Wild Abandon Page 3

  His soft features are accentuated by a strong jaw and stubble that gives him a ruggedly sexy look. He’s too beautiful to be yielding a look as severe as the one he’s bearing down on me.

  “It seemed like the thing to do.”

  The bartender looks me over for a moment before reaching behind him and grabbing a pint glass off the shelf. He pours a glass of the imperial stout from the tap and places it in front of me.

  It’s exactly what I would have ordered if I were back in New York.

  “How did you know what kind of beer I liked?”

  He wipes the counter down with a rag. His eyes are trained on the cedar as he answers, “You can tell a lot about a person by the type of wine they drink. The merlot you chose has an expressive flavor, packed with dark cocoa undertones. Means you’re most likely a stout drinker. I just took a guess on which one.” He pauses for a second and looks to his left, as if he’s about to turn and walk away, but then he looks back at me and adds, “That’s on the house.”

  I raise my glass to him in appreciation. “Thank you.” I take a sip and savor the bold floor as the hops get acquainted with my taste buds.

  Placing the glass on the bar, I twirl my finger around the rim and give his body a once-over. He is wearing a long-sleeved maroon shirt and dark blue jeans. From the backside view he’s giving me, I can see he fills them out very well. And from the way his bicep curled when he was holding the glass up to the tap, I would assume the rest of him was equally as muscular—not bulky, just strong.

  His dark hair is buzzed short to his head. There are no signs of balding, so I can only assume it is out of convenience, or he likes the tough-guy look. I’m going to guess convenience since he doesn’t look very tough.

  Solemn but definitely not tough.

  I sip my beer in silence. Too much silence. The televisions are off, and there isn’t a radio playing or another patron around to distract me. All I hear are the soft sounds of him wiping down the counter, a swishing normally not heard from doing such a task.

  “How did you know I didn’t want the wine?”

  He’s made his way to the other end of the bar and throws the rag into a sink. His lips part and close before he finally settles on an answer. “I saw it in your eyes.”

  I do a double take. I’ve never had someone read me like that before. You’d think he’d be interested in me, but it’s quite the opposite because, for some reason, it feels like he is purposely moving farther and farther away from me.

  Typically, I have a difficult time with trying to make bartenders go away. A single gal having a beer by her lonesome is like the Bat-Signal for psychiatrist-wannabe tenders of the great ale.

  I take another sip and look around for a menu. I don’t see one anywhere, nor do I see a waitress.

  “Is the kitchen open?” I ask in a rather loud voice, considering he vanished to the other side of the L-shaped bar.

  I can’t see him, but I can hear the deep huff of his breath, a cabinet open, glass hitting the wood, and then the crinkle of a package. The cabinet door closes, and seconds later, he comes back around the wall, holding a bowl of bar nuts.

  “Kitchen’s closed.” He pushes the bowl toward me. “The bar’s technically closed, but I forgot to lock the door. We don’t open for another thirty minutes.”

  If the bar was closed, why didn’t he say so when I walked in?

  I look at my phone and see Naomi has yet to text. So far, the first day of my new life has consisted of drinking alone in a closed bar.

  I raise my glass and air-cheers the bottles of liquor sitting on the shelves in front of me. “Here’s to my new adventure.”

  Peering over the glass, I see Mr. Sociable walking over with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. With one of my brows perched up high, I watch as he pours amber liquid into the two glasses. He slides one across the bar to me and raises the other in his hand.

  My hand reaches out midway to take the glass, and then I pull back. I don’t drink whiskey straight, and I don’t drink with strangers.

  Oh, what the hell? I reach for the glass and look back at him. “Isn’t it a little early for whiskey?”

  “Only the good die young,” he replies just before he shoots the liquor back without even a flinch at the burn.

  I can feel my forehead creasing with the face I am making at him. As odd as he is, I am not one to argue with his logic.

  The shot doesn’t go down in a ladylike way, so I cough at the tail end and wait for my chest to simmer down.

  “First time in Napa?”

  I hear the question, but it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.

  Of course he’s talking to you. You’re the only person here.

  “Oh, yeah. Yes, I just flew in”—I stop to look at my watch—“four hours ago.”

  “Here with a guy?” He’s pouring two more shots into the glasses.

  “I actually flew across the country to move in with my girlfriend.”

  He lifts his glass to his full lips and takes another shot. “Big move. Congratulations to the two of you.”

  Congratulations? Why is he—

  “No!” I say rather loudly. “No. I didn’t mean it like that. She’s…we’re…when I said girlfriend, I meant, my friend who’s a girl, and she’s married. We’re not a couple. I’m not a lesbian. Not that I have a problem with that. I’m from New York.” I offer that last part up in explanation, as if it’s a valid reason not to be homophobic.

  He’s looking back at me with his mouth puckered and his eyes slightly widened, as if saying, Okay, but in the most sarcastic way.

  I cross my right leg over the left and adjust my posture. “So…how’s the nightlife around here?”

  He frowns and shrugs his shoulders. “Not too much to do. Go to San Francisco if you want the clubs and late-night scene.”

  “Where do single people go to meet other single people?”

  His perfect brow narrows, skeptically, as he appraises my question. “You didn’t move all the way across the country in hopes of finding love, did you?”

  My leg slides down, and my foot hits the bar. “So what if I did?”

  He leans forward, grabs the shot he poured for me, and drinks it. “Seems like a waste of time.”

  “You don’t believe in love?”

  He sets the glass down on the bar harder than the other two shots he took. “I believe in love just as much as I believe in death. It is inevitable, and it can hurt.”

  His words are straightforward, and he sounds unaffected, but his eyes bear the hurt he speaks of. They’re looking straight at mine, and I am captivated by the heaviness of them.

  “Have you always been this cynical?”

  He breaks our contact.

  “Let me guess. You got fucked over by one undeserving woman?” My comment causes him to flinch.

  His chest puffs out with the smallest of laughs, as if what I said was comical. “Let’s just say, I’m serving my time.”

  I slap my hand against the bar. “God, this is what pisses me off. Women are always accused of being overly dramatic and never letting things go, but at least we move on from failed relationships. One man scorned, and the rest of us get shoved into a category of unworthy adversaries of your affection.”

  The right side of his cheek rises but not in a smile. He’s shaking his head in a way you would to a child who just made a mistake.

  “If you’re so desperate to meet someone, you picked the wrong place. Napa is for lovers, not loners. If you’re alone in this city, you’ll only find misery.”

  Misery is felt within the heart. It doesn’t matter where you live.”

  “Why do you want to fall in love so badly?” His words are quick.

  “I never said I did!” I say louder than intended. “You can’t judge someone without knowing a thing about them.” I take a breath and wave my hand in the air. “Aren’t bartenders supposed to be the best listeners? You’ve done nothing but insult me.”

  Wrapping my
hands around the cold pint glass, I stare at the dark liquid lying in there, half-full.

  “I’m a catch,” I say even though I don’t know why I’m explaining myself. “I have a college degree, and I’ve always been gainfully employed. I’m pretty, not in a conceited way, but I’m okay to look at, and I can be a good time. I am an excellent gift-giver and can definitely hold my own in a conversation. Many have even told me I’m funny. I’m not desperate for love, but, yeah, I’d like to find it. I just don’t want to settle. You only get to live life once. Why waste it with the wrong person?”

  When I look up, his expression is different. He is staring at me, as if trying to decode a mystery. His square jaw isn’t clenched as tight, and the corners of his eyes have a slight crease to them, softening them.

  For some unknown reason, I can’t help but stare right back. My heart begins to race, and without my permission, my lips part in an inviting way. I’ve never met this man before, yet there is something about him that I feel almost connected to. My hand starts to tingle with this burning need to touch him—not sexually, just physically.

  It’s like I need to make contact or else I’ll implode.

  I think he feels it, too, because his pupils dilate, and the olive green turns onyx, making him look hypnotized in the moment.

  My fingers inch slightly forward, and I will them to come back, but they have a mind of their own. My hand is just inches from his, the static in the air igniting as skin draws closer to skin, when a cell phone vibrates on the bar, making a loud buzzing sound, breaking the spell of the moment. I look down and see Naomi’s text, saying that she’ll meet me at the car.

  My heart is pounding, and I wonder why I’m reacting this way. When I lift my head toward him, he’s gone, having moved a few feet away. His body is keeping a safe distance, but his eyes show a yearning I’ve never felt before. I must have been looking at him for too long because he turns his back to me and leans his hands on the counter, his back rising and falling.

  I blow out through my lips as I rise from my seat and pull a ten-dollar bill from my purse. I place the money on the bar and start to make my way toward the exit. The room is so damn silent, and the walk to the door feels like it is ten times longer than when I walked in.

  And it still smells like Clorox.

  “Hey, Red,” he calls. There’s a change in his voice. It’s softer, sincere.

  I have one foot out the door, but I stop and momentarily decide if I should turn around or not.

  “We have local bands here on Wednesday and Saturday nights. It’s a good spot to come to if you want to meet someone.”

  I glance over my shoulder to see him still standing behind the bar with his back to me.

  I don’t know who hurt him, and I don’t know why he feels the need to carry the burden. What I do know is, that statement was worth more than any apology he could have offered.

  With a nod, I walk out of Henley’s Pub.

  chapter TWO

  I am using a map for the first time in a decade. Yes, a map. An honest-to-goodness gigantic piece of paper that takes up the entire passenger seat.

  The hybrid car I rented doesn’t have navigation, and my cell isn’t getting a lick of service in this area of the valley. Jeremy warned me this morning that I’d need to take a map. I was about to laugh at his joke—I mean, who uses a map anymore?—when he handed me one and sent me on my merry way.

  Makes me wonder where the hell I’m going.

  And I don’t mean just the location.

  For an area that is high in tourist traffic, I feel like I am in backcountry. When I take a left off the Silverado Trail, dry dirt kicks up from the road as I make snakelike turns.

  I follow the road through the cliffs. Rows of gorgeous vines with perfectly formed grapes clinging to ropes and wires, luscious in the morning dew of the valley. The amazing thing about the scene is that the vines grow low in the valley and high up into the mountains. There is no place these miraculous plants are not thriving.

  Plants? I wonder if that’s the correct term or if I’d get my head chewed off by some vine enthusiast.

  My lack of knowledge in wine and vines is making me a little nervous about the interview I am about to go on. Naomi was sparing with her knowledge of Russet Ranch and exactly what it is I would be doing there. All I know is, I am meeting with the owner, Ed Martin.

  Dressed in a crimson sundress and a pair of tan wedges, I pulled my hair back into a braid, taming the curly mane to look as polished as possible. I’m also wearing my favorite gold chain necklaces that layer from the base of my neck down to the center of my rib cage. I paired it with large gold hoops and a couple of Alex and Ani bracelets that jingle as I turn the steering wheel into Russet Ranch, making a quick right as I almost missed the sign altogether.

  A worn, weathered wood sign with the name written in green, red, and white paint is stuck into the ground on the side of the road. It is smaller than those of the larger vineyards, but I’m sure that it was eye-catching when it was new. At this moment, the wood is grayish, and I’m sure easily missed.

  I drive up the long road that leads to the winery and stop just beyond a trellis of green that hovers over the road. I park the car and step out, admiring the seclusion of the property. Hidden in the shadows of the hill is a large red barnlike building.

  My shoes crunch on the gravel as I walk up to the barn. It is a large structure, about two stories high, with white trim and two large doors in front. To the right are a picnic table and a small garden flourishing with vegetables. To the left is a beat-up pickup truck with bumper stickers that let me know exactly what the owner thinks we should do with our borders. I’m also pretty sure I’d find a shotgun in the backseat.

  There isn’t anyone out here, so I walk up to the large doors and pull the one on the right. It opens easily, and I step away from the brightness of the outdoors and into a room so dark that I have to adjust my eyes a few times to see.

  In front of me are rows and rows of oak barrels, that might or might not be filled with wine, piled high to the ceiling. I step to the side, around the barrels, and almost collide with a sofa. Stepping back, I place my hand on the top and feel the smooth velvet material against my palm. My eyesight is now acquainted with the low lighting, so I get an opportunity to look around. A sofa, two wingback chairs, and a wagon-wheel coffee table are in the center of the room. A Persian-style carpet is underneath, and a couple of folding chairs are scattered about. At the end of the room is a black bar with a couple of bottles of wine on top and a few liquor bottles on the back shelf.

  The space is dusty, obviously ignored and in need of a can of Pledge. But perhaps the most peculiar thing about the room are the walls. Painted a faint mauve, the wooden walls are lined from footboard to molding with nails—thin, shiny nails you’d use to hang a small picture frame or poster. It’s as if every memory has been removed, and the nails splintered into the wood are all that’s left as a reminder.

  All memories, except for one.

  On the back wall above the bar area, to the left, is a portrait of a child, painted in dark browns and tans, highlighting the cherub lines of the little girl’s face and the soft curve of her eyes. She looks to be about four years old with brown eyes and matching hair in a half-up, half-down hairstyle. Her lips are a perfect bow shape, as most little girls’ are. She looks sweet and happy, yet the lone placement of the portrait brings on a forlornness that is hard to ignore.

  “Who are you?” a hard voice bellows from the other side of the room.

  I turn around and see a figure standing by the wine barrels. The dim light of the room allows me enough light to take in the man looking back at me like I’m an intruder in his home. He is about five-five with broad shoulders and a wide middle. He is leaning to the side, and when I look down, I see the cane in his hand.

  “I’m Crystal Reid. We have an appointment.” I take a step forward. “I’m here to interview for a job to…” I swallow. “You told Naomi you were looking for
someone?”

  The man, who I presume is Ed, hobbles forward. He is wearing khaki pants and a checkered flannel shirt with suspenders and a brown fedora. His face is accentuated with a black beard that reaches below his neckline.

  “Naomi? That curly-haired gal who does the fancy designs?”

  I simply nod.

  “Ah, that girl doesn’t know how to mind her business.” He limps over to the bar and walks through the opening flap that is up, allowing him to get behind the bar.

  Resting his cane against the wall, he leans over the dishwasher and pulls out two glasses. They’re not wine glasses. Instead, he’s taken out two small juice glasses, and he places them on the bar.

  He grabs a bottle of wine and starts to open it when he looks over at me. “Well, don’t just stand there like a tepid goat.” He pours the wine into the glasses.

  I put my shoulders back and walk up to the bar. I rest my hands on the matted black vinyl that lines the edges like a cushion. The bar is only about seven feet long, so there isn’t anywhere to stand that isn’t rather close to him.

  “Drink this.”

  I take the offered glass, take a sip, and place it on the bar.

  The old man is looking at me with a grimace.

  “Jesus Christ, how do you expect to work at a winery if that’s how you drink your wine?” He takes the glass from the bar and throws it into the sink behind him.

  He walks back over to the dishwasher and takes out two wine glasses, one smaller than the other. Holding them up, he says, “This is for red,” motioning to the larger one in his right hand. “And this is for white. Never let anyone serve you wine in anything other than one of these.”

  I nod and watch as he pours red wine into the larger glass. I don’t have the heart to tell him that, while in college, I used to drink box wine out of a mug. I don’t think he’d appreciate that anecdote.

  Taking another sip, I am mildly uncomfortable since his beady eyes are condescendingly looking at me. I am definitely doing something wrong again.

  “What is it this time?” My hand places the glass on the bar a little too dramatically.