TBW - 23

23. Drinking fake wine, huh?

Cheng Simin hadn’t replied in over twelve hours, and Shi Ying was already feeling miserable. This jab hit him right in the heart. He pursed his lips, avoiding eye contact, and placed his phone back on the table before picking up a piece of softened noodle and putting it in his mouth.

Unsatisfied with the lack of response, Old Zhao chewed half a clove of garlic and slurped loudly from his bowl of meaty broth. After observing Shi Ying closely for a few moments, he suddenly realized something was different about him today.

Shi Ying was handsome, the kind of beautiful youth that young girls adored. Old Zhao had recognized this the first time he met him.

But after days of working side by side without brushing their teeth or washing their faces, Old Zhao had long lost his fascination with Shi Ying’s pretty face. Back in his youth, Old Zhao fancied himself a dashing figure resembling Leon Lai, but years of wind and sun exposure had aged him far beyond his peers.

A real man, Old Zhao believed, should be rugged and unafraid of looking ugly—that was true heroism.

Yet here was Shi Ying, who yesterday had been scruffy and sallow-faced, now looking completely refreshed. Not only was his complexion fairer, but his lips were rosy, and his hair appeared meticulously styled, voluminous and polished.

As Old Zhao slurped his mugwort noodles, he frowned and sniffed the air. Alongside the mutton’s gamy scent lingered a faint woody fragrance—a smell unmistakably emanating from Shi Ying.

“Xiao Shi, why is your face so pale? And what’s that smell? Are you wearing cologne?”

“You’re here to work, not to prance around. Who else in this winery is going to look at you besides me?”

Shi Ying nearly choked on a mouthful of noodles. Grabbing a napkin to dab at his lips, he shot Old Zhao a glare, his sharp tongue ready to deliver a biting retort.

But before he could speak, his phone lit up. Spotting Cheng Simin’s avatar, he immediately abandoned his meal, carrying his bowl to the sink in the kitchen. He couldn’t care less about explaining to Old Zhao, a lifelong bachelor, the concept of dressing up for someone you admire.

Old Zhao, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly fragrant himself. His body odor—head, feet, armpits—was unbearable. No wonder he was still single at over fifty. Chewing garlic in broad daylight, his breath could knock out a donkey. Even men couldn’t stand him—no wonder his ex-wife ran away.

Old Zhao was still shouting after him, but Shi Ying had already washed his bowl and chopsticks, dried his hands, and returned to replying to Cheng Simin’s message.

Regarding the ten-thousand-yuan transfer he had sent her yesterday, Cheng Simin hadn’t accepted it. Instead, she had promptly returned it.

Moreover, his likes and comments on her WeChat Moments hadn’t elicited the deeply flirtatious response he had hoped for. Still, Cheng Simin remained friendly, sending him a concerned question: “Shi Ying, are you feeling unwell or something?”

Well, at least she replied—it was better than ignoring him until next year. Cheng Simin was still treating him kindly.

Feeling much better—and even a little touched—Shi Ying thought for a moment before replying: “Nope.”

“Why would you ask that?”

What did she mean by asking that? Over in Huanghe Garden, Cheng Simin was brushing her teeth while sitting on the toilet. The toothpaste foam sprayed out of her mouth along with muttered curses, forming tiny bubbles that briefly defied gravity, floating upward like hot air balloons toward the ceiling.

Beibei stood at the bathroom door, interpreting Cheng Simin’s actions as an interactive game. The dog kept snapping its jaws at the floating bubbles, making sharp “kak kak” sounds.

After rinsing her mouth, Cheng Simin was too lazy to type out a text reply and instead sent him a garbled voice message: “Why are you transferring money to me? Why are you commenting on my Moments in the middle of the night? Are you drinking fake wine or something?”

Drinking fake wine wasn’t entirely impossible. Life’s three great sorrows were unattainable desires, meeting those you despise, and parting from those you love—and Shi Ying seemed to have experienced all three. If not for his high alcohol tolerance, which prevented him from getting drunk, he might have sought solace in liquor.

The voice message played once, but Shi Ying replayed it immediately. Cheng Simin’s scolding voice was soft and crackly, like soda water after the bubbles had fizzled out. She must have just woken up. Halfway through the playback, a half-bald head appeared in Shi Ying’s peripheral vision.

Fortunately, his quick reflexes kicked in, and he immediately turned off the speaker. He certainly didn’t want to share Cheng Simin’s voice message with anyone else.

Old Zhao squinted, scrutinizing Shi Ying’s crisp suit from head to toe, then snorted: “Romance isn’t allowed during the startup phase. Relationships will only slow us down from making money.”

“Who said I’m in a relationship?” As if romance was so easy to achieve! Old Zhao wanted to become the world’s richest man—had he succeeded?

Life rarely went as planned.

“Not in a relationship, alright.” Regardless of whether he was or wasn’t, Shi Ying impatiently adjusted the crystal cufflinks on his shirt. His poker face was back, stern and humorless, as he replied: “I’m heading to the exhibition hall this afternoon with my business cards. It’s the last day of the expo—I need to take a chance. Plus, I’ll visit President Sun and Vice President Li of the chamber of commerce—the ones you had a falling-out with—to see if there are any good projects recently.”

For Old Zhao’s winery to develop, it was essential to break free from its information bubble. This was no longer the era of rapid growth for China’s wine industry. Staying stuck in outdated ways, like Old Zhao, would only lead to gradual decline.

“That fool!” Old Zhao spat. “When I first started in the wine business, he hadn’t even grown hair yet! Why should I visit him? Just because he got promoted quickly, spouting empty rhetoric and excelling at office politics?”

Mentioning Sun QiYang, the president of the Wine Association, brought back a flood of anger. Last year, during his final attendance at the chamber’s salon, the head of the wine industrial park collaborated with the chamber to propose a renovation plan for all the wineries at the foot of Helan Mountain.

This initiative aimed for a comprehensive upgrade of Western City’s wine industry, encompassing cultural tourism, internet integration, and more. President Sun specifically emphasized strengthening deep cooperation between wineries and leading wine merchants nationwide.

Renovating guesthouses, implementing VR technology, and building websites—all required funding. That alone wasn’t the issue, as the industrial park offered targeted subsidies. The real problem lay in the fact that small independent wineries already struggled to make profits. Yet the chamber demanded they sign equity agreements with distributors, granting long-term control over their wine categories, production guidance, and pricing.

In other words, decisions about what grapes to grow, what wines to produce, and how to price them would all be handed over to so-called experts, under the guise of adding value.

Last year, Old Zhao had been stubbornly resistant. Allowing large capital to interfere with his shares? Impossible, let alone enduring seven years of meddling in his winemaking process.

Due to disagreements over the winery’s future development, President Sun, ten years younger than him, publicly criticized Old Zhao.

Afterward, everyone gathered in a private room to eat, drink, and chat—a perfect opportunity to ease tensions. However, after a few rounds of drinks, Old Zhao clashed with the vice president over grape varieties. Though Old Zhao’s points about plant science were undeniably correct, the other winery owners present mumbled awkwardly, siding with the vice president and accusing Old Zhao of having an attitude problem, suggesting he needed to humble himself and seek further advice.

Because of his conflict with President Sun, Old Zhao, once regarded as the elder brother figure in the group, suddenly became the black sheep among the flock.

Thinking back to that day, Old Zhao still trembled with rage. Those winery owners had once been his brothers, but when it came to profit, opportunism reigned supreme. Who cared about friendship anymore?

But had they done anything wrong? Without the chamber’s and industrial park’s support, his path had indeed grown narrower, which was why Shi Ying now stood before him.

Knowing Old Zhao’s temperament, Shi Ying placated him gently: “Boss Zhao, let me handle this. Don’t worry—I’ll do the smiling and groveling. You stay here at the winery and focus on processing the harvested grapes.”

“If we can secure a sales channel this year, we’ll reclaim the production line. Then you’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

Reassured, Old Zhao eagerly donned his raincoat and headed to the production area to check on the workers.

Meanwhile, Shi Ying continued replying to Cheng Simin’s messages. Grabbing a broken umbrella from the kitchen doorway, he braved the drizzle, picked up a bucket, and headed toward the nearby vineyard.

Aside from the open-air grapevines, Old Zhao also had several plastic greenhouses growing special varieties of grapes and spice plants.

Clad in his tailored suit, Shi Ying plucked grapes with an air of refined decadence, creating a striking contrast. After selecting over a dozen of the most beautiful bunches for decoration, he carried the bucket back to the cellar and began rummaging through Old Zhao’s wines.

After gathering a variety of items, Shi Ying finally assembled a few decent gift baskets. He began loading them into his battered Tollyjoy.

At 1:00 PM, Shi Ying drove toward the provincial capital of Western City, while Cheng Simin stayed home to simmer a pot of longan, brown sugar, and millet porridge.

Outside, a light rain fell; inside, warm food bubbled on the stove. The air carried a gentle sweetness from the porridge, mingling with the cool, earthy scent of the rainy day. In her mind, fragments of their conversation from just fifteen minutes earlier replayed over and over.

Regarding the transfer, Shi Ying had explained that he didn’t mean anything unusual. He simply found her dumplings delicious and thought it would be convenient to prepay for meals since he rarely cooked at home. Eating takeout every night after work wasn’t healthy, so he wanted to store some meal funds with her.

If she happened to cook extra food in the future, he wouldn’t be picky—he’d eat anything. She could factor in ingredient costs and labor fees, and they could treat this purely as a practical arrangement.

In return, if Cheng Simin ever needed help carrying groceries from the supermarket or someone to look after her dog when she was out of town, he’d be more than willing to assist.

Mutual aid, mutual benefit—it was a good thing.

After only a brief hesitation—just enough time for the porridge to come to a boil—Cheng Simin agreed. However, the young master clearly had no concept of real-world expenses. Transferring ten thousand yuan for meal prep was absurd. Since she started cooking regularly, Cheng Simin had been meticulously tracking her daily food costs on social media.

As long as she didn’t buy ready-made meals, cooking for one person was surprisingly affordable.

This month, including eggs, meat, vegetables, and even Beibei’s food, her total expenses amounted to just five hundred yuan.

Quickly calculating in her head, Cheng Simin asked Shi Ying to send her six hundred yuan first. After thirty meals, they could settle accounts—refund any surplus or pay any deficit.

Shi Ying, ever considerate, transferred an additional four hundred yuan, claiming he ate a lot and didn’t want her to suffer any losses unnecessarily.

Moved by the gesture—and perhaps motivated by the money—Cheng Simin enthusiastically snapped a photo of the simmering millet porridge and sent it to him: “I’m making porridge right now and planning to fry some peanuts and mix them with cold onion and wood ear mushrooms. Are you still up for dumplings tonight? If you’re okay with it, why not have another simple meal and clear out the frozen ones? I’ve also got salted duck eggs—I’ll cut you a couple.”