His dark eyes glinted down at me. “Not really. Blendz is a place where you can blend your own wine. They have a ton of varietals to choose from, and you get little test tubes to mix and match. By the time you’re done, you’ve had about the equivalent of a glass of wine, but it feels like more because you’ve gotten to taste so many different things.”
Even though I didn’t know much about wine, I had to admit that sounded like a lot of fun. “What happens if you get a blend you really like?”
“You write down the formulas as you go,” he explained. “If one turns out really well, you give the formula to the person working there, and they’ll make you your own bottle of wine.”
“Okay, I’m sold,” I said, and he smiled.
“I thought you might be.”
The wine bar in question was located near the intersection of Aspen and San Francisco Streets, in an old brick building that looked as though it dated back to Flagstaff’s early settler days. Since it was only a little past six, the real bar crawlers weren’t out in force yet, and there were only two other couples inside, and a larger group out on the pretty little brick-enclosed patio that opened off the rear of the place.
We sat down at the bar. The guy tending it, who looked like he might be Navajo and around Jake’s age, shot Jake a grin. “Hey, Jake. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
I was a little surprised by the friendly greeting, but then I realized that Jake had lived in Flagstaff all his life and probably knew a lot of the waiters and bartenders…and store clerks and a bunch of other people we might run across. Very different from my own experience, where I’d usually just begun to get acquainted with people before it was time for my mother and me to move on to the next place.
“I’ve been busy, Nick. This is Addie.”
“Hi, Addie,” Nick said. For just a second or two, his gaze rested on me, almost speculative. Was I the first girl Jake had brought in here since Sarah had died? I didn’t know the whole story; I supposed it was possible that he’d started dating again at some point, but that wasn’t the impression I’d gotten.
“Hi, Nick,” I said, doing my best to offer him a smile that wasn’t at all uncomfortable.
“Well,” he went on, “since Jake is an old pro at this, I don’t have to give you my spiel about how the whole mixing thing works. Just take a look at the sheet with all the available wines and decide which ones you want to play with.”
He slid a couple of pieces of paper and some pencils across the bar. When I looked down, I saw that the sheet had a list of all the varietals offered, as well as places to write in formulas as you worked your way through your particular choices.
“It looks complicated,” I said in a murmur.
“I suppose it can seem that way,” Jake replied. “But it really isn’t. And since we’ll be sharing a flight, we only need one sheet. We’ll keep a spare just in case we screw up something.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t complicated.”
His mouth twitched. “Okay…not too complicated.”
About all I could do was shake my head. After that, we got busy choosing the varietals we wanted to play with, and Jake handed off our worksheet to Nick so he could fill up the six test tubes with the wines in question. Once the wines were ready, Jake and I started mixing and matching, playing with proportions and combinations.
It really was a lot of fun playing mad scientist with wine. Some of the combos were pretty good, a couple just so-so, but we came up with a classic G-S-M blend — grenache, syrah, and mourvedre — that was really good.
“Then we should get a bottle,” Jake suggested. “Something to remember our evening by.”
“Oh, we don’t have to — ” I demurred, thinking of the price, but he only shot me some serious side-eye at my protest.
“I want to,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”
No, I supposed it wasn’t, not when he was living in a house worth more than I wanted to contemplate and drove a brand-new vehicle that had to have cost a pretty big chunk of change. And it probably wouldn’t have been a big deal to buy a whole case of our particular blend, even if lugging that much wine around was kind of out of the question.
So we ordered a bottle, and Nick made a custom label for us using a photo from Jake’s phone, a shot he’d taken sometime during the winter, with the mountains above town capped with snow against an impossibly blue sky. We decided to call the wine “Peaks Punch” in honor of those mountains, and when we were done, we emerged with the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag and a nice wine buzz going.
“Hungry yet?” Jake asked.
By that point, I was. The wine tasting had taken us more than an hour, and the sun was almost down. Even though lunch had been fairly late — and big — I could tell that the wine had woken up my stomach and that it was ready for something a little more substantial than the chocolate-chunk cookie I’d eaten at Joanna’s house.
“Definitely,” I said.
He pointed across the street. “Let’s go to Criollo. It’s one of my favorite places in town.”
I looked at the restaurant in question. It seemed small, housed in another old brick building next to a bookstore. “Do we need a reservation or anything?”
“Not if you’re a Wilcox.”
Before I could reply, the light turned green, and we needed to hurry across San Francisco Street. We passed by an Earthbound Trading Company and a shop that seemed to specialize in Native American jewelry — plus a gorgeous gallery called West of the Moon that I vowed to go back and visit sometime — and then arrived at the restaurant. The place looked packed, and there were people waiting around outside, but all Jake had to do was go up to the hostess, greet her by name, and ask if there were any tables available. She informed him that one had just opened up, and a minute later, we had a cozy spot at a table near the back.
“Those people waiting to get seated must hate us,” I said in an undertone as I picked up a menu.
“Probably,” Jake replied, looking completely unrepentant. “And honestly, I try not to abuse the privilege too much. But I told you I was going to show you a good time tonight, and a good time doesn’t include waiting half an hour for a table.”
I had to admit to myself that he had a point, although I still felt a little guilty about jumping the line, so to speak.
“Do you want to get a bottle?” he asked, and I looked up from the menu.
“Oh, probably just a glass for me,” I replied, since I already felt a little tipsy from all the wine we’d sampled at Blendz.
He looked a bit disappointed but, to my relief, didn’t press the point. When the waitress came by, we both got glasses of malbec, and then I had to return to my perusal of the menu. The food was an interesting blend, with a lot of Latin influences without being straight-out Mexican. Since everything except the burger looked unfamiliar, I had to guess at what to order — I’d been brought up on good old American diner food, and I was forced to admit that I probably didn’t have a very sophisticated palate.
Not that I would confess this particular shortcoming to Jake, who was clearly at home in the place and hadn’t even stopped to think whether I might be put off a little by the offerings on the menu. Then again, they did have tacos. It was kind of hard to go wrong with a taco, even though I didn’t quite know what “al pastor” meant. Still, it was probably time for me to branch out.
“So,” Jake said, after the waitress had brought our glasses of wine and taken our orders, “what do you think of Flagstaff so far?”
“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. Because it was, with those heavily forested mountains rising above the town, the quaint buildings of the old downtown section, the stunningly deep blue skies overhead. “It definitely has a lot more going on than Kanab.”
His dark eyes laughed into mine as he raised his glass of wine and took a sip. “Well, that doesn’t sound too hard.”
“No, but still. I guess I wasn’t expecting Flagstaff to be as big as it is. I mean, you have a Kohl
’s and everything. We used to have to drive to St. George to shop at one.”
I didn’t bother to mention that those shopping trips were a special treat, something my mother and I did maybe every six months or so. Even Kohl’s prices were out of range for us unless we saved up and shopped the sales carefully.
A pause as he sipped some more wine. I could tell from the way his brows drew together slightly that he had something on his mind, a thought he wasn’t sure he should voice aloud.
“What is it?” I asked.
He set down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly. His hands were resting on the tabletop, and I found myself wanting to reach across the table and twine his fingers with mine. There was something almost overwhelming about sitting at that small table with him, even though we’d been closer before then…even though he’d held me as I wept. But this…this felt formal.
This was a date.
When he spoke, his voice was low enough that I had to strain to hear him over the background music and the chatter of the other patrons in the restaurant. “So…do you think you’ll be able to live here?”
I gave him a wry smile. “It’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?”
His lips pressed together. Still holding my gaze, he said, “That’s not what I asked.”
No, it wasn’t. Did I really want to think about this so soon? I knew it wasn’t as though he was asking me to move in with him or anything; of course not. But what he was asking was whether I thought I could be happy in this town that still felt strange to me, even though apparently I had family who’d lived there for more than a hundred years. Whether I could turn this place into home, could finally stop running.
Thanks to Joanna and the insights she’d provided into my gift, I no longer had a reason to run.
“I think so,” I said, my voice also quiet. “I mean…this is all really new to me, and I’m still trying to absorb everything. But it’s beautiful, and my family is here, and….” The words faded away as I wrestled with a notion that was new to me and therefore alien, not something I’d ever really allowed myself to consider, thanks to more than a decade of moving from place to place and never feeling settled. “And I think I’d like to put down roots here.”
His hand moved, touched mine. A little thrill went through me at the brush of his fingers, and I had to wonder at myself for reacting like that to such a small gesture. Then again, I didn’t think he’d touched me casually, judging by the intensity in those dark eyes.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said.
Such heat coiling in my belly, awakened by just a whispered touch. Was this normal for witches and warlocks? Yes, I couldn’t deny that I was attracted to him, but there were other men I’d been attracted to in the past, and I sure as hell had never reacted like this.
Then again, none of those men had been Jake Wilcox. Guys in high school I’d thought were cute, Tom McKenzie at the community college in Durango — he was the only one I’d actually gone out with, had kissed. He had been fun and attractive, and upset at the way my mother and I had bailed so precipitously, but even though at the time I’d thought he was a good kisser, I’d never had my body run hot and cold and flare out into sudden need simply because his fingers had brushed against mine.
“But I’m mostly just taking it one day at a time,” I said, doing my best to act casual as I withdrew my hand and reached for my glass of wine.
Disappointment flickered in Jake’s expression, but he didn’t protest, only picked up the water glass at his place setting and took a swallow. “Well, no one can fault you for that. And we’ll do what we can to see you get settled.” A wicked little glint entered his eyes as he added, “And now that you’re street-legal, why don’t we go car shopping tomorrow?”
The sip of wine I’d just allowed myself seemed to get caught in my throat. “C-car shopping? I don’t even have a bank account yet.”
“Well, we can do that first. But you can borrow the money from me and pay me back after Connor transfers the money to your new account.”
I stared at Jake, wondering if he was pulling my leg. But no, he looked perfectly serious, head tilted slightly to one side, gaze fixed on my face. “I can’t borrow that kind of money from you.”
“Sure you can.” He winked at me — an honest-to-God wink. “I know you’re good for it. Or at least, you will be.”
How was I supposed to respond to that remark? Because he was right — Connor himself had said that as soon as I had an account set up, he’d start transferring my inheritance. Probably not all at once, because even a broke-ass college student like me knew that funds in a checking or savings account would only be insured up to two hundred thousand dollars, but what a single account could hold would definitely pay for a car. Several cars, and a down payment on a house, and….
“Okay,” I said, figuring there wasn’t much point in arguing about it. After all, I knew I wanted a car, didn’t want to have Jake or Laurel or whomever driving me around whenever I wanted to go somewhere. But maybe Flagstaff had Uber? I’d never used the service, partly because most of the places we’d lived didn’t have those sorts of modern conveniences, and partly because it was an expensive luxury we couldn’t afford even if it was available. Anyway, money wasn’t really an issue anymore, so I supposed I could have just called an Uber to get around.
I didn’t want that, though. I wanted a car, wanted the sense of freedom one would give me.
“Great,” Jake replied. “There are a bunch of car dealerships on the eastern edge of town, out past the mall. We’ll go shopping in the morning.”
“Any of those dealerships owned by Wilcoxes?” I inquired.
“A couple,” he allowed, and I had to chuckle.
“Figures.”
Our food arrived after that, and for a few minutes, we were quiet as we tucked into our food. Even though the combinations of flavors were unfamiliar to me, I had to admit to myself that my tacos al pastor were very good, and it looked as though the roasted chicken Jake had ordered was equally tasty.
But once we’d gotten some food in our stomachs to soak up the wine, I asked a question that had been occupying my thoughts ever since I’d met Jake’s brother Jeremy. “You haven’t said much about your parents,” I said. “Are they…?” And I let the words trail off, wondering if I’d made a mistake by bringing up what could have been a delicate topic.
However, Jake allayed those fears with a simple shake of his head and a quick smile. “Oh, no. They’re both around. They live in University Heights, which is sort of in the southwest part of town. My dad’s an electrical engineer, and my mom works in the registrar’s office at Northern Pines University.”
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds so…normal.”
He picked up his fork and ate a mouthful of chicken, then responded, “We’re all about normal. Or looking normal, anyway. And it’s helpful to have someone working for the registrar, considering that most Wilcoxes go to school there. She can help smooth out any irregularities, if you know what I mean.”
Not completely, but I guessed that in a family of witches and warlocks, there had to be the occasional complication that needed to go away. It did sound as though the Wilcoxes had woven themselves pretty thoroughly into the fabric of the town, which made sense. They’d been living there for a very long time.
“And my grandparents are all retired and still here as well, although their houses are more out toward the area where Joanna lives. They don’t come down here all that much — they think there’s too much traffic.”
Well, I had to admit that Flagstaff’s streets had seemed busier than I’d expected. But the weather that weekend had been perfect and there were probably a lot of tourists in town in addition to the regular residents, so I supposed that wasn’t so strange.
“Their loss,” I said lightly, and Jake gave a rueful tilt of his head.
“I suppose so.”
We went back to our food after that, and when we were done, we emerged from the restaurant into a
cool twilight, a brisk breeze blowing down from the darkening mountains above us. I hadn’t been expecting the air to cool down so quickly, and I shivered a little despite the lightweight cardigan I’d put on over my new silky top.
“Cold?” Jake asked. He was still only wearing the short-sleeved shirt he’d changed into for our evening out, but apparently the cold air wasn’t affecting him the way it was affecting me.
“A little, but I’m okay,” I replied. “I should be fine once we start walking.”
For a second, he hesitated, as if he maybe wanted to move closer to me, drop an arm around my shoulders. But it seemed he wasn’t quite ready to make so public a display of affection, because then he said, “Sure. The bar where we’re headed is two streets over, so maybe the walk will help.”
I nodded, and he led me to the corner, where we waited for the light until we could cross San Francisco Street and head back west in the general direction of the neighborhood where Jake’s house was located. However, we turned down another street long before we got anywhere close to his house, and then down an alley, where he led me down a steep flight of cement steps to a subterranean door.
“What is this, some kind of speakeasy?” I asked, shooting a dubious glance at our surroundings. Not that I thought Jake would ever take me someplace that wasn’t totally safe, but it definitely felt a little dive-y.
His teeth flashed in the tepid light from the bare bulb mounted next to the door. “Actually, that’s exactly what it was back in the day. Now it’s a club.”
He reached for the handle and opened the door, letting out a blast of industrial music. I couldn’t help wincing.
“It’ll be better when the band starts,” he said, looking almost apologetic.
“Okay,” I replied.
Another grin, and then he put his hand on my elbow and led me inside. The place was really dark, so I couldn’t make out much except the bar on the opposite wall, mostly because it was outlined by some sloppily hung rope lights. As my eyes adjusted, however, I saw that the walls were cement, patched in multiple places — well, in the spots where they weren’t covered by vintage concert posters. There were about ten small round tables placed around the space, and then an open area in front of the raised platform where the band would play. In fact, there were a couple of guys hooking up amps and moving around equipment, so I assumed live music would be forthcoming soon enough.
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