It was early in the morning, so fuzzy vision wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. But one look at the matched expressions of bafflement around her, and Reese knew this wasn’t her imagination. “The bottle says pork,” she said. “We’re proposing our customers drink pork with their dessert.” Eric shook his head and snatched the bottle from her hands. He glared at it so viciously, Reese feared he might hurl it through the wall. Apparently reading his thoughts, Sheila took it from him. “Calm down, Eric. This isn’t the end of the world.” “Calm down? This port is supposed to ship to the White House tomorrow. It’s being served with cheese that costs more than my car stereo. The goddamn President of the United States is going to be drinking my port, only he’ll take one look at this bottle and wonder why the fuck his culinary team decided to offer him liquefied pig.”
