by Stacy Wise
Before we left, Jack sat with Leo on a grassy area in the sunshine. I watched him trying to have a heart-to-heart with the little guy, even though I acted like I was talking to Karen’s teenage son. Leo snuffled apple slices from his hand and begged for more. Jack tried to rub his back, but Leo was only interested in nudging his hand, trying to find more apples.
Jack gave him the last few slices then walked him over to Karen. He passed the leash to her and jogged toward the truck. I knew he didn’t have the good-bye he wanted.
“Leo will be happy there,” I say. “You did the right thing.”
He swipes at his eyes with one hand. “Yeah. I was trying to tell him that I’d miss him and stuff, you know? I wanted him to know that I love him. It felt wrong just taking off like that.”
“He knows you love him.”
“You think?” His voice sounds hoarse. I bet he wishes he were alone so he could have a good cry.
“Yeah.”
He taps his steering wheel again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think he knows.” Tears pool in my eyes, and I dab at them. Jack turns on the music and rolls down the windows. The air is cold, but it feels good on my face. We pass a sign advertising a winery two miles ahead. He reads it aloud. “You want to do a little wine tasting? I’m not ready to drive for three straight hours after that. You in?”
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“Cool.” We drive in silence until we reach the winery. Gravel crunches under the big tires of his truck as he pulls off the road and into the parking lot. He tilts his hat down low and slides on his sunglasses. I smooth my hair into a ponytail and dab on some lip gloss. As we cross the parking lot to the tasting room, the gorgeous views lift my spirits. Rows of grapes stretch out on all sides. They disappear into rolling green hills that go on forever. It feels like we’re much farther from home than we really are. Colors like this don’t exist in Los Angeles.
“I wish they offered whiskey tasting. I want to get drunk.”
“Ha! If we were tasting whiskey, you’d have a pathetic mess on your hands. One round and I’d be on the ground.”
“Are you sure you haven’t been tipping something back already? You’re rhyming.”
“And you’re so funny!”
He stops and looks at me. “And I thought you’d never notice. Shocking that you finally did.”
That’s not the only thing I’ve noticed.
He opens the door to the tasting room and expertly scans the crowded place like an FBI agent looking for his suspect. “This is a mob scene waiting to happen. It’s not going to work.” He takes his wallet from the pocket of his jeans and passes me a handful of bills. “Will you buy a bottle and a couple glasses? I saw some picnic tables when we parked. Do you mind if we have our own tasting out there?”
“Yeah. No problem.” No problem at all with wine tasting for two. Just two. Jack and me. Drinking wine that can reduce inhibitions. I better keep it together.
“Text me on your way out, and I’ll tell you where to find me.”
He leaves, and I wander from display to display, reading about pinots and cabernets and red varietals. A group near me raves about what they are drinking. It has a bold finish…hints of chocolate, spice…upfront appeal. I check out the price. Thirty-five dollars. How do I say no to that? Some of the wines in here are well over one hundred dollars. I grab a bottle, find two plastic souvenir wineglasses, and even remember an opener. As I put everything in a shopping basket, I reconsider my selection. We can’t have a proper tasting with only one type of wine. I find the white section and pick out an award-winning chardonnay that’s only nineteen dollars.
As I wait in line to pay, I notice baskets of packaged crackers, hard salamis, cheeses, and little jars of olives. I add one of each to my basket. I’m sure Jack is as hungry as I am.
After gathering plastic utensils and napkins on my way out, I text Jack. Where are you?
My phone rings. “Hi. I figured it would be easier for me to tell you directions. Turn right and follow the path.”
I do as he says. “I’m on the path.”
“Okay. Once you pass the tasting room, you’re going to step off the path onto the grass and walk back toward the rows of grapes.”
I walk down the path and step onto the grass. This is fun. I feel like I’m on a scavenger hunt. I only wish I could keep the prize at the end. “Okay. I’m moving in on the grapes.”
“Ha. The CIA agent in you is rearing its head. I’m at a table near an oak tree. You can’t miss it. Over and out.”
“See you in a minute. Over and out.” I hit end and continue along the path, telling myself I’m walking fast to stay warm.
I reach the table where he’s sitting and wish I could take a picture. He looks so handsome in his casual leather jacket with a white Henley under it, sitting there with a backdrop of rolling hills and rows of grapevines. I set the bag on the table and pass him the change.
“What do we have?”
I hold up the bottle of red like a server at a fine restaurant. “We have a lovely red blend with, let me see if I remember this correctly, ‘hints of chocolate and an upfront appeal.’ How does that sound?”
“I like a wine with an upfront appeal.”
The way he says upfront appeal unnerves me. Damn him. He has no idea that with every remotely suggestive word he utters I turn all flustered and warm. I clear my throat and get back to business. “Good. And,” I say, taking the chardonnay from the bag, “since we’re supposed to be wine tasting, I thought we should have at least two kinds. Here we have an award-winning chardonnay. I think it has a buttered oak influence and undertones of apple and pear. Anyway, it won an award, so it has to be good, right?”
“For sure.” He concentrates on reading the label, but I swear a little grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. He probably thinks I sound like an amateur.
I set the glasses on the table and hand the wine opener to him. He opens the bottles while I spread the food out on the table.
“Awesome call on the food. I’m starving.”
He offers a glass to me and raises his. “Here’s to Leo.”
“Here’s to Leo.” We clink. The wine warms my belly, and I lift my face to the sun, luxuriating in the clean air. The click of a phone camera startles me so much I nearly fall off the bench. Jack laughs, his phone in hand, looking at the photo he just snapped. I scramble over to him and grab for it, but he holds it away from me.
“Don’t be grabby. I’ll show you. It’s a great shot.”
“Now I know how you feel when the paparazzi attack you.”
He smirks. “Be nice. No attacking was involved.” He turns the phone screen to me, and I inspect the picture.
I’m surprised to see I have a glimmer of a private smile on my face. “Lovely,” I say. “Now let’s delete that. I look like a dork.”
“You look great.” He leans his head next to mine and snaps another photo.
When he shows me, I burst out laughing. His face is contorted, making him look like a lizard, and I resemble Munch’s The Scream. “Send me a copy. I’m using that as my Christmas card.”
His body shakes with silent laughter. “That’d make for one hell of a Christmas card.”
I grin at him as I assemble sandwiches with the salami and cheese. We snack and drink, and it’s like we’re in our own world.
The sky turns a darker shade of blue, and I’m surprised to see we’ve polished off a bottle and a half of wine. A crisp chill in the air makes me shiver. I wonder what Jack would do if I said that I’m cold. Would he move closer and wrap himself around me, using the heat from his body to warm me? Because that would be really nice. “I’m freezing. Are you?”
“Yeah. It’s getting cold. Should we head back?”
“Sure.” You were supposed to come over here and wrap yourself around me.
As I stand to gather our trash into a plastic bag, I feel myself sway. Whoa. I glance up at Jack to make sure he didn’t see me wobble. Thankfully, he’s busy
packing up the glasses and wine opener into another bag. Damn, he’s handsome. The wine has made my head a little fuzzy and my limbs a little free. It makes me want to twirl in the open field with him. In my mind I see myself in a silky organza dress that catches the breeze. I’m weightless, gliding through the air like a mystical creature. Like a unicorn.
No. Not the unicorn. That wasn’t the image I was going for. It makes me think of my wall plaque and my mother. Thanks for crushing my fantasy, brain. I get it. I’m not wearing an organza dress, and Jack isn’t going to twirl me under the tree. He grabs the wine bottles, unaware that he’s the center of my daydream.
As we near the tasting room, a group of giggling women troops toward us. It’s obvious they’re part of a bachelorette party, because one girl is adorned with a pink satin sash with Bride-To-Be encrusted in sparkly rhinestones across it.
They get closer, and Jack uses his free hand to steer me away from them. One of the girls stops in her wobbly tracks. “Oh. My. God. Oh my God!” she shrieks. “It’s Jack McAlister!” The entire group freezes, then rushes closer to us. It’s like watching a flock of animated tropical birds.
Feeling bold from the wine, I walk purposefully toward them. “Hi, ladies.” I use my arms to sort of herd them to a stop. “It’s not Jack McAlister. He totally looks like him, but he’s my cousin, Helmut, from Germany.” I survey their faces to see if they’re buying it. It’s hard to tell, but I run with it. I lean in, closing the deal. “It’s happened twice already today,” I whisper, hoping to make them feel like I’m letting them in on a Big Secret. “He’s starting to think American girls are cuckoo, if you know what I mean.” I spin a finger by my ear. “Can we try not to destroy his image of Americans? I’d hate for him to get home and tell all his cute friends that American girls are wacko.”
The girls nod solemnly. I turn to Jack. “It’s okay, Helmut,” I shout. “They know you’re my cousin from Germany and not the movie star guy. You can say hello.”
Jack holds up a hand and waves. “Hallo. Guten tag.” Wow. He does a great German accent.
I raise my brows at the girls, giving them a look that says, “See?” and leave them teetering and giggling as I walk back to Jack.
“Helmut?” he asks, trying to sound offended. “That’s the only German name you could come up with?”
“Helmut is a great German name. What do you expect, anyway? I was working off the cuff.” And with a slightly inebriated brain.
“What about Wolfgang or Hans? Something masculine.”
“Oh, please. Don’t let your male ego get in the way. I made the gaggle of girls disappear. You should be thanking me.”
“Thank you.” He shakes his head and laughs. “You can handle yourself, can’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“With people. You’re good off the cuff, as you call it. Like when you scared away the photographer.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess I’m good at sending people running.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s a good quality you have, that you can handle yourself.”
“Thanks.” In my head I’m dancing. It’s a good quality you have. How sweet is that? But I can’t make a bigger deal out of it than it is. Acquaintances compliment each other. Friends do, too. I can call us friendly now. So I really can’t make this a big deal. I want to hang onto this feeling with both hands. Does he know what he does to me? I sometimes think he might. But my poker face is good. I can handle myself.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a little buzzed. Driving right now sounds like a bad idea.”
“Yeah, I might be feeling a little buzzed, too.” Ha. Or a lot buzzed.
He laughs. “Come on, let’s find some more substantial food.”
“Good idea, Wolfgang. Let’s go.”
He playfully punches my arm. “I see you noticed the error of your ways. Good call, Jess.”
The way he says Jess makes me melt a little. “Be careful, or it’s back to Helmut.”
He shakes his head, and we turn toward the tasting room. It must be closing for the evening. Groups of people are trickling out to the parking lot. “Do you think that’s a restaurant over that way?” I ask, pointing to a pretty Victorian building that sits adjacent to the tasting room.
“Maybe. Let’s check it out.”
We reach the building, and it isn’t a restaurant after all; it’s an inn. He pushes open the door and peeks in. Once again, he acts like a secret agent the way he takes in the room. “It’s a lobby. It looks okay. Come on.” He pulls his hat a little lower to cover his face.
I follow him to a quaint café, but sneak ahead to check the place out. People fill every blue-checked-covered table in the room. There’s no way we can go in there. “No deal,” I say.
“Shit.” He looks back to the hotel side of the room. “I shouldn’t drive, and I can’t go in there,” he whispers, gesturing to the restaurant. “There’s nothing within a few miles of here. Are you okay if we stay here tonight, get some food, and leave early tomorrow?”
Stay the night with Jack? While nearly drunk? Hell yes. Or no. Shit. I try to force my mouth to say something, but I can’t do it.
“Look, I’m really sorry about this. I didn’t think this through very well. I can hire you a car if you need to get back home tonight.”
“No! I mean, yes, it’s fine. I’m fine staying here. I didn’t know what time we’d be getting back, so I didn’t make plans for tonight. It’s fine.”
“Okay. I think it’s for the best.”
I follow him to the opposite side of the lobby where the hotel check-in desk sits. There’s an older gentleman behind it. He looks up when we approach. “Hello. How can I help you?”
“Two questions for you,” Jack says. “Do you have a couple of rooms available for the night? And can we order room service?”
The man pulls down his wire-rimmed glasses and glances at me before popping them back into place. He then busies himself looking through a plastic box of index cards. “Uh huh. Yep. Okay,” he says to himself. He peers at Jack. “You’re in luck. I have the Fire Room on the ground floor, to answer your first question. And to answer the second question, yes, I can call the restaurant for you.”
“Do you have two rooms? We need two.”
“Sorry, son. Busy weekend. The Fire Room is all I have left. I’m surprised it’s still available.” He looks at Jack over his glasses. “Gets requested a lot.”
Jack turns to me. “Are you okay with one room?” he asks quietly.
“It’ll be fine.” I say it calmly, which is shocking. Because there is currently a hurricane raging through my body. The Fire Room sounds dangerously cozy and sexy.
We look over the menu and decide on pasta and a salad. Jack takes the room key from the clerk and slaps it in my hand. “Here you go.” It’s an oversize gold key, not the usual card key that big hotels use. “The room should be right down this hallway.”
I try to tell myself this is no different than being with Jack in his kitchen. I can do this. We reach the room, and I turn the key in the lock. He pushes open the door, and I gasp. The room looks like a freaking fire station. The bedframe is painted like a fire truck, and it’s topped with a bright red comforter. A stuffed dalmatian sits proudly in the center of it. I double over with laughter.
Jack puts his hand on my shoulder to hold himself up, as he practically falls over laughing, too. “What the fire truck?”
It’s all I need. I’m now laughing so hard, I’m going to pee my pants. I dash past him to the bathroom.
“Where’s the fire?” he yells. His laughter rings behind me as I scramble through the bathroom door.
After washing my hands with soap from the ceramic fire extinguisher dispenser, I assess my face in the fire truck–shaped mirror. Who knew so much fire-themed crap existed? I swipe the slightly smeared mascara from beneath my eyes, and it gives them a smoky look, like when Leah did my makeup. I’ll have to remember to try this with some shadow inste
ad of smeary mascara. I comb my hands through my hair, fluffing it. I don’t look half bad. My eyes look sexy, and I have a rosy glow in my cheeks.
When I step out, I find Jack sitting in a red plaid chair holding the stuffed dalmatian. “Cute dog.”
He glances at it and tucks it next to him. “So this is the last available room. Hard to imagine it wasn’t snatched up already.”
“I know, right? I’ve always wanted to sleep in a firehouse.” I sound so relaxed and carefree. In my head, a battle rages between the radiant girl in organza and the girl slumped in the corner, who wears a sash that reads, lowly assistant.
“This is as close as you’re getting to a firefighter in here,” he says, tossing the dalmatian my way.
I catch the stuffed dog and hug it.
“Thank God we have wine left,” he says. “I’m going to need to drown myself in it to sleep here.”
“Oh, come on. Just pretend you’re on set.” I look around the room. “They really committed to the theme. The only thing that’s missing is a real live fireman.”
Jack smirks. “You have a thing for heroes?”
I ignore him and flop onto the bed, still holding the dog. “I’ve always wanted a pet dog.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We never got one. One day, though.”
“There’s a dog in the movie I’m shooting. We got to meet him the other day. Rex. He’s this huge mastiff.”
“How sweet! How’s everything going with your movie?” I’m surprised I asked. I have purposefully avoided the topic because I don’t want to see that awful image I’ve sadistically stored in my head of Jack pressed into Nichole Antocci, kissing her the way I want him to kiss me. Stupid Nichole Antocci. I hate her, and I don’t even know her. Okay. I don’t hate her. I hate that she gets to kiss Jack over and over. She probably purposefully messes up her lines so she can kiss him again. Or worse, maybe he’s the one screwing up his lines. Maybe he loves kissing her. He’s the one who hand-picked her, after all. It makes me want to vomit. But apparently drunken brain wants to hear all about Nichole and Jack.
