Despite my manners, I laugh out loud in agreement with his description of Naomi and use of the term broad. From anyone else, I would have found it rude, but in his old-school curmudgeon tone, it’s endearing.
“She is, and I’m here. So, what are we going to do?”
My question surprises him, and if I’m honest, I’m surprising myself. I should be hauling ass up to Moet where my experience and music should be welcomed, and quite frankly, be a far better fit. Yet, for some reason, I feel comfortable here at Russet Ranch.
Without a word, Ed turns to his left and opens a door. He reaches a hand inside the closet and pulls out a mop. He makes his way around the bar and hands me the mop.
A mop? “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Walking away from me, he says, “If we’re gonna open her back up, we’d better make these floors shine.”
My voice comes out in a huff. “I wasn’t hired to clean. I was hired to play the cello.” Wasn’t I?
With his back still to me, he says, “Can’t play if they won’t come to this mess.”
And he walks out the door.
I blow out a puff of air and look at the stupid mop. I feel like this is some kind of Karate Kid moment. Maybe I’ll learn some awesome winetasting skill based on the movement of mopping the floor.
Yeah, I know. Not likely.
It’s been two weeks since I stepped off the plane. In two weeks, I’ve gone on three bad dates, had eight days of employment where I’ve cleaned an old barn turned winery—like I belong to the Merry Maids—and had several lessons on the art of wine by a man whom I can’t say no to for some reason. Something about Big Ed makes me want to hug him, but I wouldn’t dare because he’d probably ask me if I were on acid before he walked out of the room.
The way I hear him humming old show tunes makes me smile. Earlier today, I was reorganizing the bar area—which I have learned is where the wine tastings will occur—and sorting through the cabinets. I was making piles of old wine bottles and cork, coming up with craft ideas I could do with them, when I heard him whistling while walking through the room. It took me a moment to decipher the song. I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
And then he started to sing in a very low voice to himself, “I feel pretty. Oh, so pretty…”
Silencing my chuckle, I placed my hand over my mouth and hid on the floor behind the bar, hoping he wouldn’t see me. When he was safely out of the room, I let out a laugh and went back to work.
And here I am, at a restaurant, contemplating the contradiction that is Ed Martin.
“What do you know about Big Ed?” I ask Naomi, who is sitting across from me at ZuZu, a tapas restaurant in Downtown Napa.
“Nothing. Scarlet and I were driving around, looking for boutique wineries and places off the beaten path. Did you know there are over four hundred wineries in Napa Valley, and ninety-five of those are family owned? There are a ton of these smaller wineries that produce fewer than five thousand cases of wine annually. Those are the ones I want to work with.
“Scar and I were driving around, and I almost missed that old beat-up sign outside. We didn’t leave until he agreed to work with us.” She stuffs a piece of braised pork cheek in her mouth.
“What made you think I’d want to work there?”
Naomi finishes her bite. “I don’t know. There’s something about that place. Like it needed a fresh start. It reminded me of you.”
I nod in agreement and take a bite of the pan-roasted brussels sprouts. I’d like to think I’m not as beat-up and neglected as Russet Ranch, but I get what she means.
“So, any new hot dates coming up?” she asks.
The waiter delivers three new dishes to our table—mussels, chili-pepper rockfish, and lamb chops.
“Wow, this looks delicious.” My mouth waters as I start forking food onto my plate. I purposely avoid having to relive the two dates I had last week at Henley’s.
The first was Colton on Monday. Things were going well until I noticed the outline of a wedding ring on his finger. I mean, we met on MatchDateLove, not Ashley Madison.
On Thursday I went out with Jake, who was really funny. Too funny. The kind of funny where his laugh was really loud, and he put his hand to his chest and gasped for breaths, making him sound like a barking seal. At one point, I thought he was choking but, no, he was laughing. And he laughed a lot. I could have tried to overlook the cackle if he didn’t try to put his hand up my skirt mid date.
As soon as the dates were over, I left the pub without a look to the bar.
Okay, fine, I peeked.
And he was always there.
Watching.
Naomi raises her hand and makes a grabbing motion. “Give me your phone.”
I raise a brow. “Why?”
Her fingers are wiggling in the air. “I’m picking your next date.”
Reluctantly, I reach into my purse and hand her my phone while I savor every bite of my dinner.
Naomi is taking forkfuls and flipping through my dating app. “You have thirty new matches. That’s impressive.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, just like last week’s date, who didn’t even read a word on my profile. Or the guy the week before that.”
“Ooh! This guy’s cute!” She holds the phone in the air, facing me, so I can see the photo.
The picture is of a guy standing on a hilltop, wearing cargo shorts and sneakers—nothing else. “He’s shirtless,” I deadpan.
“Uh, yeah.” Her voice goes up at the end.
“That’s a total D-bag red flag.”
Naomi looks at the photo again and scrunches her nose. “You can tell that from a photo?”
“Yes. I have rules.” I tick them off for her. “Never say yes to a guy who has a profile picture of his bank account, his car, his penis, or himself in shirtless selfies.”
Her right hand, holding the phone, falls to the table as her left hand flies in front of her face, palm up. “Okay, I get the bank account…and the penis. Wait, do they really show you pictures of their junk?”
I lean forward. “All. The. Time.”
She shakes her head and brushes her hair that was falling in front of her face behind her ear. “Wait, what’s wrong with a car?”
“Ugh. Guys who are obsessed with their cars are total meatheads.”
She points a finger. “You have too many rules.”
“I do not,” I state matter-of-factly.
Naomi raises the phone and starts typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Telling Dallas you’d like to meet him.”
“Don’t do that!”
I lean over and try to grab the phone from her hands, but she twists so that the phone is low to her side as she types viciously.
“Too late.”
I fall back to my seat. “His name is Dallas?”
“Yep!” Her eyes light up at something on the phone. “And look at that. He’d love to meet up!” She types quickly.
“Now, what are you doing?”
“Asking him if he wants to meet in an hour.”
“Naomi!”
The patrons at the table next to us look over at my sudden outburst.
I lower my voice. “I don’t want to meet up with him.”
She holds the phone to her chest to ensure I won’t try to rip it out of her hands. “Give me one good reason, other than he has his shirt off.”
“I haven’t even read his profile yet.”
“I did. He’s a nurse and health care advocate. He was probably hiking in that photo you so rudely ridiculed.”
I slump my shoulders. A nurse is pretty damn admirable, especially for a guy. “Does he like the arts?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Crystal, try dating someone who doesn’t mark the checks of your theoretical boxes.” She hands the phone back to me. “Eat, Pray, Love.”
The tapas I’ve eaten taste good. I pray this guy turns out to be a decent date. The love part? I’m not so sure.
/>
I’m wearing jeans and a button-down, hardly what I’d wear on a first date. I look out the window at the front of the restaurant and see the lights of Henley’s Pub. People are walking in the front door, and from here, I can see a decent crowd. I recall a certain someone telling me that Wednesday nights are band nights.
Holding the phone up, I send Dallas a message, asking if he wants to meet at Henley’s. Within moments, he says that he’ll be there.
I show Dallas’s response to Naomi. “Happy?”
“Delighted!”
chapter FIVE
“Excuse me. Is this Paleo?” Dallas asks, holding a hard cider and pointing to it.
It’s the second time he’s asked the waitress this question since I sat down five minutes ago.
When I walked through the door of Henley’s, I immediately thanked Naomi for making me meet him. Wavy blond hair styled with a perfect amount of gel. Tall and built, and when he smiled and showed me a mouth of perfectly straight pearly whites, I almost melted. This guy is hot with a capital H.
Okay, fine, I’ll admit that his too-tight T-shirt isn’t something I’d usually go for, but I can’t help but stare at those pecs. I mean, women use the word chiseled to describe men in romance novels, and for the first time in my life, I am witnessing a real-life man of sculpted perfection. The high five he gave me in greeting was a bit different but not offensive.
The problem. He’s kind of a fitness and health nut, which is usually fine, except he’s obsessive about it.
Name: Dallas James
About Me: My body is my temple.
Age: 27
Occupation: Health Care Advocate
Interests: CrossFit and Paleo!
As the waitress walks away with an eye roll, I turn to Dallas, who is eyeing the drink the waitress brought him like it’s poison.
“You seem like you’re really into Paleo. What is it exactly?”
He gives me an open-mouthed expression, shocked. “It’s only a way of life.”
I wait for him to continue.
So, he does. “Eat like a caveman, baby. That’s how I keep this up.” He flexes his pecs one at a time to make them dance. “If I can’t kill it or grow it, I don’t want to eat it.” He glances at the plate of appetizers between us. “This right here is full of processed and refined food. It ain’t going anywhere near my mouth.”
I balk. “Then, why did you order it?”
“I didn’t. I thought you did.”
I shake my head and peer over at the bar. I see a certain someone looking over at us while shaking a stainless steel cocktail shaker. The waitress, Laurie—the same girl who served me the last few times I was here—returns with another glass and plate. This time, it’s a nice tall beer and a burger with fries.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t order this.”
“On the house, sweetie.”
“Who told you to send these over?” I ask, referring to the drinks and appetizers.
“Nate.” She nods the back of her head toward the bar.
I know exactly who Nate is.
Nate.
Laurie turns around, and I look back at Dallas. I pick up a fry, and he looks at me with disgust.
“Did you know the word gluten is derived from the word glue? Just think about what that will do to your insides,” he states. “Two blocks of protein, two blocks of carbs, and a block of fat, plus one hundred micrograms of fish oil—that’s the way to eat. If you just tried it for a week, I promise, you’d be hooked.”
“What do you do for fun around here?” I ask, smothering my next fry in a glob of melted cheese.
He looks like he’s going to vomit. “CrossFit.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of that. What’s up with all the handstands? And why does everyone have to be naked?”
He blinks at me a few times, as if not understanding my question.
Dallas’s body is cut and lean, so much so that every muscle is molded against his shirt, begging to get out. He kind of looks like Bruce Banner before he morphs into The Incredible Hulk.
“Seven days a week. If you don’t show up, the family comes to your house and makes you get to the box.”
“The family?”
“The CrossFit family,” he states like I should have known this. His eyes drift to the side, and then he laughs, clearly recalling some sort of memory. “Man, me, Sally Up, and Fran were killing it today. Check out my hands. Ripping doesn’t matter. It’s all about making that time.”
“Sounds like a cult,” I say jokingly.
From the look on his face, he does not think I’m funny.
“So, do you play any sports?” I ask.
“You’re kidding me, right?” And this is when he starts talking in code—from WOD to AMRAP to keeping in his box, snatches, and hanging something or others.
I blink at him a few times, taking it all in. When he is done, his closed smile is ear to ear. He’s smug and proud of whatever it is he just said.
Then, he adds, “CrossFit is the ultimate fucking sport. You have to be an athlete in order to do what we do.”
And then he shows me a burpee. If you don’t know what one is, let me explain. Dallas stands up from the table and steps about two feet away, pushing someone over with his shoulder. With his hands in the air, I think he’s going to start doing jumping jacks. But no. Instead, he falls to the ground, causing a few patrons to jump back from where they were standing. He brings his chest and thighs to the floor. He looks like he’s doing a push-up, but then he hops back up into the air and repeats.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I am sitting here, mortified, hoping people can see this is a blind date gone wrong.
When Dallas has completed enough burpees to satisfy whatever mental requirement he had, he takes his seat and gives me a look, as if wondering if I’m as impressed with what he just did as he is.
I look at the bar, and Nate is nowhere to be found.
Why am I even looking over there anyway? I don’t need to be rescued. That said, I should have arranged a backup plan, like having Naomi call me with an emergency or using one of those get-me-out-of-a-bad-date apps.
“CrossFit would help you lose those ten pounds.”
My eyes nearly bug out of my head at his words.
“You could trim your waist down and tighten up those arms in no time. Just a little Paleo and CrossFit. Trust me, you’d be a knockout.”
“Okay, date’s over.” I stand up and adjust my shirt over my jeans, making sure no love handles are showing, even though I shouldn’t care at all.
“Wha—”
“This is not going to work.” I turn around and grab my purse off the chair and pull out a twenty, placing it on the table. I start to walk away, and then I turn to him because I was raised to be polite. “I wish you all the best.”
Instead of heading out the door where he might try to follow me—though I don’t think he would—I walk to the back and into the restroom. It’s not like I could just leave and go home because I don’t have a car. I need to call a cab, and when I get home, I’ll have a word or two with Naomi about setting me up with guys just because she thinks they’re hot.
This is why I like to stick to my rules. Sure, Gavin was a total jerk, but at least he was a…yeah, I don’t have any excuses for him. Same goes for Colton and Jake.
I take a seat, fully clothed, on the closed toilet. I lean forward and put my head in my hands. My hair dangles around my face, creating a shield, a private world where bad dates don’t exist. Letting out a huge breath of air from my lungs, I look up and around the beige stall. This is pretty damn pathetic, don’t ya think?
Shaking my head at the bad luck I have with men, I pull up my Uber app and am about to secure a car when the sound of a bluegrass band echoes into the room. They sound really good, and I haven’t caught a good bluegrass band in years. Putting my phone in my bag, I stand and head back into the pub.
The place is as packed as bef
ore with even more people walking through the front door. The table I was at with Dallas is now occupied by another couple. Luckily, I see a lone seat at the end of the bar. I take it and put my back to the cedar to watch the band.
Unlike contemporary music, bluegrass is played on all acoustic instruments—a fiddle, banjo, guitar, mandolin, and a bass. First, the guitar comes in, and with the deep bom, bom, bom of the bass, my heart starts to beat in rhythm. The fiddler plucks away, and the sweet sound carries in a melody that causes my shoulders to jive while the mandolin’s rapid strokes cause my head to bob. Finally, the banjo’s plucked strings carry a fast-paced rhythm, and suddenly, I’m transported into a world of knee-slappin’, toe-tappin’ good times.
Two-, three-, or even four-part vocals tell a story—sometimes about life but mostly about love and always about the soul. That makes bluegrass music, above all, an experience.
And this band really kicks it up a notch because, instead of traditional bluegrass, they are playing contemporary music. Right now, they’re kicking out a Taylor Swift song, and it freaking rocks.
I’m pretty swept up in the music coming from the stage when I feel a tap on my elbow. I look behind me to see a dark ale, similar to the one I never touched from my bad date, sitting on the bar. I look up, and Nate gives me a chin nod before walking away. Grabbing the beer, I turn back to the band as I decide to settle in and enjoy the night.
See? Not as pathetic as I was a few minutes ago.
The five-piece band, The Barge Poppers, keeps the crowd going. Some patrons get up to dance, but most keep to their seats and enjoy the great music. I sit and listen to more covers, including one by Maroon 5, Justin Bieber, and—I kid you not—Macklemore.
After the sixth song, the lead singer asks the crowd how they’re feeling.
We’re feeling good!
I answer with the crowd, throwing my hands up in the air and clapping my hands.
“This is the part of the show where we like to open it up to you. Who here wants to get on up here and sing a little something with us?” the banjo player asks.
Wild Abandon Page 6
