The weeks leading up to the Taste Challenge found Kurt impossibly busy, partly out of necessity.

Partly due to avoidance. 

He had interviews and site visits for upcoming A Year in the Valley columns, meetings with sponsors and organizers of both the Challenge and the Night of Champions, not to mention  preparation for Quinn's imminent arrival.

And ever since his uncomfortable meeting with Sebastian Smythe, he had felt an unwelcome pressure to steer clear of Blaine, at least publicly.

They had stayed in touch, calling and texting with relative frequency, but the suggestion of meeting for dinner, or drinks, or lunch, was inevitably met with a schedule conflict.

Most of them were legitimate.

"I'm sorry, but I'm up at Greystone to meet with the CIA reps about the menu and wine pairings for the fundraiser."

"I'm headed over to Napa to pick up supplies, Kurt. Maybe I could meet you up there and we could get some lunch."

"I can't. It's going to be meetings, meetings, meetings all afternoon."

"Early dinner?"

"I have to write sometime, Blaine."

"You know, sometimes it almost feels like you're avoiding me."

Protecting you is more like it, Kurt thought. And me.

"You know, I think I deserve a raise. Because I don't know many editors whose job description includes 'party planner,' and Quinn will be here soon, which makes it doubly bad. We'll be doing press leading right up to both events," Kurt said, trying to redirect the conversation. "I do have  question for you, though."

"Fire away."

"For the Night of Champions, the fundraiser..."

"Yes?"

"I was wondering..."

"Yes, Kurt?"

"Would you have any bottles of Sotto Voce and Allegrezza that you could donate to the auction? I'd really like to get all of the Challenge wines represented."

Blaine dropped his voice, but his disappointment was full volume.

"Sure, Kurt. How do you want me to get them to you? Should I drop them off with Santana, or at the CIA so you don't have to see me?"

"Blaine..."

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

Kurt ducked into a quiet corner of the stone castle, the west coast home of the Culinary Institute of America. 

"We talked about this. It wouldn't look right."

"To eat lunch?"

"With a Challenge finalist. No, it wouldn't," Kurt said, keeping his voice low and turning away from people as they passed by. "People are already talking."

"He's talking. And he's hardly people, Kurt."

"Whatever he is, he egged me on about spending time with you. Imagine what he'd do if  he found out we were out together—"

"Eating..."

"Doesn't matter, Blaine. He would use that to taint the Challenge, claim bias, damage both of our reputations."

"It's lunch, for Christ's sake! So now we're not allowed to eat because of one guy who lives for innuendo?"

"Blaine..."

"I thought we were friends, Kurt. Friends are allowed to eat an occasional meal together."

"We are friends. We are. We just need to exercise a little discretion."

"Funny, the first time you said that, you said that until this thing was behind us, all we could be is friends. Now it seems like even that's being shelved."

"You know that's not true." 

Kurt was right, of course, and Blaine knew it. Like so many Kurt Hummel ideas, it didn't mean he had to like it. But with time and familiarity, he'd learned that he could find a way to accept it.

"I guess I was just kind of getting used to you being around here," he said, caving.

He could almost hear Kurt's closed-mouth smile through the phone.

"Me, too."

"Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll drop the wine off with Santana for you."

****

The driver delivered Kurt back to Bardessono shortly after 6 p.m., where he was quickly flagged down by the front desk staff. Messages, several of them, were all from Quinn, who had either forgotten his cellular number or just didn't care.

I'm here.

Have you wrapped the menu? Am I going to see it?

We need to meet.

How about dinner? Thomas said he could get us a late table at The French Laundry.

"Ugh." 

Kurt's sigh was louder than he expected, and the fastidious young woman at the front desk looked over sympathetically.

"She's in the bar," the clerk said. "She seemed a little anxious."

Kurt said his thanks, and ducked over to the corner wine bar off the hotel lobby. In the far corner sat Quinn, her elegant attire and regal face betrayed by habits Kurt knew all too well as her manifestation of stress. 

With one hand, she scrolled through emails and texts that had collected on her phone during her six hour flight from New York. 

With the other, she tapped nervously at the table, shifting occasionally to pick up a glass of what appeared to be Pinot Noir. It didn't appear to be her first.

Kurt strolled toward her table, working to maintain a calm demeanor to thwart any vitriol headed his way.

"Tell me this is under control," she said, aimlessly swirling her wine in her glass.

"It's under control."

"Did we finally get all the judges confirmed?" she asked, tapping the table.

"The last of them, just today."

"Wines for the event?"

"All delivered and cellared."

"The menu?" she pressed, seemingly both anxious about and disinterested in the details.

"Finalized mere moments ago. We even have our auction items secured for the fundraiser." Kurt loosened his tie, sat down, and placed his hand on her arm in a gesture meant to comfort. "Quinn, we're good. Now tell me what's wrong."

"We just have a lot to do," she insisted, finally sipping at the wine.

"No, we really don't, other than a cycle of interviews — which are all lined up — and show up. I have this covered. Now tell me what's really bothering you — and why you haven't gone to the spa to get it out of your system."

When Quinn — a bastion of physical if not emotional refinement — suddenly ran her hand through her hair, Kurt realized the severity of whatever issue she had. Quinn Fabray never mussed her hair. Never.

She stared him down, her green eyes looking venomous for moments before they misted over, just slightly.

"Is she going to be there?"

Oh god, not again, Kurt thought. He'd survived many an angry rant, generally followed by drunken, weepy confessions, on this subject. He was not prepared for another, not tonight. 

He flagged the waitress and asked for the bar menu and a glass of Frog's Leap Cabernet. Quinn needed to get some food in her stomach to go with the... two?... glasses of wine she had already nearly finished, and Kurt was tempted to catch up.

"Of course she is. You know she is. Haven't you talked to her about this?"

"I haven't talked to her about anything. We haven't talked in ages. It's avoidance by mutual consent. Detente."

"Well, you'd better get used to that changing, and quick. Because the two of you are about to see a lot of each other."

****

Blaine backed himself into the office of the Sonoma Wine Bureau just before it closed for the day, juggling a case of wine and a temperamental door handle.

"Now that's an entrance."

Santana stood across the room, arms folded, smirk affixed to her face.

"You gonna help me?" Blaine asked, craning his head around his shoulder to try to make eye contact.

"Wasn't really planning on it," Santana sighed dramatically. "You know, people come here from all over the world for the world-class view. All I have to do is stand around my office."

She held the door open for him and tried to catch a glance of the contents of the  cardboard box in his arms.

"Early Christmas? I've been a very good girl this year."

Blaine set the box down on a nearby desk and arched an eyebrow at her.

"Okay, fine. I haven't. What's in the box?"

"Some bottles for that Taste charity auction. I told Kurt I'd leave them with you."

It was Santana's turn to give Blaine The Look.

"You're kidding, right? I mean, I'm happy to hold them — I might drink them — but I'm a little surprised. I'd have thought that you and Precious would be looking for excuses to collaborate."

"Don't."

"What? Don't deny what's obvious, short stack. I know you, and I know what I see. Tell me what's up."

"Nothing. He just asked me to donate some wine."

"And you're not delivering it to him in person. Come on. What gives? You two were thick as thieves for weeks. And I've seen how you look at each other."

"We were working together. Now he's busy, and I'm busy. He's sending someone over to pick up the wine. That's it. Drop it."

"Testy, testy."

Blaine's eyes affixed themselves somewhere just south of Santana's chin. His body went rigid, collapsing in on itself, making him look even more diminutive and considerably weaker than he actually was.

Snap.

Snap, snap. 

Snap, snap, SNAP.

"Snap out of it," Santana barked, loudly and repeatedly snapping her fingers in front of Blaine's face. "Oh shit. I know that look. I've never seen it on your face, but I know it. I just thought maybe you were gettin' some — finally. But that's not it, is it?" 

Blaine was silent. There was nothing, but nothing, to say.

"Come on, handsome. You're buying me a drink, maybe several. I think you need a little 'Tana Truth Time."

She grabbed her purse and nearly dragged him from the office by the elbow, making a beeline across the square for The Girl and the Fig, her post-work indulgence that occurred with greater and greater frequency as the week of the Taste Challenge neared.

****

The Town Car pulled up the long, tree-lined drive to Greystone, just one in a long line of identical vehicles. Blaine would have been happy in his jeep — the contrast would be delicious, he thought — but sponsors of Taste's Night of Champions insisted that Challenge finalists arrive in style... and get home in one piece.

Diego squirmed next to him, looking uncomfortably polished in a traditional rented tuxedo. He had tried to turn down Blaine's invitation to be his plus-one, but there was no saying no.

"You deserve to be there as much as I do," he had said, handing Diego the business card of a tux shop. Diego had made a face, but again, he couldn't turn down Blaine's offer to pick up the tab for the black tie dinner.

"What's the story with this thing? New Yorkers showing off?" Diego said, eyeing the line of uniformly black cars.

"A little," Blaine said with a chuckle. "But it's good for us, for the community. And it's an open bar."

Blaine wasn't enchanted by the showiness of the event, but he had to admit that Taste was doing something good by creating a scholarship endowment at the UC Davis School of Enology and Viticulture. The money raised would help pay tuition for local students who qualified, financially and academically, to study in the prestigious program. It had to have been Kurt's idea, Blaine thought, though Kurt had never taken credit for it.

He also didn't mind an event that would allow him to finally see Kurt again, even though it might be fleeting. Kurt had already warned him that he would be lucky to spend much time seated at the Taste Magazine table, because he would be checking to make sure that everything was running according to plan: the right food with the right wine served at the right time, that the auction items were properly displayed, and that both the live and silent auctions were timed to conclude before the jazz combo was scheduled to start playing promptly at 9 p.m.

He was one of 18 winemakers to be honored in the program, and in that brief moment on stage accepting his gift or acknowledgement or certificate, he would at least have a moment with Kurt, and he decided to take it.  He had spent extra time preparing, styling his sometimes unruly curls into a well-shaped coif, and making sure that the notched lapels on his trim-cut Calvin Klein tux rested just so against his chest.

As they shuffled up the walkway of  the cut-stone castle, they found Santana, hands on hips, decked out in a shimmering, form-fitting red gown with lips painted to match.

"Ms. Lopez, you are a vision in red," Blaine said.

"I know, I know — devil in a red dress," she said, taking his arm.

"How are you holding up?

"I haven't run into her yet, if that's what you're asking. And I could use a drink before I do."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you've come to the right place."

They entered the dining hall to a view of crisp white linens, creamy arrangements of white roses, accents of candlelight reflecting off the collections of crystal stemware arranged on each table. It was clean, sleek and elegant, all the while remaining warm and inviting. 

Santana whistled. "Gotta hand it to him, our man's got a good eye."

Blaine allowed himself a private smile at the words.

As they found their seats among the five tables reserved by the Sonoma Wine Bureau, Blaine found himself cornered by an officious meeting planner, who herded him to the back of the room with other Taste Challenge winemakers signing their auction items with gold Sharpie pens and posing for the event photographer. He could see Sebastian holding court at the far end of the table, Bob Devries at his side, pressing the flesh. Blaine signed, posed and left the area as quickly as possible.

He found his way back to Santana and Diego with deliberate speed.

"Are they done with you?" Santana said. "Because I intend to keep you close tonight."

"Keeping me out of trouble?"

"No, you're keeping me out of trouble," she said, eyeing Blaine toward the table front and center, the Taste Magazine table, where Kurt and Quinn were deep in conversation. Kurt looked focused, serious and elegant, his hair sculpted to sweep up from his face; his tuxedo — Armani, Blaine guessed — a traditional box shape tailored to contour Kurt's slim physique.

Blaine gulped, then reached for his glass. And missed.

"Oh, yeah. There's nothing there. Nothing at all," Santana said, raising an empty martini glass. "King me."

Blaine kept his eye on the central table through much of the evening, watching Kurt come and go with each course and each new wine pairing. A Grenache rosé with appetizers. Viognier with the citrus-tinged salad. Chardonnay with the salmon. A Cab-Petit Verdot blend with the filet. 

As servers delivered a pairing of dark chocolate soufflé and port, Kurt rose again, Quinn at his side, and headed for the stage.

Santana flinched, then reached for her drink. "Here's to chauffeurs."

Index cards carefully hidden in his palm, Kurt stepped to the podium, and addressed the well-heeled crowd. He talked about the Challenge, and how he had "taken one for the team," sampling hundreds of high quality Napa and Sonoma region wines to narrow the field to a final 20 for the blind taste event.

Quinn remained offstage during the introduction, but she could be seen in the wings from the Sonoma tables looking fashionable, aloof and maybe a little bit jittery. She focused on Kurt for most of his speech, but from time to time, her eyes darted across the room, landing squarely on their table. Blaine could see Santana make eye contact with her, only to have Quinn look away.

"How are we doing?" Blaine asked quietly.

"Long live the king," Santana said, rolling the cocktail glass in her hand. "Don't you want to hear this?"

Blaine shifted his focus back to Kurt.

"When my publisher told me about her plans for this event, and that those plans included moving me to California for a year, I thought she was crazy. I was sure that California had been done to death. But you have been full of surprises. You've kept me on my toes, and sometimes a little off-balance."

Kurt looked directly at Blaine.

"And now, with the Challenge a week away, I realize that this is only the beginning, and I can't wait to see what's around the corner."

In that moment, Blaine was certain his heart skipped a beat.

With that, Kurt introduced Quinn. She approached the podium to ardent applause, her face set with an impervious smile.

"Taste Magazine's relationship with wine runs so much deeper than simple reviews and wine guides. It has always been our priority to find and embrace the new voices, the trendsetters, the future of this industry. So many of the winemakers we honor tonight reflect that."

Quinn went on to discuss Kurt's role in the fundraiser, how Taste could not only recognize new and exciting wines from the dueling counties, but also help shape the next generation of winemakers by funding scholarships in enology and viticulture.

Like any experienced speaker, Quinn's focus criss-crossed the room, addressing her statements to indivudal guests, making eye contact with them table-by-table. 

All but one.

As her speech concluded, she called the winemakers representing the Taste Challenge finalists to the stage,  presented each with an award, and turned the evening over to a professional auctioneer. 

Most of the donated items were sold via silent auction, but a select few were opened up to live bidding. The silent auction for the Taste Challenge wines remained open while guests bid on luxury vacations and spa days. When those items sold, the wines with the top three silent bids were made available in the live auction.

In third, and the first up for bid, was Dalton's 2008 Meritage. The wine typically retailed for close to $125, and a brief bidding war erupted.

Santana looked around the room, then poked Blaine in the ribs. 

"I'd heard that he'd taken up a collection to bid on the Napa wines and sure enough," she angled her head toward the back corner of the room, where Bob Devries was bidding up the Dalton wine. "Asshole."

The price was high, even for a charity event, but the auctioneer kept reminding the crowd that they were nurturing their future winemakers — and securing a sweet tax deduction.

The Meritage sold for $865.

Next up was another Napa wine, the St. James Estate Chardonnay. Devries again worked the crowd, driving bidding sky-high. The fact that the parent corporation of St. James Estate had bought tables to the event and filled them with C-Suite executives didn't hurt. The bidding slowed at $925, and drew the sound of the auctioneer's gavel at $945.

"And last but certainly not least is the wine the drew the highest initial bid in the silent auction," he said, as an assistant brought a familiar bottle to the stage, then handed the auctioneer a note.

"From Sonoma, the Rhapsody Sotto Voce. And I have just received notice that we have a phone bidder for this wine."

Blaine and Santana exchanged puzzled looks, and Blaine looked around the room, looked for Kurt, but his seat at the Taste table was empty.

Devries stood still and mute, but the crowd took over, spurred in part by an auctioneer who was more than a little familiar with the rarity of the wine. "You can't find this in your local wine shop — yes, I have a bid for $600, do we have $625? Yes, $625 to our phone bidder. Do we have $650?"

The bidding continued, not frenzied but consistent, and settled into a one-up battle between the CEO of a wine conglomerate and the anonymous phone bidder. The bidding slowed as the price approached $1,700.

"Holy shit. That's more than 10 times the price," Blaine whispered.

"Shhh. It's for a good cause," Santana responded.

"Do we have $1,750? That's right, there's still room in our wallets for a good wine and scholarship. I have $1,750 on the phone. Do I have $1,800?"

The auctioneer paused.

The CEO reached his breaking point.

"And we have $1,750 going once. $1,750 going twice. SOLD to the charitable party on the phone!"

The crowd erupted in applause, gradually getting to its feet.

"That's crazy," Blaine said, bewildered.

"That's charity."

The auction completed, the jazz ensemble took the stage, and the rest of the Sonoma contingent saw it as their cue to let the party begin. The group grew louder, and the toasts grew longer and progressively filthier as the evening wore on. 

Blaine remained fairly quiet through it all, playing observer rather than participant. Santana was having none of it, and waved an empty cocktail glass in his face.

"If you think I'm making it through the next week without an excess of alcohol, you're sadly mistaken," she said.

"Another pawn gets coronated, I see," Blaine said, taking her glass with one hand, and giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze with the other. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "I'll be right back."

Blaine leaned against the bar, ordering another scotch for himself and a dirty martini for Santana. His back to the room, he set his elbows on the bar, resting his chin on his folded hands, when he sensed a body closing in on him, a breath brushing his neck.

"No one has a right to look that sexy in tux."

He froze.

"Not going to say hello, Blaine?"

He didn't move, and kept his eyes on the amber drink the bartender had just placed in front of him. 

"Hello, Sebastian."

The Dalton winemaker circled around, staying close, hovering in Blaine's space. He flagged the bartender without breaking eye contact. "Make it two."

"So that was a nice price you fetched for that little red of yours, but it made me wonder. Why would someone feel compelled to be an anonymous bidder at a local charity event, and what compelled them to pay nearly $1,750 for a $150 bottle of young wine?"

"Just charitable, I guess."

"Maybe someone was looking to pump up Sonoma's value. Maybe someone was looking to pump up your value."

"Maybe they wanted a tax deduction," Blaine snapped, turning around to face him.

Sebastian grinned, and lowered his voice. "Now Blaine, is that any way for us to talk? After all we've been through together? You know, that column of Hummel's? It got me thinking."

"Always dangerous..."

"Blaine, c'mon. He claims we're not close. I think we should be. It was good, when we were close."

"We were never close, Sebastian." Blaine turned to walk away from the bar, but Sebastian circled around, blocking his path, grabbing his forearm to stop him.

Sebastian pressed his  body close, using his grip on Blaine's arm for leverage.

"Really, sweetheart? Because you have to be close to remember what I remember — and I remember it vividly. I know your body. I know the scar on your knee. I know that birthmark on your shoulder blade. I know what gets you off. I know the look on your face when you come, the way you clamp your eyes shut, the way you babble — oh, god, the babbling — the "o" you make with those talented lips. I remember it well, and it's unforgettable. It's stunning. God, I'm getting hard just thinking about it."

"Then maybe you should go fuck yourself, Sebastian. Because I'm certainly not going to have anything to do with it. Haven't you figured out that I'm not interested?" 

"You were plenty interested before. We could pick up where we left off."

Fed up and anxious to leave, Blaine tried to twist his arm from Sebastian's grasp, but the grip simply tightened.

"Hmm. I was right, wasn't I? But Hummel's giving you the cold shoulder. You know what? He's a fool."

"No, he's actually a syndicated critic with a worldwide following whose getting a really good idea of what your next review's going to look like," said a voice, loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to sound menacing, just behind Sebastian's left ear. 

From a far corner of the room near an emergency exit, Kurt had looked up and seen the tense standoff developing by the bar. He hadn't waited long before he navigated the crowded obstacle course of bodies and tables that separated him from the clash between the former lovers.

Sebastian released Blaine's arm with Kurt's sudden appearance. He turned slowly, a grin creeping across his face. 

"Kurt. Such good timing. Blaine and I were just talking about taking this party on the road. Maybe you'd like to join us."

Kurt then stepped in close, and made sure only the two of them would hear his words.

“In case you didn’t hear, his answer is no,” Kurt whispered. “And my answer is hell no.”

Sebastian looked to Blaine, then back to Kurt, picked up his drink and walked away, dragging a finger along Blaine's arm as he left.

Blaine, his face blanched, slumped. His deep exhale sounded like he was exorcising a ghost.

"You okay?" Kurt asked.

"If you still had questions about why I avoid that guy, I hope they were just answered. I just need to get out of here."

"He's gone now. Stay. This night's for you, and for all your friends at those tables over there," Kurt said, looking to the Sonoma tables, which had become the pulse of the room. The group was getting a little loud, and having a lot of laughs, and had clearly come to party.

"I need to leave."

"Are you still mad at me?"

"You just saved me from that guy. How could I be mad at you?"

"I don't know, maybe something about avoiding you?"

Blaine looked to the ceiling, rolling his eyes and curling his lips in an embarrassed smile.

"No, not mad."

"Do you want to go talk?"

"Kurt, if you couldn't be seen having lunch with me, what do you think people would say if they saw you leaving with me?"

Just as Blaine had begun to understand Kurt's reluctance to meet these past few weeks, Kurt had an epiphany of his own. He had become accustomed to all the time they'd spent together, and now that it had come to an abrupt halt, he missed it. He missed Blaine, and the confrontation with Smythe left him feeling strangely possessive.

Kurt leaned in as discreetly as possible, lowered his voice, and allowed himself a moment of honesty.

"That's true," he said. "But I'm not really sure I care any more."

Blaine let it sink in for a moment, then let the hand closest to the bar, away from the room full of prying eyes, rise to meet Kurt's elbow. "You care, Kurt. You wouldn't be where you are if you didn't. I'm going home now, and I'll see you next week."

Kurt shut his eyes and nodded. 

****