Niagara Reserve
Wells did not need to go to the countryside in France to make great wine.
Apparently, he just needed to drive down to the Niagara region from Toronto, a vineyard, two baskets of grapes, and the kind of denim shorts that made the entire Niagara wine region reconsider its licensing standards.
Who knew Canada made wine?
Wells did.
Or at least, Wells acted like he did.
He walked between the vines at golden hour, shirtless, sweaty, carrying baskets of deep purple grapes like harvest season had personally requested a pin-up. Niagara rolled out behind him in warm rows of green and gold, and Wells looked far too proud for a man who had just learned the difference between “wine country” and “wine counter” ten minutes earlier.
“Canada makes everything better,” Wells announced to absolutely no one. “Hockey. Apologies. Maple syrup. Me.”
Then came the stomping barrel.
The grapes went in.
Wells went in after them.
Barefoot.
Smirking.
Shorts already fighting for their life.
He braced one hand on the wooden rim, shifted his hips like this was somehow part of the fermentation process, and started stomping.
Slow.
Steady.
Educational.
Grape juice splashed up his legs, streaked across his thighs, and turned the whole thing from rustic tradition into a public service announcement about vineyard safety.
Wells called it artisanal.
The barrel called it pressure.
Niagara called it harvest season.
Everyone else called it a lot to process.
By the time he leaned back with a glass of red wine, still streaked in grape juice and glowing under the sunset, Wells looked like he had personally invented body, bouquet, and bad decisions.
He swirled the glass.
He sniffed it like an expert.
He took one slow sip.
Then smiled.
“Good finish.”
Only after the tasting did Wells decide cleanup was necessary.
Which was generous.
He stepped beside the winery barn, picked up the hose, and rinsed the grape juice off himself under the last gold of the sunset. Water hit his chest, ran down his abs, and chased purple streaks from his thighs to the stone floor. Somehow, the cleanup looked less appropriate than the stomping.
Wells glanced down at the mess, then back toward the vineyard with a smug little smile.
“Still counts as a tasting note.”
Naturally, Wells brought bottles back for Izzy to serve at the Golden Chalice Pub, carefully labelled as a limited seasonal pour:
Wells Gold Reserve Niagara Harvest Batch Notes of blackberry, oak, confidence, poor judgment, and unnecessary thigh involvement.
The first glass sold fast.
The second came with questions.
The third was immediately declared dangerous.
Wells only smiled.
Niagara made the wine.
But the Gold gave it body.
Ready to taste the Gold? Join the Golden Army, follow Wells into Niagara wine country, trust the harvest, and let Izzy pour you something with body at the Golden Chalice Pub: Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Mentions: @isaac-gold-45
