Wild Abandon Page 5

  “I didn’t see you walk in,” I say.

  “Distracted?”

  I hold my other hand up and wave the air, shaking my head. “Not at all. Daydreaming perhaps.” My voice has a laugh to it.

  “About anything good?” His hand slides to my lower back as he ushers me to take my seat.

  He’s got the total Clark Kent thing going on. I wonder if I’d find a large S on his chest if I ripped open his shirt.

  “Only about this gorgeous valley. I spent a good part of the day driving around, and I can’t believe people call this place home.” I notion to Gavin. “Case in point.”

  Gavin settles himself in his chair and sharpens the collar of his pinstripe button-down, the edges starched to perfection. He doesn’t fill out his shirt the way someone of his stature could. He’s probably the kind of guy who can eat anything yet never gain a pound.

  “I’m actually from Vacaville. It’s a town just west of here. And you’re from New Jersey? What brought you to California?”

  Looking for love.

  “New York actually. I wanted to see what the Golden Coast had to offer.” I tilt my head to the side, brushing my hair behind my ear, exposing my neck. “You must love living here among the vineyards.”

  Gavin’s eyes rake to the skin for a second before he catches himself. “I’m not into wine, believe it or not. Never been to a vineyard for a tasting.”

  That seems like a waste. It’s like living in New York and never going to a museum or a Broadway show. When there is culture within your grasp, you need to take ahold of it. Experience it.

  “Hi, guys. My name is Laurie, and I’ll be your server tonight.” The waitress is back and placing white cocktail napkins on the table. “What can I get ya?”

  Without looking to me, Gavin says, “We’ll have two martinis, extra dirty. Put mine in a rocks glass.”

  “Great. Be right back with those.” She smiles and turns back to the bar.

  I, in turn, glare at Gavin for a hot second, wondering why he would order for me.

  I clamp down on my lip and bring myself into the here and now. “So, you listed one of your interests as real estate. Do you invest in it?”

  “I’m a banker. I secure mortgages for homeowners.”

  “I remember when my friend Naomi was working with a mortgage broker for her place—”

  “I am a banker. Not a broker.” His words are sharp, like I just cast him the biggest insult on the planet.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.” I’m apologizing, and it feels weird.

  “You have to be careful when you talk about things you know nothing about. A broker is the used car salesman of the mortgage industry. I work for a bank. We have a secure product that I am proud to offer clients.”

  I drum my fingers on the table, more to ground myself, while I decide if he meant to be offensive or if he is one of those people who just speaks rather directly.

  “Here ya go.” Laurie places Gavin’s drink in front of him.

  When I look down, I see a tall stout below me.

  “I ordered her a martini.” His tone is slightly condescending.

  “I was told you’d changed your order.” She points her thumb over her shoulder, toward the bar.

  I lean back to look around her, and that’s when I see you-know-who standing behind the bar, wiping down the inside of a glass like it’s the filthiest piece of glassware on the planet.

  I look up at Laurie and nod in thanks.

  When she leaves, Gavin points to my drink. “You didn’t change your drink.”

  “It’s fine.” I give Gavin my attention and take a sip.

  “Well, there goes her tip,” he says with a sneer. Then, he continues to talk about escrows and rates.

  I’m sure many girls find this stuff fascinating, but I’m having a hard time keeping up. For starters, he’s kind of boring. And if I offer my two cents, I’m afraid I’ll get my head bitten off again.

  I can’t help but continue to look through my peripheral at the man behind the bar. He is mixing drinks for a group of women sitting at the corner of the bar. When he turns his back to them, they start to whisper and giggle. One of them—a blonde—lightly pushes the other—a brunette—as if in a dare. I watch as the brunette takes a pen out of her purse and scribbles something on a white cocktail napkin. When the bartender returns with their drinks, she slides the napkin his way with a wink.

  Without missing a beat, he slides the napkin back to her and walks away.

  The women all have their mouths open in surprise. I place my hand over mine to see that it, too, is open.

  “I know, right? Surprises me as well. But that’s what you get when you transfer funds.”

  I stare back at Gavin, realizing I have absolutely no idea what he’s been gabbing about for the last five minutes. I take a long sip of my beer, pounding about half of it. When I place the glass on the table, he is looking at me, waiting for a response.

  “Assets,” I blurt out. “You were talking about assets.”

  “Yes, I was.” He tentatively looks at me. “Do you have many assets?”

  My brows crease in. “Is this a trick question?”

  “You are a beautiful woman. In your twenties—”

  “Thirties. I’m thirty,” I interject. I take another hefty gulp of my beer.

  “Thirty? I think I knew that. You look younger. You’re a depreciating asset.”

  And insert awkward moment where I choke on my beer, making it come up and out of my mouth, spraying him in the perfectly pressed linen.

  “Excuse me,” I say. I wipe my chin in a rather unladylike way, but I don’t particularly care.

  “Not you per se, but women in their thirties who are looking for a mate,” he states matter-of-factly as he dabs his shirt with a paper napkin.

  I lean my forehead in and tilt my chin down, my eyes squinting. “Come again?”

  Gavin takes a sip of his drink through the tiny red straw and then explains, “Many women are looking for a man with the main criterion being wealth. Does he have a job? How much money does he make? I’m assuming, on MatchDateLove, you chose the option for a guy who makes a hundred fifty grand or more. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been paired with me.” He flashes a grin that I do not reciprocate. He continues, “Men are appreciating assets. The longer I work, the more money I’ll make. Women, on the other hand, traditionally, offer two things—youth and beauty. If that is all she is bringing to the table—which, let’s face it, are pretty much the only things most women have to offer—then she is a depreciating asset, as both her youth and beauty will fade. So, do you have any assets?”

  If the look on my face matches the way my hands are squeezing into tiny fists—as I try to tame the feelings from the greatest insult any man has ever given to womankind—then it looks pretty steaming mad.

  “Excuse me, Doctor. You have an emergency call.”

  I look over to my side, and green eyes are staring down at me.

  Me.

  The bartender is standing next to me. And he’s referring to me as Doctor.

  “You’re a doctor?” Gavin asks inquisitively.

  So far, the man didn’t know my age, and now, he’s asking me about my profession. Did he read my profile at all, or did he just like the pretty picture I posted?

  I’m going with the latter.

  My head slowly rises up and down.

  “You’re a doctor?” he asks.

  I mean…

  “She’s a neurosurgeon,” the bartender answers. “Doc, they need you immediately.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I state, watching him walk away.

  My mouth is open, and I’m still looking at the space where He Who Remains Nameless was standing.

  I turn my cheek to the right and look at Gavin, who is now looking at me with an impressed expression. “I believe this is where we call it a night.”

  “Yes. I understand. I’d love to see you again.” His face is lit up with delight.

  Ta
lk about an asset. He thinks I’m a freaking brain surgeon.

  “No.” The word pours out of my mouth nice and slow. “No, Gavin, we won’t be seeing each other again,” I say.

  His shoulders hunch down. I grab my purse and rise from my seat.

  But before I walk away, I look down at him and say, “While my only assets might be looks and beauty, your only offer is a career that sounds to be based on interest rates and an upturned housing market which, as history has promised, will fall. And so will you.”

  Gavin looks like he’s going to speak, but I continue, “You think beauty fades? A woman’s attraction to a man fades as well. What’s left are humor, morals, and etiquette—three values that you, sir, do not have. So, even if a man is handsome or—as you hope to be—rich, a woman will reject him if she is not attracted to his soul.” I lean in slightly and lower my voice for dramatic effect. “And, in case you were wondering, I have many, many hidden assets, and my looks are only a percent of what I have to offer.”

  “Here’s your check.” Laurie is back and places the bill on the table, directly under Gavin’s nose.

  I smile at that move as I walk to the farthest end of the bar, around the corner from where my table was. There is a cordless phone sitting on the edge, so I grab it and stand, pretending to be on a call, as I watch Gavin rise, leave money on the table, and stalk out of the bar.

  When he is gone, I slam the phone back in its nearby holder and walk over to the bartender, who is pouring a drink for a customer.

  I point my finger at him. “I did not need to be saved!”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the pour. “I can see that.”

  “What were you thinking?” My foot stomps in a childlike manner.

  He places the drink in front of the patron and then walks over to where I am standing. The bar is between us, and while I am standing here, hand on my hip and my stiletto tapping, he is poised, looking at me, practically eye for eye—aside from the fact that my chin is raised and his is lowered.

  “I was thinking that guy was an idiot who didn’t understand the value of a woman.”

  “And you do?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just stares at me with this blank expression.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I add, “It was also incredibly cheesy. I can’t believe he fell for it.”

  He incredulously looks at me. “Really? You’re surprised that buffoon fell for a stupid line like, Doctor, you have a call? I’m surprised you were even out with him. You came to Napa to find love, and he’s the guy you go for?”

  Whatever exciting physical connection I thought I shared with him the last time I saw him has been shattered. I still want to touch him, but this time, it’s to punch him in his perfect nose. And, instead of some witty comeback or jab I can throw at him, I have nothing.

  My words are reduced to that of a fourteen-year-old girl. “Just don’t do that again. I can hold my own.”

  “I know. You’re from New York.”

  His mouth tilts up in a way that I would have missed if I wasn’t staring at him hard. I clench mine tight, not to return it.

  “Yes, I am. And I can take care of myself.”

  He slightly nods his head.

  “And I can order my own drinks.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  His forehead crinkles. “Is that all?”

  Oh, damn him. “Yes, that’s all. Good night.” I turn on my heel and start to leave.

  “Good night, Doctor.”

  And, for some stupid reason, I smile at that comment.

  But he doesn’t see it.

  Thank God.

  chapter FOUR

  When someone tells you to arrive at nine a.m., you assume they’ll be there to greet you. Not Ed Martin. The old man is nowhere to be seen, so I push open the steel back door and step onto the veranda. The paint on the pergola above is warped from sun and rain, yet the structure still looks sturdy. Empty pillars where plants once lived are begging for something to thrive in them, and an old teak table that seats about twelve needs a polish.

  I am about to walk over to the garage when I spot him in the rose garden. Stepping off the stone steps, I make my way toward him. He is seated on a small stool in between two rows of rose bushes. His khaki pants are hiked up at the ankles, revealing argyle socks. Today, he has on a short-sleeved bowling shirt and a brown stockman’s hat. And, if I’m not mistaken, he’s singing a song from “Hello, Dolly!” as he prunes the plant in front of him.

  I take a moment to stop and smell the roses. I’ve heard the expression, but I’ve never gotten it until now. I’ve never stood in a field of them before. The smell is fruity with hints of apricots, pears, and apples. The deep purple-red burgundy color reminds me of a fine wine, something heady and rich. The blooms are large and growing in clusters on what I guess to be half an acre, surrounded by the most magnificent backdrop of mountains and blue skies.

  “Never sneak up on a man with cutting shears,” Ed’s says from below.

  I quirk up a smile. “You have a gorgeous garden. Why only roses?”

  On the other side of him is a large basket that he is filling with the beautiful blossoms. “Why is the Pope Catholic?”

  I cross my arms and tilt my head. “You didn’t plant these?”

  Ed turns to face me with a rose petal caught in the coils of his beard. “No. And, for some reason, no matter what I do, they won’t die.” He stands up and grabs his cane and the stool off the ground. “Come on. We have a lesson to do. And bring the basket.”

  “A lesson?” I ask, following him through the garden, roses in hand, and up the veranda steps. “What kind of lesson?”

  Ed makes his way inside and places the stool on the floor. Then, he takes the basket out of my hands and places it up on the bar next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. He sits down on his stool behind the bar and adjusts his hat. Before I take my seat, I lean forward, pull the rogue rose petal from his beard, and hold it up in front of him. He grumbles and then throws it in the basket with the dozens of roses he cut.

  He opens a fresh bottle and then pours it into the glass. “There are four steps to the wine-tasting method. Look—which we already covered—smell, taste, and conclude.” He has a gruff, teacher-like way about him.

  I place my hand around the stem and swirl it, as I saw him do the other day. I pinch the end and hold it up, as I was taught. The red has a nice dark color, and the outside line is light without looking watery.

  He places his glass up to his face, nose inserted all the way inside until the rim of the glass is nearly resting against his face. I mimic his action. He swirls the wine and smells again. I follow suit.

  “What do you smell?”

  I move my nose to different positions around the glass. There is a scent that’s familiar. It almost smells like—

  “Pipe tobacco?”

  “What else?” His voice is surprised yet encouraging.

  I lean forward again and take in hints of—

  “Dark chocolate?”

  Ed’s mouth is downturned. Not in sadness. It’s more of a huh kind of expression.

  “Am I right?” I raise my eyebrows in question.

  He clears his throat and then looks at his wine. “This particular vintage also has hints of blackberry and baking spices.”

  I sniff my glass again and can now smell the spices, which is interesting. As for blackberry, I never found them to have much of a smell to begin with.

  Moving forward, I have a taste. Ed’s brows are furrowed at the action.

  After I swallow, I bow my head and apologize, “Sorry. I had to try it.”

  With a grunt, he continues his lesson, “Now that you had a taste, take a few more sips. Try to pick out three flavors. Swirl it around your mouth. The tongue registers different tastes on various areas. Sweetness is toward the front, acidity makes your mouth water, and tannin dries you out.”

  My mind has tobacco and baking spices on the brain, but t
hat’s not what I’m tasting. “It almost tastes like plum. Am I right?”

  I place the glass on the table and look back at Ed, who is looking back at me with a puzzled expression. I sit back and wait for an answer. He just nods his head and then kicks back the rest of his wine.

  As I have nothing better to do, I polish off the rest of my glass as well. The label on the bottle says Ellie Creek Cabernet Sauvignon. “This wine is delicious.”

  He nods again. “We made this vintage five years ago. Hand-sorted the grapes myself. Aged for twenty months in French oak.” His tone is a bit melancholy for someone who should be proud of his product.

  “You make wine here? Was the bottle I had the other day yours, too?”

  Ed scrunches his face at me. “That piece-of-crap wine? No. That was from Yellow Stockbridge Winery. They’re crooks over there. Make shit wine and sell it for too much. Even you knew it was junk.”

  I grin, knowing that was the moment Ed decided to hire me.

  He continues, “I couldn’t hire someone who likes the stuff.”

  “I like your wine. Where do you make it?”

  Ed’s face falls. His eyes drift to the bar top, and I have a feeling I asked the wrong question.

  “We stopped making wine a few years back. I lease the land to another winery. They harvest the grapes and make their own.”

  I didn’t realize the property had…property. “How large is your vineyard?”

  “Twenty acres.”

  I blink at him in amazement. This place must have really been something at one point. Twenty acres of growing grapes, harvesting the fruits, and then making barrels of wine every year. I don’t know a lot about wine, but I know this is a good bottle.

  “Why did you stop making wine?” Ed doesn’t answer, so I ask the same question I asked yesterday, “What’s the plan? Naomi said you wanted someone to play music during wine tastings.”

  “I never said I wanted to do wine tastings. She came here with her laptop and that quirky little kid. Before I knew it, she was redesigning my logo and telling me she had a new hire for me who plays the cello.” He raises his finger to me. “That is one pushy broad.”