Santana tested the limits — or at least the suspension —  of her BMW, tossing it in and out of the rolling corners of the Sonoma Highway toward Interstate 80. Blaine did his best not to show his nerves, but clung to the passenger door armrest more than once.

"Everything okay over there?" he asked.

"I'm just trying to get to I-80 before traffic hits," she said, deep in concentration that Blaine only hoped was focused on the road ahead.

"We've got plenty of time to get to Davis. The meeting doesn't start 'til 10."

Quinn had scheduled a mandatory walk through of the Taste Challenge for all finalists, publicists, organizers and others involved in the event. The only participants who would not be on hand were the judges, who were sequestered at a hotel in Sacramento and met with event planners separately.

The Mondavi Center was, on paper, an easy drive from either Napa or Sonoma. Hit the road at just the right moment, and it could be covered in under an hour. But the commuter traffic criss-crossing the valley between Sacramento and San Francisco had been known on occasion to double that drive-time. Santana and Blaine decided to leave early and grab a cup of coffee if the fates and traffic reports allowed.

"I've been meaning to ask you how you held up the other night," Blaine asked, hoping conversation might cause Santana to ease up on the gas. 

"I can hold my liquor, Blaine."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Did you talk?"

"I talk all the time. It's nothing but talk, talk, talk."

"So I'll take that as a no."

"You would be correct, sir." Santana gave him a little mock salute, then returned her hand to the wheel. "I didn't see much purpose in it, and apparently, neither did she."

"Don't you think this would be a good time to put this behind you? To move on?"

"Oh, I moved on a long time ago. I'm moving just fine."

Blaine looked at her, a little bit exasperated, and more than a little bit sympathetic. He knew Santana well enough to know that she took life's shot harder than she let on. The fact of the matter was that there were chips in her Teflon facade and sometimes, the hurt stuck.

"Santana, is it worth it, really? Wouldn't it be better if the two of you just settled things?"

Santana stared straight ahead in silence for a beat, then reached over and cranked up the stereo.

****

They found a small crowd already congregated outside the stone-and-glass Studio Theatre of the Mondavi Center for the Performing Arts. Much of the Sonoma contingent was already there, along with several of the Napa winemakers and their teams.

As the other participants filed in to the theater, Blaine felt a tap on his shoulder. To his left stood Kurt, in a trim tailored suit that looked like his wardrobe from his first days in the valley, but that he hadn't worn in weeks. His voice had a conspiratorial tone.

"How's she holding up?" 

"I could ask you the same thing," Blaine said. "She's edgy."

"She's always edgy."

"She's even edgier," Blaine said. "The ride over was a bit... tense."

"She's no better," Kurt said, looking in Quinn's direction. "She's either going to jump off a cliff or torch a small village. She's snapping at everyone; silent one minute, pretty much shouting the next."

"You're going to have to fill me in on the background of all this some day. I'm just on the periphery. I knew there was someone. I know she never really got past it. But I didn't know who until just recently."

Kurt shook his head slowly. "Having gone through this already in college, I can honestly say I'm not looking forward to a sequel." 

"They were like this in college?"

"They were inseparable in college," Kurt said. Blaine raised his eyebrows. Kurt nodded. "Then Q's career started to take off, and she met someone else and next thing anyone knew, it was war.

It didn't help matters that it was a man — or that she married him."

Blaine's mouth formed a silent "oh." It explained volumes about his guarded, caustic friend who only let people in under the most extraordinary of circumstances.

"The marriage lasted a grand total of 13 months," Kurt added with a shrug. "What do you say we lock them in a room and call it a death match?"

"Quinn wouldn't stand a chance," Blaine said, catching a glance of Santana, who was currently stalking the foyer with a look in her eye that suggested someone was about to get a piece of her mind.

"Don't be so sure. Beneath Quinn's calm exterior is some serious crazy."

Kurt looked around the foyer for a moment, leaned in and lowered his voice. "Forget about them. How are you holding up?"

"Good. Fine. Looking forward to being done with this and getting back to work."

Kurt swallowed his smile, or tried. Blaine still rebelled against the event in his own small way, while embracing it for the sake of his colleagues, and Kurt found it completely endearing.

"You'll be a full-time winemaker again soon enough."

"Good. I don't mind playing dress-up, but I don't enjoy being put on display."

"You dress up well," Kurt said, biting his lip. "I haven't seen you like that before. You were a hit, and so was your wine.  And it was thoughtful what you did, bringing Diego."

"I'm not sure he would agree with you. He was there under duress, at least to start. I think he had a good time by the end of it. And he deserved to be there as much as I did, maybe more. If it wasn't for the fact that he didn't go to college, he'd probably have a bottle in this thing."

Their voices low and their bodies closer than they realized, they lost track of the space around them as they spoke.

"Well. Aren't you two looking cozy," Sebastian interrupted, rounding a corner of the room unnoticed and planting himself squarely between them, causing Blaine to freeze.

"And aren't you looking reptilian," Kurt answered. "Please tell me you're not back for round two."

"I wish," he said to their backs as Kurt steered Blaine into the theater. 

****

Quinn walked alongside a docent leading a tour of the Studio Theater, the smaller of the two performance spaces at the Mondavi Center. Its modern, utilitarian space suited the tasting far better than the formality of the main stage, Quinn said. The Studio Theater could be stripped and set up in multiple configurations, allowing the event to have the feel of a dinner party while still maintaining traditional audience seating. 

A stage had been installed to the front of the room, with round dinner tables assembled on the floor. To either side, risers with theater seating were installed. 

Quinn asked the group to sit in the risers, and spoke to them from the floor, Kurt by her side.

"We want to thank all of you for joining us today. We just want to run through the evening so that everyone will know exactly what to expect," Quinn said.

Quinn outlined the timeline, the process, the expectations that Taste had for the event, down to the dress code — cocktail, not black tie. 

Santana leaned over to Blaine and whispered. "Now she's telling us how to dress. I'll give you a hundred bucks if you show up in Levis." 

Blaine bit back a laugh.

"At this point, aren't we really just spectators? I really don't understand why we're doing this walkthrough," said the winemaker from Pillsbury Wines, a petite redhead. 

"Bingo!" Santana said, louder than she should have. Quinn shot her a piercing look.

"You're part of the show. The people who've bought tickets to this aren't just here to watch the judges sip wine. They want to meet the winemakers behind the wine."

"So now we're on display," Santana muttered.

"A little organization never hurt anyone," snapped a familiar voice that was used to barking orders. Sue Sylvester, president of Sylvester House, ran a winery with a reputation for being run with military precision.

"We want to make sure this goes off without a hitch. And considering how much some tables took advantage of the open bar the other night, we think it's in everyone's best interest to set down some ground rules," Quinn said.

Kurt looked to Blaine, and with the the tiniest shrug, tried to convey, Not we. She. This was not my idea. Blaine responded with a hint of an eye roll, and a little shake of the head. I understand.

Kurt glanced around the room, catching Sebastian's haughty expression, looking like his role in the event was a birthright. He also tried to keep track of how many times the Dalton winemaker's eyes drifted over to Blaine — and lost count.

He finally looked over to the Sonoma contingent again, and found Blaine looking right at him, unafraid to make eye contact. His hazel eyes didn't drift, not for a second, and Kurt allowed himself a brief, closed-mouth smile, then felt a second set of eyes on him.

He looked across the room again, and Sebastian was watching, and made a point to shift his focus to Blaine, then back once again to Kurt, his mouth twisting into a contorted smirk.

"We will be using the traditional 100-point scale," Quinn droned on. "But this is a streamlined competition, as you know.We are not judging individual varietals. It will be reds versus reds and whites versus whites. Each will be judged purely on its own individual merit versus the standard for that particular wine, be it a varietal or a blend. The highest overall score wins."

"Like the Westminster Dog Show. Now all we need is someone to prance us around the ring," Santana added.

Blaine elbowed her, and discreetly tried to shake his head 'no'.

It was too late.

Quinn had her trained in her sights, and leveled an icy stare in their direction. "Is there a problem, Ms. Lopez?"

It was the first time Quinn had addressed or acknowledged her since she'd arrived on the west coast, and her words dripped with cynicism.

Oh god, here it comes, Kurt thought.

"Not now, Santana. Not here," Blaine whispered. 

"A problem?" Santana said, full voiced.

"Please, Santana, don't," Blaine said, turning his face to Santana's ear.

"Let me think about that..."

Oh shit, Blaine thought.

"I think that perhaps we could have done a better job with meeting prep today. We know you're all busy people. Quinn's just very passionate about making sure that everyone looks good," Kurt said, intervening, hoping to defuse what was about to become an explosive confrontation.

Blaine cradled Santana's elbow, and continued to plead his case in hushed tones.

"Santana, you don't want to do this. Not here, not now. Think back to when you asked me to do this. It was about saving face. It was about protecting our reputation, and showing that we're as good as anybody. The big guns versus the little guys. Santana, please. Do you really want to pick a fight right now?"

She glared. She stared. She took a deep breath, all while fixing her focus directly at Quinn.

"For the record —"

"I know," Blaine said. "I know. But let's get through this first, okay?"

"Got your dog back on a leash, Anderson?" Sebastian's voice drifted down from behind him. "Personally, I could watch this all day."

Santana finally turned toward Blaine.

"Do you want to kill him or should I do the honors?"

****