“It’s guerrilla warfare with her bom, bom, bom!”
And then he laughs—like, out loud.
I’m assuming the orangutan has just made its appearance.
I blow air out my lips and watch Nate’s facial features. He’s enjoying himself. So different from the day I met him. I would never have guessed that smile existed. But it does. And it’s beautiful.
Nate looks up at me over the iPad, and instead of a teasing look, he’s glancing at me with a look of endearment. If he weren’t in a relationship, I would misinterpret it as something more, but he’s giving me a glance of appreciation.
For what, I’m not sure.
Nate ended up staying for two more hours. The four of us chatted on the patio, telling stories and sharing jokes. It was a really great evening, and now, it is coming to an end. Nate and Willie Mays say good night to everyone, and Naomi nudges me to walk him to his truck.
When we get to the truck, Nate puts Willie Mays in the backseat and then turns to me. With his hands buried deep in his pockets and mine crossed over my chest, we’re awkwardly standing there, not knowing how to say good-bye.
“This was fun—”
“Thank you for—”
“You go first,” Nate says.
I motion toward the house. “Thank you for helping us today. It was really nice.”
Something about what I said doesn’t seem to sit well with Nate. “You’re welcome. But I wasn’t being nice. I was being your friend.”
Friend. I wish that word didn’t sting. “Looks like Naomi and Jeremy really liked you. We should do this again. Maybe bring your girlfriend.” It’s a half-assed invitation.
Nate suddenly looks really uncomfortable. “About that. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.”
“No, you didn’t,” I assure him. “I totally had you pegged as being in a relationship.”
Nate leans forward and laughs. “You’re such a liar.”
I hit him on his arm. “And you’re an idiot!”
We both laugh, and it feels good. Maybe I can be just his friend.
Nate climbs into his truck. “Will you be coming back to the bar to visit me?”
“I don’t go there for you.”
“Right.” He grins, and if he were next to me, I’d hit him again. “Night, Crystal.”
“Good night, Nathaniel.”
I watch as his Tahoe drives down the road. Before it’s at the corner, I am walking back to the house, ready to tell Jeremy that I’m ready to be set up on that date.
chapter TWELVE
His name is Brent Montavale.
And he does not do online dating.
He has no need to. Six foot four, square shoulders, a trim waist, and a face like a movie star, Brent is the type of man who has women come to him.
Kinda makes me wonder why he agreed to go out on a blind date with me.
Brent is recently divorced from—and this is according to Jeremy—a gold-digging Swedish model who didn’t realize their ironclad prenuptial would keep her from inheriting anything if she ever cheated on him, and, unfortunately, she was.
In his mid-thirties, Brent is looking for a down-to-earth girl who isn’t after his millions.
Enter me.
We had a brief phone conversation last night where we exchanged pleasantries and decided where we should meet. Brent recommended the Michelin-rated The French Laundry that has a wait list of six months, yet he has no trouble getting a table at a moment’s notice. I, a creature of my own dating habit, wanted to recommend Henley’s, but taking advice from Jeremy, I decided to amend my ways.
I agreed to dinner but not at the place that charged three hundred dollars a plate. Instead, we are seated at an outside table at Bottega in the town of Yountville. I figured it was nice enough for Brent’s taste but still within my comfort zone.
“Jeremy tells me you’re a cellist. That is exquisite.” His voice is smooth, and his eyes never falter from anywhere other than my face. “Where do you perform?”
“At weddings mostly. And I teach a few days a week at a free school for the performing arts. Well, I taught. Now, I work at a winery.”
“Aren’t you classically trained?”
“Yes. The Eastman School of Music at the University of Rochester.”
“Have you ever considered the symphony? I have friends at the San Francisco Symphony. If you’d like, I could get you an audition.”
“Thanks, but I have worked for the symphony, and it’s not for me.” I cross my legs and let the silky material of my plum-colored dress creep up my leg. I start to tilt my head to the side and then remember Nate teasing me about my move.
I tilt my head anyway and let my straightened hair fall to the side. “So, what do you do?”
He smirks, as if I should know. “Montavale Estates. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head.
Brent gives me his thoroughbred smile. “I don’t know if I should be relieved or offended. Montavale should be in your local liquor store.”
“I wasn’t much of a wine drinker before I moved to Napa,” I say. Then, I look at the expensive bottle of wine he ordered.
“Why didn’t you say something? What would you like?”
“No, it’s fine. This is delicious, really. Continue.”
“My family has been in the wine business for fifty years. We have a winery and vineyard in Sonoma. I’d love to show it to you sometime.”
“I’d like that.” And I mean it.
We spend the next hour chatting. We mostly talk about him, as I tend to ask a lot of questions. He tells me about his winery and vineyard, explaining everything from harvesting to the bottling process. I find it fascinating that most of the work seems to be done by large machines. It sounds similar to what Jeremy says he does at Gallo. It’s a far cry from anything Big Ed would have going on at Russet Ranch, a place Brent says he’s never heard of. Makes sense. There are hundreds of wineries in the valley. A small mom-and-pop place must be far off the radar for a vineyard and winery the size of Montavale. According to Brent, they grow and harvest their own grapes on site, something many wineries do not do.
The business side of winemaking is intricate. When he starts talking about barrel fees and ratios, I am immersed in the conversation—so much so that, when the check comes, I’m pleasantly surprised I haven’t regretted forgoing the usual first date drink-only rule.
The date, however, wasn’t magical enough for me to want to kiss him. So, when he walks me to my car at the end of the night, I offer him my cheek. Standing under the twinkling lights of the nearby trees, Brent’s cheeks rise, his smile closed but rounded up, as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“I’d like to see you again.” It’s a statement. Not an invitation.
So, I just stand, squinting my eyes at him, waiting for him to properly ask. There is a short moment of silence as I wait, and I cannot hide my smirk.
He gets the hint and eventually asks, “Would you like to have dinner with me on Saturday night?”
“No,” I deadpan. Then, I smile to let him know I am joking. “There’s a band that plays on Saturday nights at Henley’s Pub in Downtown Napa. I’ll be there to see them play.”
Brent smiles a beautiful full-teeth smile and nods his head. “Good to know.”
I bid him good night and get in my car, proud of myself for making it to the end of the date.
He’s a little intimidating. He reminds me of Bruce Wayne–wealthy, utter-determination and intelligence.
He seemed really nice though. We’ll see if he shows up on Saturday.
He’s shown up.
It’s Saturday night. The Barge Poppers are playing onstage. The bar is filled with people and smells like bourbon. I’ve been here for an hour, sitting at a table, not far from the bar.
Laurie slid my stout on the table before I ordered it. Today, it’s a blueberry ale. Thankfully, no carb-loaded appetizers were sent my way this time.
When I walked through the door, N
ate didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I thought it was because he didn’t see me walk in, but when the drink was brought to my table, I looked up and saw him glance my way really quick before continuing to busy himself behind the bar.
I was content, sitting here by myself, listening to music, when the front door opened, and in came Brent.
His brown hair is slicked back, styled just right to the side and back. His brown eyes are framed with long dark lashes, and his dark skin makes his teeth gleam extra pearly white when he smiles at the sight of me.
Okay, I’m a little excited that he showed. I know I acted aloof the other night, but there’s something about him. Maybe, tonight, he’ll loosen up a little more, and I can get to know more about him, other than the vineyard his family owns, which was all he spoke about at dinner.
Taking a chair from another table, he pulls it up beside me and just flashes a grin. I return it and go back to listening to the music. It would be a little hard to talk with the music so loud, so I just sit back and enjoy the show.
When Laurie comes over, I hear Brent order a cognac. When she leaves, he leans back and slides his arm on the back of my chair. When she returns with the drink, he takes it with his free hand and leans forward to watch the show as intently as I am.
The band takes a set break, and the jukebox music comes on, making it easier to have a conversation.
Brent rolls the sleeves of his cashmere sweater up his tan forearms. “This is the kind of music you like?”
I nod. “What do you think?”
“They’re good. Different but good.” He looks down at my drink on the table. “Not a wine girl.”
With a closed-mouth smile on my face, I look up at him and shake my head.
“What’s a beer-drinking girl who listens to bluegrass doing in Napa all by herself?” His eyes twinkle and crease.
I lift the glass to my lips, take a sip, and then ask, “What’s a winemaker from Sonoma doing at a pub in Napa all by himself?”
Brent leans in close, a lot closer than I am ready for. His nose is inches from mine, and I can smell the heady cologne pouring off his skin. I swallow back, unsure of exactly what I want him to do.
Before I can back away, he ever so lightly brushes his lips across my cheek and whispers into my ear, “Looking for the perfect girl to sit next to.”
I bow my head and blush at the flattering yet cheesy comment. Running my hands through my hair, I sit back and give myself some needed distance from Rico Suave.
The band comes back from their break, and we sit back and listen to them. Brent’s seat is getting closer and closer to mine, his arm inching in further around the back of my chair. At one point, his other hand finds my knee and uses it as a mini drum.
When the set is over, we order our third round of drinks and do some much-needed get-to-know-you talking.
Raised on his family vineyard, Brent always knew he would someday run the estate. He went to private school and then went to Europe for four years to study in Tuscany and Bordeaux. He skis and spends most weekends at his house in Tahoe and holidays in the Alps, which happens to be where he met the Swedish ex-wife. He loves animals but doesn’t have any. He enjoys sports but doesn’t have a favorite team. He’s a patron of the San Francisco Symphony. He drives a Tesla. He is on the board of a food-share program with local farms. And he still hopes to one day start a family.
He’s like Bruce Wayne—part-mogul, part do-gooder.
He is cultured, driven, sophisticated.
He is everything I’ve ever wanted.
Therefore, he is intimidating.
I tell him I grew up in Manhattan. He’s been there many times. Brent brings up other possible places I could make a living, aside from weddings and small vineyards. I ask if he drinks wine, other than what’s from his estate. The answer in no.
We have been here for about two hours, and I am starting to feel the night coming to a close. I’m happy I drove myself here. I’ve had a really nice night, but I’m not ready to endure the awkward can-I-drive-you-home moment and the do-we-kiss-or-do-we-not-kiss exchange that would occur when he dropped me off.
“I have to be up early tomorrow,” I say even though it’s a lie.
Placing his hand over mine, Brent brushes his fingers along my wrist. “I’d like to see you again. What are your plans next week?”
I have none, but I can’t tell him that. “I’m working.” I pause, feeling myself trying to brush him off. I change my tone. “I’m available on Thursday.”
Brent raises my hand to his lips and places a soft open-mouthed kiss on the skin of my knuckles. “I shall see you on Thursday.” He raises his arm to Laurie, signaling that he’d like to close out his tab.
I look toward the bar where Laurie is standing, and I see Nate next to her, looking over at us. That’s surprising. He was here and didn’t do one thing to interrupt my date in any way. I don’t know if I should be disappointed or take that as a sign that he thinks Brent is a good catch.
“Are you okay to drive?” Brent is getting up from his seat, keys in hand.
I nod my head even though I am suddenly not in the mood to leave just yet.
“I’ll walk you out.” Brent places his arm on the small of my back and escorts me out the front door and to my car parked on the street.
We do the awkward dance good night. He leans in and tells me what a good time he had. I lean back while saying the same thing. He places a hand on my arm and says he looks forward to seeing me again. I turn my cheek and say I look forward to it, too. Lips hit cheeks, and then he says good-bye with a smile that masks his disappointment. I get in my car, turn the car on, and watch him walk away through the side view mirror.
Rubbing my hands under my eyes, I hold my face and try to fight the urge to turn the car off and go back inside Henley’s Pub.
I lose.
Shutting off the ignition, I get out of the car and walk back into the bar, hoping I don’t look like a complete loser.
I could say I forgot something.
Or just slip in to use the restroom.
Maybe I could pretend my car is stalling, and I need to call a cab.
All of those excuses go out the window because at the bar is a freshly poured stout in a frosted glass and a handsome bartender standing, his arms open on the cedar with one brow raised and a lopsided grin on his face.
I feel my smile widen, and I hope I don’t look like a complete tool. Because I am one. For some reason, the sight of him, knowing I’d be back here for my after-date beer, with that smirk on his face makes me stupidly, deliriously, idiotically happy.
And I really need to stop that shit.
“Okay, I’m ready for your assessment.” I take my usual seat, cross my legs, and lean into the bar.
“You picked a good one.”
“Oh.” My mouth puckers out.
Nate reaches behind the bar, takes the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and places it on the bar. Two shot glasses appear next to it.
“Brent Montavale is a big name around here. I’ve also never seen him in here before.” Nate opens the bottle, pours two glasses, and then hands me one. “I find it hard to believe that you met him online.”
“No. Jeremy set us up. This was date number two.”
Nate’s eyes widen. “Date two? Huh.” His brows curve in as he downs his shot.
I pick up my two ounces of amber liquid and try to dissipate the searing disappointment that Nate approves of Brent Montavale and the annoyance that it bothers me.
“You play pool, Red?”
“No,” I state, rather disappointed.
“Good. Let’s go.” Nate takes the bottle and the two glasses and walks away.
“Oh. Okay.” I swing my body around the stool and follow him to a back room where there is a pool table and no one playing at it.
Nate grabs the triangle off the wall and puts the balls inside.
“Nice rack,” he says to himself, causing me to look down at my blouse. When I look back at him
, he’s smiling and then looking at the triangle filled with balls. “Yours is nice, too,” he adds.
I blush.
He hands me a stick and ushers me to go first. I hate pool. It’s a stupid game of sticks and balls and that weird triangle thing. It really is just an excuse for guys to get girls to bend over.
“What’s with the face?”
I release my lip and realize I was making that duck-mouthed face again. Leaning over, I give him my biggest, most sarcastic smile. “Better?”
“Much.” He’s standing on the other side of the table, feet wide apart, chalking the tip of his pool stick. His hand is caressing the cube and rubbing it in slow, deep circles. Only Nate can make the motion wildly sexy. “You wanna break, or should I?”
It takes a second for me to actually hear what he said. Clearing my throat, I say, “After you.”
He smiles and then leans down over the table, the lid of his baseball hat casting a shadow over his eyes. Nate lines up his shot and shoots with a force I think is harder than necessary. Three balls sink in various pockets.
“Where did you go for your first date?” He is walking over to another spot of the table, his eyes still not looking at me.
“Dinner. It was nice.” I shuffle my feet from side to side. “I assumed you approved of Brent. I’ve never finished a date without you or myself ending it abruptly,” I add with a laugh.
Nate’s brows crease in. “Disappointed?”
A little.
I need something to do with my hands, so I run them up and down the pool stick. When Nate’s eyes questioningly gaze at the wood, I realize how phallic the motion of my hands look, which makes me lose my grip altogether and the pool stick falls to the floor. I pick it up as gracefully as possible and carry on as if nothing happened.
“No. I’ve landed a great guy?” For some reason, that statement came out sounding like a question.
He is about to take a shot. His eyes lose focus, and he stands and looks at me. “Why him?”
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