Wild Abandon (3 page)

We drive over the Bay Bridge, the fog rolling away as the sun appears. Gone is the cold of San Francisco. Now, we are in glorious, warm wine country.

Driving up Highway 29, I can see why Naomi and her husband, Jeremy, decided to move to the West Coast when he got a job at E. & J. Gallo Winery. A stunning countryside of lush green with rows and rows of grape vines lines both sides of the road. In the distance, on each side of us, are glorious mountains and rolling hills that surround the valley, making it a place of beauty and serenity.

The farther we drive up the valley, the wineries seem to get larger and more beautiful. Domaine Chandon, Cakebread Cellars, Robert Mondavi Winery are the highest caliber of wine created here in the valley, and my eyes try to keep up with reading the signs on the road. I always thought of wineries as factories, but these structures are gorgeous, each one unique with stunning architecture. Some look like palaces while others are grand estates.

“Have you done work for any of these companies?” My voice rises over the loud wind passing through the open windows.

“No. I’ve found a niche market in some of the boutique establishments. Business has been good,” Naomi replies, her eyes covered by aviator sunglasses.

Naomi recently started her own home-based business, so she could be more available to Scarlet. As a graphic designer, she creates anything from wine labels to logos for merchandising to website design for local wineries.

Her company is diVine Design.

Cute, right?

“Speaking of which,” Naomi continues, “I have an interview lined up for you. A small winery I started working with needs an image overhaul. I’ve been working on the branding, but the place needs ambiance on-site. I suggested the owner hire you to play during the wine tastings.” She takes a small breath and then adds, “I have to warn you, he’s a bit of a curmudgeon. He came down on some hard times and let the place go. He’s doesn’t seem to adapt well to change.”

I twist my mouth at the idea. Working for an old man at a dilapidated winery is not what I had in mind. I pull my hair back from my face and hold it in my hand, resting my elbow on the door. It’s not every day you quit your job, sublet your apartment, and hop on a flight to the other side of the country.

You know what? I left New York for a reason. A change was needed, and a change is what I am going to get.

“I’ll check it out.”

Naomi sits up straighter with a big grin, and we continue to drive through the town of Yountville and up into St. Helena.

As we pull into the driveway of their ranch-style home, Jeremy is making his way outside to greet us, wearing a red polo with his company logo on it.

When I exit the car, he is at my door. “If it isn’t the world-famous video vixen.”

“You are never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Hell no. You’re famous.” Jeremy gives me a bear hug, the kind where my arms are pinned to my sides and my chin is lifted in the air because I can’t move my neck. When he releases me, he walks to the back of the car and opens the hatch, peeking his head out from behind the open trunk. “Naomi even made a drinking game out of it.”

I spin around to face Naomi. “You did not.”

Her wide smile and small laugh show her guilt. “I take a shot every time you lick your lips or wink into the camera.”

I bow my head, slightly shaking it.

I starred in one low-budget music video in college and have regretted it ever since. No one—and I mean, no one—knows about it, except for Jeremy and Naomi, who seem to love torturing me each and every time I see them.

I dramatically point my finger in Naomi’s direction. “If you play that video even one time while I’m here, I’ll be back on a plane to New York.”

“I can’t make any promises,” her words sing as she walks quickly up the steps into the house.

Jeremy slams the trunk and lifts my suitcases off the ground. Cello case in hand, I open the door and walk into their home. The front door leads directly into the living room with a cathedral ceiling lined with wood beams. A small fireplace sits at the end of the room with a photo of the family of three hanging above. To the right is a dining room with a table for six, and beyond that is the kitchen with white cabinets and black granite. In between the kitchen and living room is a hallway that leads to the three bedrooms and one bathroom. One bedroom is for Naomi and Jeremy, the other is Scarlet’s, and the third is Naomi’s office, which is also where I’ll be staying.

Jeremy places the two suitcases on the futon I’ll be sleeping on, and Naomi opens the blinds, letting in the morning sun.

“The dresser is empty, and I made room in the closet for your clothes. If you need more room, just let me know, and I’ll try to find a place for the rest of my stuff.” Naomi motions toward the oak chest of drawers and the half-full closet on the adjoining wall.

It’s not a studio apartment in the Village, but it’ll work.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

She walks over to her desk and lifts a folder that was resting on top of the keyboard. “Scarlet and I have to run into Downtown Napa later. I have to sign a new contract with a winery that’s opening up. You wanna join us?”

I lean over her shoulder and look at one of the designs peeking out from the folder. Pulling it out, I admire the wine bottle label designs she created with bright, bold colors and imagery of women dancing in various fields of flowers. Each of the four labels on the page is unique and eye-catching. I would absolutely stop and check out the bottle if I saw it on a store shelf.

“Wow, Nay, these are stunning.”

She rolls her eyes and scrunches her lips together. Her dimples make an appearance, despite her control to hold them back. “So, you coming for a drive or no?” She takes the designs from my hand and walks toward the door.

“Yes, I’d love to check out Downtown. I’ll hang with Scarlet while you work.”

Naomi balks at me. “Scar is coming with me.”

“You bring your daughter to business meetings?”

“Hell yeah. She’s a better negotiator than I am!”

All I can do is nod in agreement. “I’m gonna unpack some things and get settled. Just come grab me when you’re ready.”

Naomi leaves the room, and I’m left in my new bedroom slash home office. Falling back onto the futon, I look out the window.

I am in California.

What the hell am I doing?

It’s going to take a little while for me to get used to this. Last night, I was eating takeout on the queen-size bed in my studio apartment, and today, I’m about twenty-nine hundred miles away, sitting on a futon.

It’s only six months.

I lean over and grab my iPhone out of my purse. I tap on the folder where I keep my dating apps. I click on the first one and see my message folder is lit up with the number thirty-two next to it. Thirty-two men have connected with me—and by
connected
, they think the auburn-haired girl in the photo is bangable.

My thumb rolls over to the Edit button. I mark all the connections and hit Delete, freeing me from the New York dating pool. Apparently, there are dating websites that are more popular in certain regions than others. I read that MatchDateLove.com is big right now in the northwest. I click Join and start the process of creating my new West Coast profile.
The questions are a little overwhelming, but I know the answers to all of them by heart.

I lost my heart once to someone I fell for in a mad dash of love. The man for me has to be…perfect.

For some reason, I’m starting to have an odd feeling that meeting Mr. Right in Napa is going to be a long shot.

Naomi parks adjacent to a large building that says
Town Center
. I get out and stretch my legs, lifting my arms to the sky and taking in the warm Napa sunshine.

Downtown Napa is a quaint little town along a riverbank. We walk to Main Street, and I look around at the numerous restaurants, art galleries, stores, and wine cellars. Naomi says she’ll text me when she’s done, and then she and Scarlet take off for Naomi’s appointment at the winery.

I aimlessly make a right and start exploring. I stop in a cute boutique with summer dresses in the window and look at the display through the glass. On the mannequin is a gorgeous spaghetti-strap red dress that is sheer from the thighs down. Large roses adorn the fabric, forming a beautiful pattern that almost looks like it could be a red ocean. It’s a stunning dress, the kind I could purchase for work. Until I know exactly what I’ll be doing at my new job—if I take it, that is—I’ll hold off on making the purchase.

I am further down Main Street when my stomach starts to growl. I haven’t eaten anything since checking in at the airport nine—no, ten hours ago. I see a tapas restaurant that looks appealing, but it is too much for this diner of one. I need something a little less formal, a little more like—

Across the street, on the corner, is a building with beige tiles lining the outside walls and large windowed doors with a green awning. I cross Main Street toward Henley’s Pub.

I step over the threshold and immediately feel at home. New York City might be known for its five-star restaurants and high-end clubs, but I’m a West Village girl. Bring me to Down the Hatch or The Spotted Pig, and I’m in heaven. I love a good pub, and downtown Manhattan has plenty of them.

Henley’s has the same familiar feel to it. A long cedar bar runs half the length of the room and curves to the right, forming an L-shape. Rows and rows of liquor are lined on the back shelves with a mirror reflecting the life inside the room.

Tables are set all around the bar, and in the back right corner of the room is a setup for a band. A drum set and three microphone stands are the only equipment, waiting to be used by the next group. Neon signs are tastefully placed throughout the space, and three televisions are built into the wood of the upper moldings.

The only difference between Henley’s and any other pub back home is the distinct smell of bleach.

I take a seat at the end of the bar and eye the beer taps—American lagers, stouts, pale ales and IPAs. Everything a beer drinker could want is showcased in the art form of beer tap handles. I could really go for a beer right now, but a glass of something more sophisticated is probably in order. I’m in Napa, for crying out loud. My first drink can’t be a beer.

Plus, I’ve heard men are more likely to be sensually attracted to a woman drinking red wine.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

My eyes instantly shoot up from the beer handles to the wine on the back bar shelf, and they land on a bottle of—

“Merlot. I’ll have a glass of merlot.” I point to the bottle my eyes are trained on.

“Wine? You’re in the heart of Napa, and you walked into a pub to have a glass of wine?”

Taken aback by his comment, I look over at him and am slammed by the intense gaze he is giving me. I inhale a quick breath, caught of guard by the sight of the man before me.

He has deep-set almond-shaped eyes. They’re like looking at moss in the heart of a forest with no sunshine, yet it thrives and brings a color so vibrant to a rather dark space. There’s remorse in his eyes, and they’re yearning to be forgiven. It’s a shame since he has the face of someone who shouldn’t have a care in the world.

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.