by Jo Leigh
Molly couldn’t have been happier that Roxanne had joined their team as a producer. Molly had originally worked with a guy named Wesley, who not only didn’t understand wine, but hadn’t understood the basics of personal hygiene. University radio stations were great, but the constant revolving door of personnel was a crapshoot.
“In three...two...” Roxanne gave Molly the signal. Her next caller had obviously taken a cue from the caller before the break and wanted to know what wine to pair with popcorn.
“Buttered?”
“Why not?” the caller asked.
Again, Molly went to the base ingredients, the underlying flavors and texture of the food. Popcorn was, after all, corn. And the butter meant she needed something sharp enough to cut the coating sensation on the tongue. “There’s a nice aromatic wine called Viognier that would fit the bill.” She spelled the word, which she had to do with a number of wines. “It’s a reasonably priced white—at least, the California varieties are. Look for Cold Heaven, and make sure the bottle’s well chilled. Then enjoy the movie.”
The requests continued in that vein for the next fifteen minutes. One ridiculous pairing after another. Molly ended up pleased with the hour. They’d had a lot of calls. She was so happy that she did some extra commercial recordings before she gathered her briefcase, her phone and her notes for the following week’s show and headed out to make the all-important phone call to Mr. Crawford.
But first she borrowed Roxanne’s empty office to steal a few minutes alone with her tablet. Molly checked her messages, texted a few replies and then went to her calendar. It was a masterpiece of organization born of necessity. Every day of the month was broken down into half-hour segments, and each segment was tied to her agenda, including breaks for meals, phone conversations that might take longer than five minutes, blogging, teaching, wine tasting, writing, editing... The list went on. What she was looking for now was evenings when she was free. She usually ended up sleeping or working on her evenings off. Occasionally she’d read, but mostly for research. In the past six months, she’d met Donna for drinks three times.
Ever since she’d gone to her first trading-cards meeting—ironically in the basement at St. Marks Church—she’d been shifting her schedule just enough to clear two possible nights next week when she could meet her date, have a meal or a drink, have sex and make it back to her apartment before one the next morning.
She found them on the following Thursday and Sunday. Granted, it would have been better if she’d blocked out a Friday or Saturday night, but those tended to get booked up months in advance with wine tastings, lectures, classes. She had an all-expenses-paid four-day event coming up in the Hamptons, and she’d had to do some serious reshuffling to attend that.
She dialed the number on the card, her heart beating rapidly, her mouth dry as a desert until her call went directly to voice mail.
Cameron sounded nice. And sexy. And polite when he asked her to leave a message.
“Hi, this is Molly Grainger. I’m calling about your trading card. I’d like to talk to you about meeting for a drink next week. I’m into wine as a career, and you’re into beer, so...give me a call.” She left her phone number and cut the connection, hoping she hadn’t sounded too much as though she wanted to sell him life insurance. But at least it was done. He’d probably call. Just hopefully not while she was stuck in a sardine sandwich on the subway going home.
She’d just made it out of the building when Bobby came jogging up to her. He was dressed in his regular uniform of raggedy jeans and a loud T-shirt, this one declaring his passion for zombies. To be fair, her tailored slacks and starched white blouse were her own version of a uniform. Ever since she’d set her sights on becoming a world-class wine expert, she’d dressed for the part, even back when she hadn’t had ten cents to rub together. God bless the Goodwill and consignment stores.
“Hey, Mol, this whole trading-cards thing. Can I get in on that action?”
She didn’t even hesitate. She wouldn’t wish that upon any poor woman. “Sorry, but no.”
“Seriously?” Bobby’s breath still carried the distinctive smoky notes of Cannabis sativa.
She took a step back. “Seriously.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “See you next week.”
She stopped for a moment to watch him flirt with a young woman standing outside their building holding an armful of books before he went back inside. Had Molly ever been that relaxed, that young? Sometimes it felt as if she’d spent most of her life on a treadmill, running as fast as possible and gaining little ground. But that wasn’t completely true. At twenty-seven she’d already accomplished so much. As long as she stayed on track, there was nothing but success ahead of her.
Which reminded her...it was four-fifteen already, and she had a wine-tasting class at six, which meant she just had time to make it home for a quick shower and change before she had to be at Winesby to do her setup. She’d given the kitchen at the restaurant and wine shop the menu before the classes had begun. Tonight’s tasting was Focus on Red, which she particularly loved.
She made it onto the D train in the nick of time. Not surprisingly, she didn’t score a seat, but she wasn’t so squished that she couldn’t steal another glance at Cameron’s trading card. A brewmaster. A great-looking brewmaster with wavy dark hair, sinfully dark eyes and a mischievous smile. Okay, if he called while she was on the train, she wouldn’t answer. She’d wait. Call him back on her own time. The idea of finding someone she could actually talk to while they were in bed was proving to be very enticing. She just hoped he would be free on Sunday or Thursday, because she honestly didn’t think she could make it much longer with just her vibrator and fantasies of Benedict Cumberbatch to get her through.
2
AS HARD AS the air conditioner at Bistango’s tried, it couldn’t keep up with the entry area. The summer sun was still out at seven, and the heat followed everyone who walked in.
Cameron hadn’t been to the restaurant in years, but he was happy to be back. Especially when it meant meeting someone who sounded so interesting. Ever since Molly had called to set up the date, he’d become a little too invested in the outcome. Although he knew he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. One-night stand didn’t necessarily mean same-night stand.
But he hoped it would.
One more glance at the door, and there she was. She was prettier than the pictures on her website, and those had been damn good. He hadn’t realized she’d be so slim. That wasn’t even the right word. Delicate was more accurate. Five-seven or so, auburn hair that curved and swirled across her shoulders, and big dark eyes that might have captured every bit of his attention if it hadn’t been for her figure.
Online, she’d appeared trim and sophisticated. What the photographs had failed to show were her curves.
“Cameron,” she said, holding out her hand. Her handshake was firm, and her gaze roamed down to his chest before it came back up to meet his eyes. “Molly Grainger,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Nope. Just got here myself.” Neither of them had let go yet. “Nice to meet you, Molly. You can call me Cam.” She had one of those smiles that made him automatically grin in return. “Well, I guess I’ll go check on our reservation.”
He nodded toward a brunette holding menus. “The hostess is waiting for us.”
“Oh, good.”
Walking slightly behind her, he stole a glance at her round, pert bottom and slender legs. Things had gone from good to great, and they hadn’t even talked yet. After weaving their way through the dinner crowd, they were seated in a relatively private booth.
Molly stared at him for longer than he was expecting, but it wasn’t the eyes-meet-and-linger of a sexual connection. More of an oh, God, what have I done? look.
“I was impressed with your website,” Cam said, hoping to ease her
discomfort. “I read some of your articles. Very interesting. Our professions dovetail in so many areas.”
“My website?” Her shoulders sagged on a sigh. “Oh.”
Cam’s grin faded. “Is that against the rules or something?”
“What? No, of course not. It’s just—” She straightened. Her shoulders were neatly squared by a white blouse that looked old-fashioned to him, but then again, he knew nothing about trends. Besides, who cared when she was so pretty. “So much for making small talk. You already know everything about me.”
“Somehow I doubt that. Unless all you do is work.”
“Basically, that is all I do, yes.”
“So that explains why someone so attractive is doing the trading-card thing.”
Her cheeks turned a little pinker. “And what’s your excuse?”
“A meddling sister.”
Molly raised her eyebrows. “So you don’t actually want to be here.”
“No, no, no. I didn’t say that. In fact, I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.” He meant it. Whether it was just nerves or something else, he could tell she was struggling to hold her reactions in check, but, in fact, she was very expressive. Fascinatingly so. Even now, the blush that had been on the apples of her cheeks was spreading to her temples. “Which doesn’t mean my sister didn’t meddle. She’s a first-class buttinsky. Her and the rest of my sisters...and, damn, I just remembered that you know her.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve met, but I wouldn’t say I know her.”
“Thank God. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.”
They exchanged smiles, and just before he was going to ask her if she’d gone on these kinds of dates before, he was interrupted by the waitress requesting their drink orders. Molly asked for a few more minutes so she could decide on her meal first, and Cam got a little excited. If she didn’t want to linger over cocktails, maybe that meant they were headed on the fast track to the bedroom. The menu suddenly seemed more interesting. Couldn’t go wrong with a steak. Good source of protein. If he was lucky, he’d need the stamina later. “Any idea what you’re going to get?”
She looked up as he set his menu aside. “I was thinking of ordering the baby-artichoke antipasti with a house salad. What would you recommend pairing with it?”
“Isn’t that your specialty?” he asked, surprised, hoping it wasn’t a test. He knew what he liked, but he was a novice when it came to wine.
“It is, yes, but I’ll be having beer tonight. I’m off the clock.”
He liked the way she’d leaned in to tell him that bit. As if being off the clock was a special treat. After seeing her work calendar on her website, he could understand why.
“Let me take a look.” He grabbed his menu again. “I haven’t been here in a while and I don’t know what they’re serving anymore.” It took him a minute to focus on the liquor selections instead of Molly. The beer list wasn’t extensive, but the offerings were excellent. “If you’re game, I’d go with the Green Flash. It’s a great India pale ale, really complex flavors and strong hops.”
The smile he got in response was a knockout. “I’m game. That’s one I’ve never tried, and it sounds excellent.”
After the waitress had taken their orders, Molly turned to him again, crossing her arms on the wooden table as she leaned in. “Now that we have that settled, I’m anxious to hear about you. You’re my first hot guy.”
Glad he hadn’t been drinking, he stifled a cough. “Uh...”
“I mean, first trading-card guy. I’ve met hot men before.”
“Well, you’re my first trading-card woman, so we’re even.”
“Fair enough,” she said, “but none of that gets you out of telling me about your life. I know you make craft beers and that you come from a tall family. Your turn.”
“You didn’t look me up?”
“I can now see my error in judgment regarding that, but no. I didn’t. I spoke briefly to Emerald and took a chance on your card.”
“All right. I have four sisters, all of them tall and athletic. My family owns a bar in Queens called, strangely enough, The Four Sisters, and you’re right. I’m into craft beers.”
He could have mentioned the job in Syracuse, but he didn’t bother. Besides, he wanted the spotlight back on her.
“Why’s it called The Four Sisters? What are you, chopped liver?”
“Ha. I’ll have to remember to mention that to Emmy. It got its name before any of my sisters were born. My dad had four sisters. So I guess he’s chopped liver, not me.”
She grew flushed again. “I just meant—”
“I know,” he said, grinning. “Personally, I think it should be changed to One Brother and Four Pains in His Butt, but that might be hard to put on the label.”
Giggles like champagne bubbles were made even better by Molly’s efforts to stem them. Man, giggles could go bad in so many ways, but hers made him want to be funny for a living.
“For what it’s worth, I’d think twice before picking up any beverage that had butts on the label. No matter what the context.”
“And that’s why I stick to creating the beers, not naming them.”
The waitress came by with the drinks, and Molly visibly relaxed as she closed her eyes and brought the mug up close.
He found himself sniffing when she did, even though his beer was still on the table. And when she parted her lips to take her first sip, he mimicked the move, hoping like hell she would use that much intensity when they were kissing.
“Oh, yes,” she said, except it sounded way too much like something he’d hear in bed.
God, he was in trouble.
“You and I are going to get along well.” Molly looked into his eyes, her gaze rapt, a whole new kind of brightness lighting her face. “This is exactly what you promised. A big, juicy hop-forward aroma with citrus and piney hops.” Another sip, this one rolled around on her tongue before she swallowed. “Ah. Grapefruit, mango, pineapple. It’s difficult to get too much nuance with all the competing smells in the room, but the strength of the hops and pine resin really come through. Delicious.”
He wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until morning. Instead, he picked up his lager. “To hops and grapes,” he said.
They clinked.
* * *
HALFWAY THROUGH HER SALAD, Molly put her fork down. There hadn’t been a word spoken between her and Cameron for what had to be two minutes. A completely comfortable two minutes.
On a first date.
With the best-looking man in the restaurant.
He’d worn a short-sleeved shirt, silky gray, that begged to be touched and jeans. Worn jeans. And he’d tucked that silky gray shirt into the worn jeans so that every time she thought of him in a whole-picture sense, it was all about broad shoulders tapering to tight hips and long legs.
She sighed as she took another bite of lettuce. Here was a man who not only understood winespeak, but who made her laugh, whose smile did something wicked to her insides and who’d spent a considerable amount of time asking her questions instead of talking about himself.
Huh.
“What?” Cameron’s steak-filled fork hung suspended between his plate and mouth. “Is everything okay?”
She nodded. “Everything’s fine. Surprisingly so.”
“What do you mean?”
She wondered how much to tell him. This was a very temporary situation, after all. One of the great things about the one-night-stand concept was that she didn’t have to go into detail. To think that the easiest thing in her life right now was having sex with a man whose eyes were the color of crème de cacao made her feel almost giddy. “I’m usually not so relaxed on a first date.”
He shrugged. “You’re easy to talk to.”
“You’d be surp
rised. It’s better with you because of what we have in common, I think.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But after seeing the kind of schedule you keep, I have a feeling you’re just grateful there won’t be a test. Is that page on your website real? I mean, how do you even have time to date? I’m busy, but your life’s insane.”
“It’s real. Well, it’s just a sample, but it’s a great visual aid when I have to turn down social engagements. On the other hand, most people I know are in the same boat. Everyone’s working ridiculous hours, handling more of the load than is feasible, and so scared to lose their jobs that they never even think of taking time off. That is, if they’re not spending all day hunting for work.”
“I know. Especially in New York. I see that every night at the bar. We have to be careful about how much we serve to people, make sure they’re not driving home. It used to be that folks came by to relax, play some pool, taste some brews. Now a lot of customers come in to get hammered. It’s a problem.”
She’d been about to ask for a second beer, but maybe water was a better option. “At least I’m in charge of my time. No one else to blame. Besides, it’ll all pay off in the end.”
“Which will be...?”
“Becoming a major player in the world of fine wines. I want to be at the top. I think I can do it, too, if I keep my priorities straight.”
“Impressive,” he said. “With your drive and ambition, I can see it happening.”
“If I don’t weaken,” she said, hearing the fierceness in her own voice.
He jerked his head back a bit, as if she’d startled him. “There’s always something tempting on the horizon. But you clearly love what you do. That’s the key. We’re lucky. We’re both working in fields we’re passionate about.”
Although he was being really nice about it, she knew she’d gone too far. Sometimes she became too strident, didn’t explain herself well. It wasn’t always easy for people to understand that she had only herself to rely upon. No sisters to bug her, no thicker-than-water blood ties. So she smiled, relaxed her shoulders. “So, tell me about your brewery.”
