Wild Abandon (14 page)

“Nate!” I scream, temporarily losing my sheet when I go to raise my hand in frustration but then bring it back. When it is back around my shoulders and snug tight, I add, “I am not an animal!”

Nate shrugs and twists his face. “I didn’t know what kind of drunk you were. You talk
a lot
when you drink,” he says with annoyance in his voice, but the crook of his mouth says otherwise.

Nate’s dog comes barreling out of his room and nearly knocks me over when he smashes into me for attention.

“Willie!” Nate’s voice is commanding yet ineffective.

“That’s okay. I love animals.” I squat down and wrap the sheet under my armpits to free my hands, so I can pet the big lug. “Hey there, Willie. You’re a good boy. Yes, you are.”

Willie turns into me as I pet him behind the ears.

“What kind of name is Willie for a rott? Aren’t they supposed to have names like Maximus or Brute?” I say these names with a baby voice as I nuzzle my nose against sweet Willie.

“His full name is Willie Mays.”

I cock my head at Nate. “The baseball player?”

He points to the San Francisco Giants logo on his cap.

Who would have guessed that Nate was a baseball fan? He seems so too cool about life to be an all-American sports lover. At least he likes animals.

I give Willie my full attention again. “I had a cat. Mr. Magoo. He would have liked you.”

“Cats are the devil’s foot soldiers.”

I stop rubbing Willie’s ears for a moment to look back at Nate. He is still standing there, all tall and lean. His square jaw and high cheekbones offset those almond-shaped eyes that are a sin for men to have. I suppose it’s for the best that he’s a sports-loving cat hater.

I stand up and readjust my sheet. “I should get out of here. Where are my clothes?”

Nate releases his hands from the counter and folds them across his chest. “I washed them last night after you went to sleep.”

“They’re dry-clean only,” I groan.

“I know. I washed them by hand. They’re hanging in the bathroom,” he answers, like it’s the most normal thing for a man to hand-wash the clothes of a woman who he kinda knows but mostly doesn’t know before hanging them to dry. Most guys would have left them in a ball on the floor. “I don’t have a washer anyway, so it was wash them or have you smell like stinky whiskey all day,” he adds.

I have a light rush of déjà vu.

“Oh. Okay. Well, that was very nice of you, I guess.” I think back on something he just said. “Why would I be wearing them all day?”

Nate puts his hands in his pockets and lowers his chin in a way that he has to peer up at me from underneath the lid of his cap. “We’re going wine-tasting today.”

I blink back at him. “We are?”

“We made plans last night. You said you’d never gone wine-tasting and asked if I’d take you.”

“And you said you would?” Why am I surprised by this?

Nate pauses a moment and then takes his hands out of his pockets. He stands up straight and motions toward the bathroom. “Yes. So, get your ass dressed, so we can go.”

“I’m not wearing last night’s clothes. And I need makeup. I can’t go anywhere, looking like this.” I haven’t even looked in a mirror, and I know that I look like the quintessential walk of shame, minus the actual shaming.

“We’re not driving a half hour to St. Helena, so you can spend an hour changing. Your clothes are clean, and you don’t need makeup. It’s just me.”

Just him.

Yeah. Sure. I can spend the day with a guy while looking like last night’s leftovers. Not! I need a new outfit, something appropriate for a wine tasting. And I need to blow my hair out and put makeup on my face.

Just him.

What if we’re out and I see someone I know? Unlikely. Because the only people I know in this town are…

Just him.

I grab my purse and turn on my heel toward the bathroom. “Fine. But if anyone makes any comments about the hag you’re with, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I get to the bathroom, shut the door, and look in the mirror. My face looks like I’ve aged five years. The caked on eye makeup is smeared around my eyes. My hair is wild yet manageable since I curled it before I went out last night. I take a sniff under my arms. My body reeks like a liquor cabinet.

I take a giant swig of my coffee and turn on the shower.

I wrap my hair in a towel, drop the sheet on the ground, and climb in. There are no frilly body washes or a loofah in sight. I pick up the simple bar of soap and lather down.

Out of the shower, I dress in last night’s clothes that are on a hanger on the back of the door. I open the surrounding cabinets in search of a hairbrush, but there isn’t one or a spare toothbrush. Making do with what I can, I run my hands through my hair and use my finger and toothpaste to rid the stink from my breath.

A dig through my bag discovers mascara, lip gloss, and a rogue piece of gum. I haven’t been this au naturel with a man since I was in junior high school.

Walking back into the living room, I see Nate coming in through the front door. He closes it behind him and does a double take when he sees me standing here. I look down at the small white shopping bag in his hand.

He holds it out to me. “I went to the pharmacy down the road. Got you a toothbrush.”

I lean forward and grab the bag before peering inside. He also got me a hairbrush and hair ties.

“You’re nicer than you look, Nathaniel Teller.” A smile spreads across my lips, and I turn around and head back into the bathroom.

chapter NINE

As we’re driving up Highway 29 in Nate’s truck, I play with the radio in search of 101.3, the only station I seem to like out here. It is seriously the coolest station. One minute, I can be listening to Lionel Richie and then Beyoncé the next. Right now, Justin Bieber is crooning. I was not a fan of the Biebs in his teenybopper days. But, lately, I’ve become a Belieber.

Nate reaches over and changes the station.

“What are you doing?” I put my music back on.

“You like that crap?” He switches it back to a station playing hard rock.

“It’s not crap. It feeds my soul.” I put my music back on and hold my hands over the radio, so Nate can’t change it again.

“Justin Bieber feeds your soul?” He has his baseball cap on backward right now and is eyeing me in disbelief.

“Yes.” I raise my chin at him in defiance.

The side of his mouth turns up, and his eyes crinkle. “You do know your soul-feeder has tattoos.”

I move my hands from the radio and lean back into my seat. “I didn’t say I wanted to sleep with him.” That’s actually a lie, but Nate doesn’t need to know that.

He shakes his head and drives us into the town of Yountville. He turns onto a drive for Domaine Chandon. We get out of the car and walk toward a parklike area covered in gorgeous trees that branch out closer to the trunk than the oak trees I’m used to back home. Irregular, twisted, and light-gray branches lead to lanceolate-shaped leaves that are whitish on the underside and bright green where they face the sun.

“They’re olive trees,” Nate says from beside me, his hands in his pockets. “Come on.”

He starts walking toward a trellis, so I follow him, a grin on my face.

The entrance to Domaine Chandon looks like a grotto. The archway opening is covered on all sides by greenery. If it wasn’t for the two large double doors that lead inside, I would have thought this was a secret cave. Through the doors, the corporate vibe of the facility is front and center when we walk through a gift shop. Champagne bottles the size of my suitcase are for sale as are many other delicious-looking beverages bottled in gorgeous packaging, ready to be taken home for consumption.

I follow Nate up the stairs to the wine-tasting room. Wood-planked ceilings give the room a warm feeling against the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Along one side of the room is an ultra-long bar that lights up like a chic nightclub with bottles and bottles of sparkling wine.

Nate and I walk up to the bar and order a tasting. The server places two menus in front of us with the four wines we’ll be trying today. He explains the first and then pours two glasses for us.

I lift my glass to my nose and breathe in the aroma. “Red cherry,” I say before taking a sip. “And strawberry.” I savor the taste.

Nate drinks his as well. He is a whiskey guy through and through, but there is no denying that he’s enjoying the crisp, seductive taste of the rosé.

“You’re good at that,” he states, referring to my wine-tasting expertise.

“I’ve been practicing. Let’s take our next drink on the terrace.”

We walk out the side doors and onto a terrace in the gorgeous sunshine. There are tables and chairs that look out onto trees. Spying a small hill to the left, I start walking up it, my heels making it a little difficult. Nate grabs my elbow and helps me keep my balance. When we get to the top, we are staring down at the valley.

“When you said we’d go wine-tasting, I wasn’t expecting champagne.”

“Sparkling wine.” He raises his glass in correction. “I wanted to start with something classy.”

“Where are we gonna end? Henley’s?” I joke.

Based on his shrug, I wonder just how far off I am.

“You told me last night that you wanted to be a total tourist. So, today, we are tourists.” Nate takes out his phone and holds it up. “Say cheese.”

I put my hand in front of his phone. “Stop that! Not when I look like this.”

He thinks I’m joking, but I am serious. I might have tamed my hair into a braid, but I still look like I spent last night bathing in Jack.

“You look fine,” he chastises, the phone still in his hand.

“I don’t want to look
fine
. I want to look hot and sexy. Not for
you
. For me. I want to look good. And I don’t unless I’m wearing bronzer. And some eye shadow would help. I feel naked without it.”

Nate lowers his phone and just stares at me for a moment. “I think you look pretty. You have freckles on your nose. They’re cute.” He puts the phone back up in the air. “Now, I’m taking a picture.”

I certainly don’t need blush anymore because I can feel my cheeks redden. I roll my eyes and give him a smile. He takes the photo.

I say, “Just don’t post that anywhere.”

“Trust me, I won’t. I don’t want anyone to think I’m hanging with a hag.”

I stick my tongue out at his lame joke, and we head inside for our final two tastings.

We walk back to the car and head to our next stop—Sterling Vineyards.

Further up Highway 29 and onto St. Helena Highway, we pass the road I turn on to go to Naomi and Jeremy’s house, and we drive up into Calistoga. The entire drive, we listen to my pop music and take in the views around us.

Nate fills me in on Napa history, including the Judgment of Paris, an event that put Napa winemaking on the global map, and about the illustrious Robert Mondavi Estate that is 11,570 square feet with an indoor swimming pool, two tennis courts…and one bedroom.

“One bedroom?” I shriek-laugh. That sounds impossible.

“They liked to throw parties but, apparently, didn’t like house guests.”

I can only imagine how the late Robert Mondavi would feel about me sleeping on Naomi’s futon.

We’re about to get out of the car when Nate suddenly turns to me and asks, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“No. Why?” I ask cautiously.

I am not given an answer as Nate just walks out of the car, and I follow. I’m looking for an entrance to Sterling Vineyards but do not see one. Instead, there is an aerial tram, and looking at Nate’s back, I see him walking straight for it.

“Where’s the winery?” I ask when I catch up to him.

“Only one way up,” he says. Then, he turns to face me. “I thought you’d like the view.”

“Oh,” I answer.

I stop behind a couple who is waiting in line to get on the gondola.

To the right is a giant chalkboard with the words,
Before I Die
, written in giant font on the top. Below it are places for people to write in what they want to do before they die.

I grab Nate’s hand and walk him over to the board. I pick up a piece of chalk and hand it to him. He walks to the opposite side of the board, looking for an open spot to write.

With my own piece of chalk in hand, I look for a free space where it says
Before I die, I want to
with a long line next to it for me to fill out. I think about what I could write. There are so many things I want to do—see the pyramids, run a marathon, write a novel. I lean down and write in pink chalk,
make a difference
.

Nate walks up behind me and takes a look at what I wrote. “That’s a dumb answer.”

“Why is it dumb?” I put my hands on my hips, getting pink chalk on my skirt.

“Because it’s not what you really wanted to write.” He grabs an eraser and erases my writing.

I clench my teeth at his audacity to think I don’t want to actually make a difference. He takes the chalk out of my hand and holds it up to my face.

I grab it, lean down, and write an honest thing I actually want to do before I die—
fall in love
.

Satisfied, Nate grabs my hand and walks me over to the gondola line that has died down. There is only one couple in the line in front of us.

“What did you write?” I ask, looking back at the board where he was writing.

“
Have another drink
,” he answers.

I turn around and squint my eyes at him. “You did not write,
Before I die, I want to have another drink
?” I’m skeptical, and I know he’s full of it.

“I would have written
kiss a redhead
, but you’d have just gotten ideas.”

“My hair is not red.”

“Clearly.”

“Next.” A gentleman ushers us over to where we should stand to wait for our car to arrive.

A cable car arrives, and Nate and I get in—him facing up hill, me downhill. When the car starts to move, my stomach drops a notch. I’m not afraid of heights per se. It’s more a slight fear of being lifted in small objects. Put me in a 747, and I’m fine. Ask me to go parasailing. No, thank you.

Nate leans forward and rests a hand on top of mine, which is clutching my knee. I look down at his hand and follow it up his forearm to his bulging bicep, his defined chest, across his chiseled jaw, and along the freshly shaven face, accentuated by strong cheekbones and long-lashed eyes that are so close to me in a confined space. And, instead of those eyes bringing me unease or uncertainty, I find only comfort in holding them.