Wild Abandon (10 page)

Gone is my old profile, and in its place is,
Sarcastic, passionate music lover and impulsive traveler. Girl-next-door type by day. Badass cellist by night. Not here for a hook-up but am looking for someone to enjoy a drink and some laughs with. If you are, too, I give you permission to rescue me from online dating. Plus, meeting in person is always better. ;)

It’s cute, flirty, and exactly me.

“
Badass cellist
?”

“I saw your occupation. Why would you dumb down what you do? If a man is intimidated by a concert cellist, then he doesn’t have the balls to date you anyway.” He takes another swig of his beer.

“This is perfect, but as I’ve learned many times, some guys don’t even care about the profile. Just last week, my date acted like he hadn’t even read it.”

“He probably didn’t. You’re cute as hell.”

I take a moment to, first, be flattered by his comment.
Cute as hell
isn’t exactly gorgeous or beautiful, but it’s still a compliment.

Then, I take offense. “I have more to offer than a ‘cute’”—I use air quotes on the word
cute
—“face. I at least deserve the ten seconds it takes to read about me.”

He studies my answer and then turns his body, so he’s facing me. “That’s true, but let me ask you this. A guy walks through the door and offers to buy you a drink. Do you let him?”

“It depends,” I say. I immediately cringe at the fact that I walked into his trap.

“On what?” His grin shows he knows the answer.

I mumble my words, “On whether I think he’s cute or not.”

“Online dating is the same thing.”

I lift a finger in the air. “Yes, but I actually read profiles after I decide if the guy is good-looking or not. I have set criteria he needs to fit.”

“And Carb Freak hit the mark?” That bottle goes right back to his mouth, and his tongue darts out with each sip.

“No. My friend Naomi accepted him. I’m looking for someone successful, cultured, and ready to settle down.” I poise myself in the most proper position.

Nate leans to the side, his eyes looking over my face, up and down. “You have a checklist of the perfect man?”

Folding my hands on my lap, I lift my chin. “Yes, I do.”

Nate narrows his eyes. “You’re doing it all wrong. Come on, Red, let’s pick out your next victim.” He takes my phone and holds it up in front of us.

“I have a name.” I balk.

His eyes never leave the screen. “I know. It’s Crystal.”

Oh. Well then…

“I know your name, too. The waitress told me.”

Nate just shrugs and starts flipping to the left, looking through the profiles. “What about this guy?”

I look at the picture on the screen. He’s a handsome guy, I suppose. He’s leaning against a car, his tattoo sleeves showing on the skin exposed from his T-shirt.

“No.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“First of all, he has tattoos, which are not my thing. No offense.”

I glance at Nate’s wrist. He doesn’t seem to be taking offense, so I continue, “And he’s leaning against his car, which means he’s one of those guys who obsesses over his car. That means, he wouldn’t let me borrow it to run to the store. And, God forbid, if it got a scratch on it, our whole night would be ruined. He’d spend the entire night pouting while I stood in the kitchen after just making a romantic dinner and even breaking out the sexy lingerie. But, instead of looking at me, all he’d be able to picture was the dent on his Carrera. No, thank you.”

When I’m done, I look at Nate.

His mouth is open. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I’m a professional dater. Next.”

Nate skims through until he finds someone else. This next guy only features a headshot, no particular background showcasing where he is or anything about him. He has a broad smile and eyes that crinkle with laughter.

“He’s cute. I wish he had hair though. Let me see the rest of the profile.”

“What’s wrong with his hair?”

“I like a guy with hair I can grab on to. It’s just a preference but not a deal-breaker. Let me see the rest.” I motion with my hand for him to scroll down.

He stares at me a beat and then scrolls down. Reading the profile, I see the guy is a high school English teacher and enjoys the symphony.

“Oh, he has three kids.” My interest plummets.

“You don’t like kids?”

“I do. I want them desperately. I’ve just learned that men who have more than one are usually done and are just looking for company at that point.”

Nate easily agrees with my answer and swipes to the next profile. This next guy has a nice mane of dark hair and sexy blue eyes. He is seated at a computer, which shows me he is a professional.

“Oh, I like.” I lean forward and take the phone from Nate.

This guy’s name is Derek, and he’s a Fine Wine Manager. He likes water sports and horses, and he plays the piano. No children, never married, and looking for a long-term commitment. I hit the icon to let him know I’m interested, and I wait for a reply. If he’s interested, he’ll ping me back with a request to meet.

“You like that guy?”

“Um, hello? He’s hot as hell, and he hits the checklist. Successful, cultured, and—”

“Looking for a commitment,” Nate finishes for me. “He looks like a first-rate A-hole.”

“Pardon me?”

“If he’s that much of a catch and so openly looking for a commitment, why is he on a dating site?”

“Is that a dig against people on dating sites?”

“Kind of. I don’t understand why you’re on there either. You even said it yourself. You’re a catch.” His tone is sarcastic as he quotes my words from the first time I was here.

“There are more eligible women than there are men. As men get older, their dating pool opens up. They can date women their age or younger. But for us girls, there are a select few men who are looking for someone of the same age. My competition is vast. This”—I hold up my phone—“solidifies the process. Every available man in a twenty-mile radius who is willing to date me is at my fingertips.”

“It seems a little desperate.”

“Desperate?”

“Hear me out.” He puts his hand on the back of my chair and leans in. “You’re smart, funny, and accomplished. When you walk into this bar, every guy in the place looks at the beautiful woman with the killer legs. You can have your pick of any guy in this bar.”

I snort, a rather unattractive one at that, at his comment. “If that’s true, then why aren’t they clamoring at my feet?”

“Because you’re closed off,” he says.

Hello, Pot, meet Kettle.
“How so?”

“You’ve been in this bar five times, and each time, the men don’t know how to react to you. It’s as if they know they’re gonna get shot down before they even talk to you.”

“That’s nonsense. I’m an imbecile, saying the wrong thing half the time and always pretending to be someone I’m not just to fit the mold of the perfect woman.” I put my hand to my mouth.
Did I really just admit that?

Nate’s eyes shoot up at my admission. “You shouldn’t have to pretend to be anyone but exactly who you are. You’re perfect.”

Oh.

“Don’t read too much into that.”

“I’m not.”
Well, not really.
“You’re not my type anyway.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Don’t you have to work?” I look over to the other bartenders working hard.

“No,” he states simply. Then, he gets up from his chair.

I follow him with my eyes as he goes to the back of the bar and comes back with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two shot glasses. He takes his seat again, pours two shots, and then holds them up in front of us. I grab one, and we cheers before downing the shots.

“How did you know I’d want a bourbon?” I nudge my bluegrass cocktail in front of me.

“I thought it would go well with your performance. That was very good, by the way.” Nate’s body is facing the bar, his knees hitting the wood beneath, but his torso is turned toward me, his right forearm resting on the bar. “Matching people to their drinks is just something I know how to do.”

I slightly squint my eyes.

“You have a vast knowledge of booze.”

“You can tell a lot about a person by what they drink,” he states matter-of-factly. “You can pinpoint personality traits based on what kind of beer a person buys.”

Sitting back in my seat, I tilt my head to the side. “
Okay
…then what does it mean when someone orders a Budweiser?”

Nate answers easily, “All-American beer, so the person is patriotic, would even venture to guess they’re Republican.”

I purse my lips. “That’s ridiculous! Just because it’s an American beer? You’re making this up.”

He shakes his head. “They’re also forty-two percent more likely to drive a truck.”

I stare at Nate, half-disbelieving because it is so obvious that he’s bullshitting me. Then again, based on his answer, I wonder if Big Ed drinks Budweiser.

“Blue Moon,” I challenge.

“You drive a Prius and turn your nose up at an Android phone.”

“Heineken.”

“Amex carrier who only wears name-brand clothing.”

I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, smile, and name the most popular stout I can think of, “Guinness.”

Wiping the smug expression off his face, he turns his body into me. His eyes skim across my face, assessing, and he says, “You like complex flavors and are intense in your desires. You are creative and adventurous but seek gentle, intimate relationships.”

I swallow hard. His eyes are fixed on mine, staring, searching, digging, claiming something. I can’t break the contact. I just find myself lost in this powerful expression on his face. His eyes turn a darker green. I suddenly don’t have a taste for Guinness or whiskey. My mouth is dry. The only thing that can relieve my thirst is a long drink of
olive juice.

And, suddenly, the spell is broken.

Nate jumps back, his body moving away, but his face is ripe with confusion. “Did you just tell me you loved me?”

Did I just tell him that?

“No! I said, olive juice.” I close my eyes in embarrassment, and when I open them, he’s still looking at me with this what-the-fuck expression, so I explain, “Your eyes. They remind me of olives, and I was just thinking about how I’d like a martini right now. I guess I spoke it out loud.”

He is looking from side to side, clearly trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth or if I’m a stage-five clinger.

“Olive juice. When you mouth it, it looks like you’re saying,
I love you
. And I do not, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

Again, Nate is just staring.

“All right. So, I’m going to go home now.” I stand, grab my purse, and hold out my hand. “Nate, it was a pleasure hanging out with you tonight.”

He awkwardly takes my hand and shakes it. His mouth is turned up on the side, and those damn eyes twinkle in a mischievous way.

I turn on my heel and start walking to the door. “Okay then, good night.”

“Crystal,” he calls.

I turn around to face him again.

“See you around.”

I nod and walk out the door, and I keep walking until I am at the corner and slap my palm to my forehead.

Olive juice?

chapter SIX

My arms feel like jelly, and there’s a severe ache from my elbow up to my shoulder. Just a few more strokes, and I’ll be finished with my masterpiece.

I started my day with the backside of a hammer, removing every nailhead from the walls of the main room of Russet Ranch. Standing on a tall ladder with a paint can of white paint in front of me and a paintbrush in hand, I spent my morning doing all the trim, stopping when I reached the tower of wine barrels because there was no way I’d be able to get behind them.

When the top and bottom of every wall was painted, I broke out the painting tray and a pole for my roller. Using large strokes, I tackled every wall, twice, transforming the room from a dowdy pink box of dread to a bright and airy room of ivory linen. The newly painted hardie board walls look shabby chic, something any HGTVer would be pleased with.

Plus, with the front and back doors wide open to help with the fumes, sunlight has been pouring in here all day, making it feel fresh and clean.

I hope Big Ed likes it. He’s been gone all day. I learned he is not here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. He’d better get his social calendar in check because, when this place opens for business, he’ll need to be here. Our mini lessons on the art of wine are not enough for me to hold court by myself.

My big hope is that he will start harvesting grapes again. I’d love to smash them with my feet or whatever it is they do when they make wine. It looks like fun when they do it in the movies.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

I jump back, nearly causing me to drop the roller I’m holding. “You scared me!”

Cane in hand and a flat cap on his head, Big Ed sets his eyes and mouth into a grim line.

I hold my arms out to the sides and ask, “You like it?”

He looks around the room, the setting sun from the outside doors casting a faint orange tinge in the room with plenty of light for it to have that open, airy feel.

The frown of his mouth is still there, “How did you pay for the paint?”

“With my own money.”

It’s an interesting topic to be having, considering he has yet to pay me. I don’t even know what my salary is.

Big Ed walks to the back room where his office is and slams the door. I stand there, confused but not enough to leave. If that were the case, I would have stopped coming here weeks ago.

After a few moments, the office door opens, and I wait for the lengthy time it takes for Big Ed to hobble from the office back into the main room.

Leaning on his cane, he brings his free hand out and holds an envelope up to me. Tentatively, I grab the envelope from his hand. Just from the weight of it, I know it’s full, and from the shape of the contents, I know it’s money. I stare into it and see bills. Countless and countless of green bills inside.

“There has to be five grand in here?” I say as more of a question.

He clears his throat and points his cane at me. “Take what you feel you deserve, and use the rest to get whatever you want for the place. I can’t have you spending your own money. I was raised right, and a gentleman never lets a lady pay.”