Chicago where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide. Within two years of its release to the public, Rhodes antivirus protected one in every three computers in America (a statistic her father made sure to include in every interview). And then came the money. A lot of it.

One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father’s financial success. Some of these impressions would be accurate, others would not. Her father had set up guidelines from the moment he’d made his first million, the most fundamental being that Jordan and her brother, Kyle, earn their own way – just as he had. As adults, they were wholly financially independent from their father, and Jordan and Kyle wouldn’t have it any other way. On the other hand, their father was known to be extravagant with gifts, particularly after their mother died nine years ago. Take, for example, the Maserati Quattroporte Jordan had sitting in her garage. Probably not the typical present one received for graduating business school.

“We’ve had this conversation before, Martin. That’s my father’s money, not mine.” Jordan wiped her hands on a towel they kept under the counter, brushing off the dust from the wine bottles. She gestured to the store. “This is mine.” There was obvious pride in her voice. She was the sole owner of DeVine Cellars and business was good. Really good, in fact – certainly better than she’d ever projected at this point in her ten-year plan. Of course, she didn’t make anywhere near the 1.2 billion her father may or may not have been worth (she never confirmed specifics about his money), but she did very well for herself on her own merit. She made enough to pay for a four-thousand-plus square foot house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood, to treat herself to fine hotels when she traveled, and she still had plenty of money left over for great shoes. A woman couldn’t ask for much more.

“Maybe. But you still get into any restaurant you want,” Martin pointed out.

“This is generally true. Although I do have to pay, if that makes you feel any better.”

Martin sniffed. “A little. So are you going to say yes?”

“Am I going to say yes to what?” Jordan asked.

“To Cal Kittredge.”

“I’m thinking about it.” True, there was the slight excess of smoothness to think about. But on the upside, he was into food and wine, and he cooked. Practically a Renaissance man.

“I think you should string Kittredge along for a while,” Martin mused aloud. “Keep him coming back so he’ll buy a few more cases before you commit.”

“Great idea. Maybe we could even start handing out punch cards,” Jordan suggested. “Get a date with the owner after six purchases, that kind of thing.”

“I detect some sarcasm,” Martin said. “Which is too bad, because that punch-card idea is not half bad.”

“We could always pimp you out as a prize.”

Martin sighed as he leaned his slender frame against the bar. His bow tie of choice that day was red, which Jordan thought nicely complemented his dark brown tweed jacket.

“Sadly, I’m underappreciated,” he said, sounding resigned to his fate. “A light-bodied pinot unnoticed in a world dominated by big, bold cabs.”

Jordan rested her hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “Maybe you just haven’t hit your drink-now date. Perhaps you’re still sitting on the shelf, waiting to age to your fullest potential.”

Martin considered this. “So what you’re saying is … I’m like the Pahlmeyer Sonoma Coast Pinot.”

Sure, exactly what she’d been thinking. “Yep. That’s you.”

“They’re expecting great things from the Pahlmeyer, you know.”

Jordan smiled. “Then we all better look out.”

The thought seemed to perk Martin up. In good spirits once again, he headed off to the cellar for another case of the zinfandel while Jordan returned to the back room to finish her lunch. It was after three o’clock, which meant that if she didn’t eat now she wouldn’t get another chance until the store closed at nine. Soon enough, they would have a steady stream of customers.

Wine was hot, one of the few industries continuing to do well despite the economic downturn. But Jordan liked to think her store’s success was based on more than just a trend. She’d searched for months for the perfect space: on a major street, where there would be plenty of foot traffic, and large enough to fit several tables and chairs in addition to the display space they would need for the wine. With its warm tones and exposed brick walls, the store had an intimate feel that drew customers in and invited them to stay awhile.

By far the smartest business decision she’d made had been to apply for an on-premise liquor license, which allowed them to pour and serve wine in the store. She’d set up highboy tables and chairs along the front windows and tucked a few additional tables into cozy nooks between the wine bins. Starting around five o’clock on virtually every night they were open, the place was hopping with customers buying wines by the glass and taking note of the bottles they planned to purchase when leaving.