Levi grinned. “The drink.” He pulled a clear bottle from the basket. Blood-colored liquid sloshed inside, along with a few lumpy pieces of fruit. “I found some booze in your mom’s kitchen. Hope you don’t mind,” he said. Flashing a smile, he passed me a red Dixie cup.

I laughed. “Not at all.” I knew Mom wouldn’t notice.

After he poured us both a generous serving, he raised his glass toward me in a toast. “To new friends.”

I touched my glass against his, reminded of the first time we’d done this. “To new friends.” My first sip had me sputtering. Something went down spicy—not enough to overpower the sweetness of the fruit and rosé, but enough to make me cough.

“I should have mentioned.” Levi’s eyes glowed amber in the flickering firelight. “There’s a bit of a kick.”

I gasped. “I’ll say!”

“Crushed red pepper.” With an abashed smile, he spooned food onto my plate. “Eat, it’ll help.”

I gulped down a bite of quinoa salad. The juice from the tomato soothed my irritated throat and the gentle, almost bland, flavor of the quinoa calmed down my protesting taste buds. “You put red pepper in the sangria?” I asked with a wince.

He tugged at his left earlobe. “Uh, yeah. Too much?”

“Well, after the initial burn, it’s actually pretty sweet. Like a Red Hot.”

He grinned. “I had this in Spain. The Spanish Club went on a two-week trip between my junior and senior year. A bunch of us snuck out one night and went down to a beach in Costa Brava and had this. I’m trying to perfect the recipe by autumn. It’s perfect for drinking in front of a roaring fireplace with a good book in hand. This heat makes me nostalgic for sweater weather.”

“You’ve been everywhere and you still love it here,” I said, smiling.

“I haven’t really been everywhere,” said Levi. His ears turned pink and he ducked his head. “Just lucky enough to go to a couple of places. I had some money saved up from selling some of my work and taking a couple commissions. But going to Spain meant asking for all my birthday money in advance and working for my dad at his office supply store to make up the rest.”

I took another sip. This time I was prepared for the burn, so I didn’t even notice it. The fruit exploded with flavor, secreting wine-flavored juices. “Cinnamon?” I ran my tongue over my lower lip. “And … there’s a hint of something else.”

He nodded encouragingly. “Syrup mixed with port, Cointreau, cranberry juice, and rosé. I fiddled with the recipe a bit.”

“It’s good,” I said. And it was.

“Good,” he echoed, the word seeping with relief. It was good to know that I wasn’t the only one who was a little nervous.