Wild Abandon (6 page)

I hear her sigh on the other end.

“If there’s anyone who understands why you’d move across the country, it’s me. Though I have no idea what you’re running from.”

She waits for me to answer, but I don’t have one for her. I’m not running from anything.

“How are you doing?” Her voice sounds understanding.

I take a seat on the futon, cross my legs, and fiddle with my braid again. “It’s only day two. Any advice?”

“Don’t come back.” Her answer surprises me, so I let her continue. “Not until the day you set for yourself to return.”

Six months.

“Why is that?” I ask, curiosity killing the cat.

“Because you’ll never learn whatever it is you set out to learn unless you see it through.”

I take a breath and let her motherly advice sink in. Speaking of which, I ask, “How are you feeling? Have you announced the pregnancy yet?”

Emma told me the day after her wedding that she was expecting her first child.

“Ugh, sick to my stomach, which they say is common when you’re having a girl.” The word
girl
is said with a singsong voice.

“It’s a girl? Oh, Emma, that’s amazing! Alexander must be ecstatic.” I place the back of my hand to my cheek and feel moisture. For some reason, I’m crying. It must be from the joy of the moment.

“He is excited and frightened and going absolutely crazy with buying everything pink. He’s even named her Isla.”

“Isla,” I whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Thinking of Emma and her husband, Alexander, reminds me of what I want—love. And not a magical, mythical love. I had that. I want a real-life love with someone who shares my passions and dreams, who wants to experience life’s great joys together. Someone who complements me in every way. Not someone I have to change for. And I don’t want to change someone to make him perfect for me.

Emma’s tone changes. “Are you okay?”

I breathe in quick and wipe a rogue tear. “Yes. I’m just so excited for you!”

If smiling had a sound, I know I’d hear it right now through the phone as she says, “Thank you, Crystal. It’ll happen for you, too. I just know it.”

I shake my head and laugh, as if she were in front of me and I were trying to physically show her I was okay. “Oh, please. Don’t worry about me. You take care of yourself and keep me updated on the pregnancy.”

“Will do. And you ring me whenever. I mean it.”

I thank my friend and hang up, staring at the screen for a few minutes, wondering why I am such an emotional mess.

“It’ll happen for you, too. I just know it.”

Taking one heavy breath, I pull back my shoulders, slap my knees, and nod my head.

Yes, it will.

chapter THREE

Wearing a modest yet sexy pencil skirt with a high slit that reveals my thigh when I gracefully cross my legs, I walk into Henley’s Pub and take a seat at a table to the left of the bar.

Tonight is my first date with a West Coast guy…on the West Coast. I’ve dated a few New York transplants in my day, but this is my first in California.

Here are the stats:

Name: Gavin Carter

About Me: Avid skier who loves to hit the slopes. Looking for someone to head to Tahoe with and have cocoa by the fire.

Age: 34

Occupation: Senior Home Mortgage Loan Officer

Interests: Travel, fine dining, real estate

Catching a glance of my reflection in the window, I do a final once-over before taking my seat. Black stilettos make my legs look lean while the high-waist skirt gives me a nice hourglass shape. My butt is a little bigger than I like, but it seems to be the one feature that, no matter how much I diet, I can’t seem to get it down. I have an ass. And I try my darnedest to work it.

Since I opted for the sexy skirt, I chose a sleeveless turtleneck that’s snug enough to let the imagination wander. I also spent a long time blowing out my hair, leaving it long and bending at the edges. An article in
Maxim
said men found women with long hair more desirable than those with short hair. And, while the magazine said men also preferred women with less makeup, I tend to think they’re all liars, and I went heavy on sultry eyes.

I know. I’m thirty and still single. I shouldn’t act like I know everything about dating. But I do know this—I have no problem with keeping a man’s attention. I can be flirty and conversational, and I am actually interested in learning about my dates. What I don’t know how to do is pretend like I want the date to continue when I’m over it.

Hopefully, Gavin will prove to be worthy of dinner after drinks.

I chose Henley’s as a meeting place because—aside from being in public in case my date turns out to be the next Craigslist Killer, or in this case, the MatchDateLove Killer—it’s casual. My rule for first dates is always coffee or drinks. Never a meal. This way, if it goes south, we can part ways without having to sit through an entree first.

The pub is busier than the last time I was here. About twenty patrons are around the bar in various spots, and a half-dozen tables are filled. This must be the lingering happy-hour crowd. The TVs are on. A commercial for Thursday Night Football is playing, and music is bellowing from the jukebox. A country song was on when I first walked in, and now, there’s an eighties hit playing. I appreciate the variety.

Scanning the pub, I can’t help but wonder if a certain bartender with olive-green eyes is here. Part of me is desperate for him not to be here, yet another part is…anxious? I don’t want him to think I came back here to see him.

Because I didn’t.

In fact, I reconsidered Henley’s as a meeting place, but being new to the area, I don’t know of many spots. Sure, it’s thirty minutes from the house, and I could have asked Naomi for a closer suggestion, but I like being somewhere familiar. Until I learn the lay of the land, Henley’s is my go-to spot.

A waitress comes over and hands me a drink menu. She is sprightly with a little bounce to her step. With her short haircut that’s teased in the back and falls around her chin, bangs that showcase bright blue eyes, and a button nose, she reminds me of a pixie. I tell her I am waiting for someone, and she says she’ll be back to take our orders. As she walks back to the bar, I do one final scan before concluding that
he
is not working tonight.

“Crystal?”

I am so focused on who is not at the bar that I didn’t see Gavin walk in. I stand to shake his hand.

He’s tall and dark-skinned. He has a handsome face with eyes the color of malt whiskey, accented by wire-framed glasses, a Roman nose, broad chin, and a wide smile. He is, surprisingly, more handsome in person than his profile pictures, which all featured him in various vacation settings—solo and fully clothed. Gotta love a man who travels.

“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.