METHOD

by Kate Stewart

  My chest is already constricting with the recollection of just how much I loved our exchange last night and the anticipation of more. The chemistry is intoxicating, he is intoxicating which has the makings for an easy new addiction. Butterflies swarm my insides as he climbs into the driver’s seat and eyes me before starting up the car.

  “I’ve got a place in mind.”

  “Oh?”

  He nods. “Huntington Library. Have you been?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “I’ve never been, either.”

  “A day of firsts.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  We make small talk on the drive over as he navigates the hills. It’s a warm day with just enough breeze to make it perfect. “Step” by Vampire Weekend plays in a lulling melody in the background.

  “So, what exactly is it you do?”

  “I’m a sommelier, which is just a fancy name for wine steward. I don’t like to call myself an expert, but I’m hoping to get there. My dream is to have my own label one day, my own vineyard. Nothing too fancy, just a place to grow my own grapes.”

  He nods. “That’s admirable. What does one have to do to become a wine expert?”

  “I studied viticulture and enology in school. I was practically raised on a vineyard during spring and most of the summer months. My parents rented the same house for years, so it felt like a second home. My mother said she loved the peace, but I think she loved it more because it was hard for me to get into trouble there.”

  “You, trouble? That’s surprising.”

  “I’ll have you know I appreciate good sarcasm.” He twists his lips to hide a smug grin and I have to rip my eyes away to keep in conversation. “Anyway, her ploy to keep me from becoming a pregnant teen paid off for both of us. I got interested in crafting wine, albeit it made me a little bit of an alcoholic at fifteen, but that’s how it came to be. But what she never discovered was I wasn’t the only kid isolated out near the grapevines.”

  My confession wins me his suppressed grin. He glances over at me, his eyes drifting from the exposed cleavage of my sundress to my lips before darting back to the road.

  “You are trouble.”

  “I disagree. For the most part, I followed the rules and hid my rebellion well amongst the vines. Mostly in an old cellar.”

  “We don’t have to go into the details,” he assures me with a pointed look. I love the little hint of jealousy that leaks from his words. It’s cute, if not a little premature.

  “For now, I’m just taking odd jobs. I got back from France a year ago. I was there as an understudy to a world-class sommelier. I even got to test my own label.”

  “How did it turn out?”

  “I wasted a few vines,” I say with a laugh. “No one was impressed.”

  “Sorry,” he says, catching my eyes briefly.

  “You never know unless you try. It takes years to perfect a recipe and a fortune to execute. I’ll try again. For now, I’m just taking odd jobs, like last night.”

  “Nothing to sneeze at.”

  “I agree. Making a living in this profession has been a dream in itself. At the moment, I’m networking, and it’s paying off. I’m getting more and more offers. And there’s just so much more I could be doing if I wasn’t getting these gigs.”

  “Such as?”

  “I could get a job at a vineyard, get my hands in the dirt, run tours, or present in the tasting room.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re bored already.”

  “And you’re here to change my mind and palate, right?”

  “Right,” I say, feeling strangely turned on at the idea of winning him over. With easy traffic, the drive doesn’t take too long. When we pull up to the parking lot, there are only a few cars there. “Well crap,” I say, nodding toward a sign posted next to the entrance. It’s just after closing time. I glance over at him. “What now?”

  He puts the SUV in park and lifts a finger. A man appears out of nowhere approaching us, and Lucas rolls down his window. “Mr. Walker, sir, happy to have you with us today.” The man eyes me. “Both of you.”

  “Thank you,” Lucas replies genuinely. “I really appreciate this.” The man motions for us to park.

  “Of course, the perks,” I mutter with a grin. He gives me the side-eye, and I raise my hands in defense. “I’m not complaining.”

  It’s still a few hours before sunset, and we have all the time in the world to frolic…privately. I’m having a hard time concealing my elation. Huntington isn’t just a library. Attached are extensive grounds full of botanical gardens, a conservatory, and museums full of priceless art. We park close to the entrance and Lucas takes my hand to help me out of the SUV. His grip is warm, and when he slides his thumb over the delicate skin of my wrist, heat stirs in my belly before he lets go. Gathering the basket from the back, he again grabs my hand as we approach. At the entrance, an older woman stands in wait at the door without a hair out of place, a friendly smile on her face.

  “Mr. Walker, welcome.”

  “Thank you, this is Mila.”

  “Hello, Mila, I’m Sylvia, the operations manager here at the library.”

  “Nice to meet you. Thank you for having us.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I’m a huge fan.” She does a quick sweep of Lucas, and honestly, I can’t blame her, he’s magnetic.

  “So you met Tim at the entrance, he’ll be chauffeuring you around as much of the grounds as possible.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I whisper, a little entranced and Lucas squeezes my hand in response.

  More pleasantries are exchanged as I stand in wait studying Lucas next to me. I haven’t had a chance to talk to a soul about my date with Mr. Hollywood, and I’m not sure that I will. So far, it’s still very new and a bit surreal. Tim takes our basket from Lucas and puts it on the seat of the golf cart, and we both hop on. Lucas insists I take the front seat and in seconds we take off past the conservatory. Tim acts like a tour guide about the property, asking us for the specifics of where we might want to go. I speak up, possibly out of turn in my excitement. “I’m more interested in touring the gardens…if that’s okay?”

  I look back to Lucas whose eyes are already on me, and he nods. “Sure.”

  “The Rose Garden, please, Tim,” I say, clapping my hands together like a kid at Christmas.

  After giving us a few details about the library, Tim stops on the pavement at the edge of the garden, and we both hop off.

  “Take your time,” he says. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to move on.” We thank him, and as soon as we step into the expansive grounds, out of earshot, I’m exhilarated.

  “It’s all ours!?” Lucas nods, seemingly pleased to see my reaction as he takes my hand. “Let’s go.”

  We follow the signs down the paver-laced walkway, and I gasp when the entirety of it comes into view. Most of the roses are in bloom, and the smell of them hits my olfactory senses, sending me into a cloudy haze of intoxication.

  “Oh, my God.” I’m stunned as I take in the number of blooms.

  “Are you a fan of roses?”

  “I am now,” I say softly, squeezing his hand before letting go and walking ahead of him, eager to get lost. I approach a statue surrounded by sprays of delicate bushes and admire it.

  “It’s the temple of love,” I say softly. Hands on my hips, I look back at Lucas still standing where I left him and see he’s watching me with a mix of amusement and heat. “You have no idea just how good you did. How did you know this would be my jam?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I asked a few questions or maybe…I got lucky.”

  I stalk back toward him alight with possibility as I soak him in, in the best imaginable surroundings. “This is incredible, Mr. Walker.”

  “Glad you’re happy,” he says, again taking my hand. We spend endless minutes walking the grounds before we head back to Tim and our picnic basket. A
fter a few more stops, we end up in the Japanese Garden on a patch of grass overlooking a curved wooden bridge covering a small pond.

  “Even by California standards this is stunning,” I say. “I’m a sucker for scenery.”

  “Me too,” he whispers, and I can feel the heat of his stare.

  “Did you grow up here?” he asks, setting down the basket.

  “Yeah. California born and raised.”

  “Private school?”

  I draw my brows at his question. “I think you might have the wrong idea about me.”

  “How so?”

  “I went to regular high school,” I say, spreading out the thin blanket I packed in the basket. “I wasn’t chauffeured around, and I damned sure didn’t use my daddy’s credit card for my weekly allowance. My parents worked really hard for what they have and acquired their wealth along the way, but I wasn’t given a Barbie pink Porsche with a bow on it for my sixteenth birthday. If I wanted something, I had to ask for it, and they would figure out a way for me to earn it. If I seem privileged to you, it’s only because I really can appreciate the finer things. I have a taste for them, but by no means am I entitled to them or expect them. I work for them. Living in that house is my perk of being Maïwenn and Alan Badri’s kid. And it’s a big one. But if I weren’t working the way I do, they would take notice, and I’d be out on my ass, trust me.”

  He watches me from where he stands next to the blanket. And his silence wears on me.

  “What?” I ask, gesturing for him to take a seat.

  “You seem to know a lot about a lot.”

  “An education and good manners don’t always equal rich and entitled. I don’t know why I’m justifying it to you when you drive a car that could pay for a semester at Harvard.”

  We’d been sharing smiles and stealing glances at each other through easy conversation, but things seem to have turned serious. It’s been months since I’ve been on a date, and I’m being defensive. I brave a look in his direction and can’t tell if I’ve offended him with my blunt tongue. “I just…I don’t want you to think that way of me. I’m no princess.”

  He takes a seat next to me as I carefully unpack the basket.

  “Okay, then I won’t.”

  I look to see his eyes scouring my face.

  We share a slow building smile before he eyes the contents which consist of mixed cheeses, spiced pears, chocolate, and three bottles of wine.

  His velvety voice surrounds me in a caress. “So, sommelier, you’re on.”

  “And what do I get if you like one of the wines?” I’m blushing, I know I am, and it’s rare.

  He gives me a million-dollar flash of teeth. “I may know a few people who could use a sommelier.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

  “Reputation is everything around these parts,” he mutters dryly. “Or didn’t you know?”

  “I forgot to care,” I say, uncorking a bottle and pulling out two plastic wine glasses.

  His voice rumbles low. “Then we have that in common.”

  “Good,” I say smartly. “I was beginning to think we wouldn’t find much.”

  He pushes some hair off my shoulder, and I visibly shudder from the contact. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing, Mila. I’m not the type of guy you want to have much in common with.”

  He’s not apologetic about it, nor is he asking for sympathy. I frown anyway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t grow up in a beautiful place that inspired me.”

  “But something inspired you,” I reply.

  “Someone.”

  “Ah,” I say, pouring the wine and handing it to him. “Tell me about her.”

  “Why does it have to be a her?”

  “Isn’t it?” I ask, sitting back with a glass in hand.

  “Yes, but she was much older.”

  “Like Mrs. Robinson older?”

  “Who?”

  I lower my glass. “The movie. The Graduate? Dustin Hoffman and Anne Bancroft?”

  He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen that one.”

  “Wow. I assumed it was a prerequisite to memorize that movie before you become an actor.”

  He averts his eyes, surveying the garden. “I wasn’t formally trained. I didn’t watch many movies growing up.”

  He’s becoming more interesting by the second. “Really?” You wouldn’t know it from the way he delivers on screen.

  The intensity on his face gives way to a smirk as he gently swirls his wine. “But I’m a quick learner.”

  “I can see that.” I bite my lip, and he watches while another blush creeps up my neck. The last twenty-four hours have epitomized surreal.

  “I don’t have to be told more than once.”

  Already, I’m strangely drawn toward this man, something more than just attraction, but I have to admit at this point, the chemistry is enough. He seems shy, but not in a way that he lacks confidence. He’s curious in a way that sounds sincere. He seems eager to learn about whatever knowledge he’s devoid of, and that’s a turn on for me.

  There’s a good chance, given enough time, I could fall for him.

  And it’s probably not a good idea.

  I can practically hear my mother’s upcoming rants as I drink him in fully.

  But I’ve never been fond of playing it safe. I find life boring on the safe side. I give myself permission to give into the attraction if that’s my decision. The intimacy of the setting and the intensity of his unwavering stare both have me restless with want. He’s waiting, and I practically have to rip my eyes from him to keep my mind from racing further.

  “Okay, so we have three bottles today, not nearly enough but it’s a start.” I kneel before him, my lavender sundress pooling at my knees as he lays on his side next to me, propped on his elbow with his wine in hand.

  “This,” I say, swirling my glass, “is Caymus which is bottled in Napa Valley, it’s a cabernet which is the most popular red wine.” I pop open the container with mixed cheese and grab a slice of Swiss. “Take a nibble of the cheese and then take a sip and tell me what you taste.”

  He does it, and I can see his derision for it the minute it hits his tongue.

  He swallows it down. “I tended bar for ten minutes, and I know what cabernet is, I just can’t believe people voluntarily drink this shit.”

  “Blasphemy,” I scorn. “Do you drink beer?”

  “Yes,” he answers, staring at the wine like it’s a red-headed stepchild.

  “Well, wine is an acquired taste, much like beer.”

  “Understood, but this…tastes like I’m drinking a tire. No thanks.” He passes me the glass, and I sip it. “Mmm. Goodyear.” We both laugh at the stupid joke, and he pops a pear into his mouth. I playfully slap his hand.

  “Not yet, I’m doing a presentation,” I say, covering my pears with the plastic lid.

  He puts his palms up. “Sorry.”

  “I went to a lot of effort to put this together,” I chide.

  He bows his head with a smirk. “And I’m grateful, I assure you.”

  Rolling my eyes, I can’t help my smile. “Are you going to take this seriously?”

  “I will, I am,” he clears his throat. “Promise.”

  “Okay,” I say, sipping the last of the spilled grapes and corking the bottle.

  “This might be more to your liking.”

  I pour a touch of my new selection into his glass. “This is a rosé from the Allegretto Vineyard, that’s in Paso Robles. The vineyard is only three hours from here and happens to be one of my favorite places in the world. Rosé wines are made when red grape skins are left in contact with the wine for a brief time, allowing a little color to be imparted but not as much as for red wine. This particular brand is a little less dry, and I think that’s what you’re having trouble with. It’s got hints of melon and berry.” I look up to see I’m being watched. Needles of adrenaline prick my skin as I begin to succumb to the draw and
realize we’re both gravitating toward the other with each second that passes.

  I go on nervously pouring him a taste, and he takes it eyeing my offering before his attention shifts back to me. As nervous as I am to have his audience, it’s equally enthralling. “You know there’s a reason wine has been used in celebrations for thousands of years. It’s magical in a way.” I glance over to see him studying my lips. “Something drawn from earth, plucked at its peak and aged for just the right moment. It’s symbolic.”

  I’m helpless to his gaze and get lost in his depths as I try to find my words. I fail, my whole body heated. Instead, I pluck a pear from the container with an appetizer fork and press it against his lips. “Take a bite of this,” I say, and he takes a healthy nibble never taking his eyes off of me. “Now, sip.”

  He concedes.

  I raise a brow. “Well?”

  “It’s good.”

  “Good,” I repeat in his tone, slightly disheartened. “Okay, well I have one other—”

  “Seriously, Mila?” He cuts me off with a chuckle before he moves to sit. My heart sputters in my chest as he reaches for my face, frames it with warm hands and draws me toward him. “How long are you going to ignore this?”

  “Wha…” I’m visibly shaking with evidence that I’m not oblivious to what he’s talking about. And here we are again, in the same pregnant pause we’ve been at a dozen or more times since we met. Without thinking, I catch the rogue drop of wine that sits on his bottom lip with my tongue and hear a low groan. I close my eyes and let it melt. “Exactly,” leaves his throat just before he captures my lips and his flavor coats my tongue. Going lax, I sink into his kiss, our tongues sliding against each other. He commands my mouth, tilting my head with steady hands, so I open for him and he deepens our kiss to a level I wasn’t expecting. I whimper, gripping his hands on the side of my face as he plunges, carefully flicking his tongue in all corners, seeking, and finding me willing before we sync into perfect rhythm. He kisses me until we’re both panting, chests heaving with want. When he finally pulls away, he leaves his hands where they are, his fingers gently stroking my cheeks. It’s the kind of kiss that can get you in trouble because you don’t pause, you go straight to the source again for whatever it will give you. And we do, we lean in again to connect, all rational thought flying out the window.