by Mae Wood
Reality was coming and I couldn’t hide from it in Memphis under the guise of learning the sales side of the business forever. If I wanted to make this new label a reality and continue to grow the winery, then I needed to get home.
Setting my phone on my dining room table, I noticed the tracks I’d left in the beige carpet from my pacing. The idea of going home felt deflating, I liked New York. I liked working for the magazine and getting to spend my time exploring and meeting people and generally doing whatever I felt like. Hell, I even liked Memphis. But this was what I had to do. I was spoiled and I knew it.
Scanning an email from a wine journalist looking for a comment, I also had to call our lawyer. More fake wine had been identified. This time at a wine auction in Hong Kong. Motherfucker. I hated this. Just another reminder that my mom was gone, that my aunt was gone, and regardless of the support from Dad and Ryan, Kenzie and I were in charge.
I spent the rest of the day reviewing financials, fretting and thinking about ways to increase revenues from our tasting room, mulling revisions to our wine club to increase membership, and skimming production reports and industry papers until it was time for swim practice.
I headed downtown to the Y and dove in, letting the water wash away my stress and my mind zone out as I stared at the black line on the bottom of the pool. Today was a legs day. I grabbed a kickboard and started the intervals set. Halfway through I turned at the lane’s end and spied a familiar body slide into the water.
Lickable Man. And now I knew just how lickable he truly was. I glanced around the pool. A few kids getting lessons with bored parents playing on their phones sitting on the deck. Okay, so groping him is out. I settled into my set, enjoying the view of his strong arms sliding in and out of the water. Not to mention the quick peeks of his tight ass on flip turns.
I completed my kick set and was putting on my goggles for a distance set when a small wave washed around me and big hands landed on my waist. I didn’t doubt whose hands they were, as I’d just had them all over me this morning sans swimsuit, but was surprised that I was about to be groped in the middle of a workout. I thought he was Morning Man. A makeup for the lazy mornings in bed or was this to find me?
“Someone made me skip my morning workout. I thought I’d squeeze in a few laps before the dinner rush. But really? You in the pool? Damn this swimsuit. You can’t imagine the problems that you’re about to cause.”
“Same problems you’re causing,” I said, turning to face him and indicating with a quick downward glance at my now peaked nipples.
His eyes followed mine and then moved to the kids learning to float. “Separate lanes, then.”
He dipped under a lane line and popped up several meters down the pool, clearly showing off for me with a fluid butterfly stroke that demonstrated the strength required to move with such grace.
I licked the lenses of my goggles and strapped them back on my head, following his cue to continue our workouts. After my cool down, I shifted over to his lane, again appreciating the clean entries his hands made as he stroked.
His head popped from the water, gliding toward me with a smile on his face. “You done?”
“With you?” I asked, pulling my cap off my head and dunking under water to shake out my hair.
“Honey sweet to lure me to my death,” I heard him say as I emerged.
My confusion must have shown on my face.
“Homer,” he supplied.
Simpson?
“The Odyssey. The sirens, which are like evil mermaids, sing sweet songs to beguile men and lure them to their death. The witch Circe saves Odysseus by advising him to plug his ears with beeswax and he has his men lash him to the mast so that he can avoid the temptation.”
“Okay—”
“I’m sorry if that was odd,” he said, pausing his rush of words. “My son’s been reading it at school, so I’ve been rereading it.”
“That’s one up on me. I’ve never read it. Odysseus, the guy who tried to get home for like a hundred years?”
“Well, not quite that long, but yes, the story is him trying to get home to his wife and son and dog.”
“You have to get home to your son and dog?”
“Just the son and I’m not sure what he’s up to. He’s a good kid and right now bounces between my place and Amy’s, that’s my ex.”
“Cool.”
“So did my knowledge of epic poetry impress you enough to lure you out for a quick bite?”
“I’m not in to that.” Now it was his turn to look confused. “The quick bit, but biting is fun.”
“Christ,” he said, running a hand across his scalp. “You are all sorts of trouble.”
“Nah, anyway, I’d love to hang out, but I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Oh—” Bert stepped back from me.
“Not of that sort. I’m meeting some girls for drinks and dinner.”
“That’s cool.”
After a little bit more circling around the topic, we made plans to meet up in a few days. “You first,” I said, gesturing to the coping.
“No, I insist. A lady goes first.”
I placed my palms on the coping and before I pushed myself to my feet, looked over my shoulder. “Too obvious about wanting to check out your ass?”
“You could have just asked.” Before I could hop out of the pool, he was on his feet in front of me, offering a hand.
“Chivalry isn’t dead. Southern men and their manners,” I said with a smile.
He smiled as hands enveloped mine and helped lift me out of the water. Stepping to a lounge chair, he picked up his towel, wrapping it around his waist. I watched the show and saw his goggles hit the deck. Fully turning his back to me, he slowly bent down and picked them up, the navy towel pulling snug against his firm butt. “I’m always happy to oblige a lady. Especially one who might be up for a road trip to Mississippi later? I’m tending bar tonight, but we can do late night.”
“I’m sorry. Did you just say road head? My car or yours?” Bert double blinked at me, swept his eyes across the pool to the swim lesson, and then with a smile that crinkled around his eyes, turned on his heel and walked off to the men’s locker room with a little bounce in his step.
***
Out of the pool, I texted the other swim girls to tell them to cancel all plans and to meet me at six thirty.
I called ahead and begged the hostess to let me reserve a table near the bar. Right near the bar. If we were going to be scoping him out, I wanted an unobstructed view. No nosebleed seats for this game.
Greta was the first to arrive, followed shortly by Jill and Carly. But Bert was nowhere to be seen. The same dark haired punk rock bartender from our last time here was on duty, cutting fruit for garnishes and polishing glasses.
“So, where’s the hottie?” asked Greta. “I hate to be like this, but I had to absolutely beg for a sitter. And throwing money around worked. Twenty bucks an hour and I’ve got to be home in,” she flicked at her phone, “forty minutes. Truly. Can I tell you again how overrated the whole doctor’s wife thing is? Being a single mom blows.”
“No doubt,” I replied, trying to keep my face neutral while I freaked out at the mere thought of being responsible for someone else, much less a child. I scanned the restaurant and began to worry.
He said he was going to be working tonight. Surely that wasn’t BS and he’s got dinner plans with someone else and was planning on seeing me later. He didn’t seem like that.
But after a few years in New York, I knew with men that anything was possible—from the guy who took my conversation about skiing Steamboat to be a veiled reference to me being okay with him trying to snort coke off my ass while I was going down on him to the one who was chronically twenty minutes late and always panting upon arrival. We didn’t get that far, but after the third out of breath apology, I liked to imagine him as an early ejaculator who was beating off before meeting me in hopes of staving off an overly quick orgasm.
Just as I had conv
inced myself that I was probably Bert’s side piece, he emerged from the back of the restaurant, deep in conversation with a pretty blond woman, who based upon her body language, was comfortable not only in the restaurant but with Bert. The ex-wife? Abby? Amy? Ali? When she began tapping at a POS screen, I cooled down. Co-worker.
“He’s here,” I replied, taking him in as he carefully folded the cuffs of his white dress shirt back and tied a beige linen apron around his waist.
“Oh, yay!” I turned at the sound of light clapping and found Greta bouncing on the banquette, an entirely too wide smile on her face.
Be cool, man. Be cool. But my attempt at telepathy didn’t work. In fact, her schoolgirl excitement was infectious. And soon we were all four unabashedly staring at him as he worked the crowd. Resting on his elbows as he leaned over the bar to take orders and pouring, measuring, shaking, stirring, and even spritzing his concoctions.
“Con-cock-tions,” I said, laughing at my own bad joke, but the girls didn’t seem to notice. After bitching about getting a crick in her neck, Carly had rotated her chair to face the bar, and that’s when he saw me.
Pulling a draft beer, his big hand resting on top of the tall wooden tap-handle. Our eyes locked and that thing that had happened when we were alone together happened in public. All of my senses were focused on him. The happy buzz of the restaurant in my ears faded. I felt my cheeks heat as I only saw him. And I knew it was mutual—the beer overflowed and ran down the sides of the pint glass. I mentally gave myself a high five for driving that hot, confident man to distraction.
He wiped his hands on his apron and grabbed a bar towel to wipe away the mess. Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he squared himself to me, crossed his arms for a second, and then pointed. “You,” he mouthed. His lips continued to move, but I couldn’t read them.
“Is he talking to you?” Carly asked, her voice raising in disbelief as she turned away from the bar to look at me. “Do you know him?” she pressed.
“Honestly?” I said.
“Yes!” They all three answered at the same time.
“Yeah, I do. And biblically.”
“Hold up. That’s it,” said Greta, standing up from the table. “I’m calling it. Not only is my SUV about to turn into a pumpkin, but I don’t want you to ruin this for me. He’s been saving himself for me. Just so you know, he’s a sweet little virgin. Perhaps a good Catholic boy. Or maybe he’s insecure and really eager to please. Anyway, you don’t get to ruin this for me. See you in the pool.” She tossed her leather tote over her shoulder and left the restaurant.
“Was that serious?” I asked, a little stunned by the display.
“No,” said Jill, signaling for our server to bring the check. “That’s Greta. She’s never serious.”
All of our phones signaled an incoming text. I flipped mine over and a pic of Bert filled the screen. A silver cocktail shaker by his ear, face filled with concentration as he slightly bit on his lower lip.
“Classic,” said Jill. “See, she was doing recon.”
“I was going to tell y’all to take a picture because it would last longer, but clearly you were ahead of me on that front,” a man’s voice said.
Oh fuck.
“Oh, hey, Bert,” I said, trying desperately to be cool despite having a stalker-ish picture of him on my phone. “Jill, Carly, this is Bert. This was my relay team from the meet.”
As greetings were exchanged, he slid onto the banquette next to me, his hand making its way to the top of my thigh and sliding upward to the Y of my body. “Girls night?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Something like that.”
A few minutes and Carly and Jill had begged off, leaving me and Bert alone.
“So, really, what was that about?”
“About getting drinks with some friends.”
“And taking pictures of all of the staff as well? Y’all on some recon mission?” My cheeks began to heat again, not only from his teasing with words but by his roving hand that was kneading and caressing my flesh. I made a mental note to only wear skirts around him ever again.
Chapter Seventeen
Bert
She tucked a strand of her honeyed hair behind her ear. “Hhhmm. Well, a girl has to eat.”
“Drink garnishes alone are not going to give you the kind of sustenance you’re going to need for tonight. I’m not saying carb load. I am saying I have plans.”
“More Mississippi?” A small snort escaped her with a smile, quickly dying on her lips as I brushed my thumb over the lace of her panties.
“No, the plan was not to start with Mississippi. Not that I’ll say no if you want to get in the car now.”
“I had planned on taking you out and then heading to Mississippi.”
“So, this means you’re taking me out for drinks? Good, let’s put that expense account of yours to use,” I joked, hoping she’d say no and we could in fact make out in my car.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked.
“You’re the one in and out of restaurants and bars all day. You lead the way.”
“How does Loftin Yard sound?”
“Sounds good. The weather is perfect tonight. And I know Michael has been working hard on the bar program,” I said.
“I do know that the wine selection is one of the best in town. They’ve really tried to branch out. Hey, let’s branch out. You’re cocktails and I’m wine. Tonight, I’m ordering for you and vice versa.”
“Before I agree to this, let’s get one thing straight.”
“Yeah?” she asked, her eyes lighting with excitement.
“We’re still ending tonight in Mississippi. Grady’s touring Duke with his mom this weekend, so I’ve got the house to myself.”
“House to yourself? What, no kegger being broken up by the cops?” she teased.
“I’m not saying that things might not get a little loud.”
“Easy there, tiger. Let’s see where the night takes us.”
***
It was an easy stroll a few blocks from her parked car to the old locksmith building that had been converted into a dream backyard for hipsters. Two bars, plenty of grass—of the zoysia kind, a smoker—of the barbecue kind—and one-handed games—of the non-sexual kind. A ditch ran through the property, which is why it had never been developed. Michael tried to bill it as a “waterfall,” but I doubted that would ever catch on.
Edison bulbs strung above picnic tables, and modern bluegrass from the stage at the back. October nights in the South are heaven. Warm dry days with blue skies and clear crisp nights, crickets providing a sweet lullaby through open windows, and with a naked Drennan to wrap up in my arms, I wanted to skip this all and go home.
But she had other plans and like any good man, I followed her lead.
She bellied up to the bar, grabbed the bartender’s attention, introduced herself, and tossed down her credit card, buying six bottles of wine. I raised an eyebrow, but she shrugged.
“They don’t have an off-premises sales license. You can’t take it with you,” I cautioned her.
“We’ll make friends,” she replied, breezily, before tucking a bottle under each arm and carrying one in each hand and then instructing me to grab the two others and ask for a dozen glasses and whatever she was drinking. Drennan picked a lovely ditch-side picnic table far enough from the bar and band where we could talk without yelling. I deposited the bottles and was amazed when she extracted a wine key from her purse. Girl’s got game.
I returned with a tray full of glasses and then came back with another tray of short glasses, a bottle of soda, a bottle of water, and a glass of ice cubes.
“With liquor being quicker, I’ll cede the floor to you, Miss von Eck.”
“Really, it’s Miss Drennan to you, and I’d rather play naughty French maid than teacher. But that’s for another night.” As my mind rapidly bounced between pictures of her in a corset and her with a ruler in hand, she lined up the corks in front of each bottle. “They all need
to breathe a little bit, except for this one.”
She grabbed the squat bottle, twisted off the wire cage, and began rolling and rocking the mushroom shaped cork. “I’m assuming that you already know how to open a bottle of fizz without wasting it, but keep a close eye on my technique. You may become acquainted with it in a different context.” And damn, if she didn’t work that bottle like she was giving it a hand job. Rock, twist, nudge, wiggle, wiggle. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. “Now, Mr. Forsythe, may I serve you?”
“You are a wicked, wicked woman.”
And she laughed. Laughed right in my face while she set the freed cork down and poured two tastes.
“This is not Champagne. This is not Prosecco. This is a Saint Peray AOC, so it’s technically a Rhone. Only sparkling wines from Champagne have the right to be called Champagne.”
“Give me some credit. Even Grady knows that.”
“I wasn’t sure how deficient your education was.”
“Better than you think, I’d bet. I have a degree from Escoffier.”
“You’re a chef?”
“Technically trained,” I replied. “Third in my class in pastry. You thought I was just a bartender who owned a restaurant?”
“You’re a pastry chef!”
“Oh yeah.”
“That’s damn impressive. Patience, precision, and an obsession with detail. Pastry chefs are under appreciated.”
“Well, I’ve never felt under appreciated by you and, like you said, you might recognize those skills being put to good use in another context.”
“Do you make the bread and desserts at Pig and Barley?”
“Oh, no, not at all. It’s too labor intensive. Cocktails are quicker, but, please Miss Drennan, let’s continue my education.”
“Escoffier, so you’re trained on wine, then. And I feel really stupid. From my tasting notes down to this entire production.” She waved her arms around gesturing at the table’s Bacchanalian display.