by Mae Wood
That’s what I liked about morning swim practices. No chatting. Just swimming before caffeine. Now my reluctance to make friends was biting me in the ass. Who was she and why couldn’t I get her out of my head?
Chapter Eight
Drennan
“Y’all. Don’t look now,” said Jill, as we stood behind the blocks, “but you know who is here and looking at us.”
I shifted my weight between my bare feet and tried to subtly look around the natatorium. The worry about the swimming was wiped away in favor of my curiosity about Morning Man.
“Where?” cried Greta, excitedly. Her purple-capped head began to furiously bob around in search of the mythical creature.
“Stands. Third row up. Look toward the three meter board.”
All three of our heads swiveled in unison.
“Way to be cool, y’all,” said Jill, busily adjusting her goggles and shaking out her arms and legs.
“No shame in my game,” said Greta. “I told you this happily married momma has the hots for him.”
“Speaking of happily married, I’m guessing that’s him waving like a loon and trying to get the toddler to look at you?”
“Ah, my sweet, sweet loves. Some unsolicited advice, girls: Date the bad boys. Marry a nerd.”
Without the advantage of knowing who to look for, I scanned the stands. Then my eyes landed on Bert and he was looking directly at me.
A full flush colored my body.
“He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“Umm, yeah, he is.” Bert was Morning Man. How best to break it to them? Squealing like pre-teens at a Zac Efron movie was one option, but definitely not a cool one. “And I know him.”
“You know him?”
“I don’t know him as the morning swim hottie. I think of him more as Lickable Man. Well, mainly in my head up to this point.” I needed to shut up. Despite the camaraderie of the dinner we’d shared and the adrenaline of competition, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. While I had been having fun seeing exactly how far I could push flirting without him flirting back, I was a little uncomfortable about it outside of the restaurant.
“Tell you what, we don’t come in dead last and I’ll give you a treat. Dinner, wine, and Morning Man.”
“You know him, know him?”
“Oh my God! Is he your boyfriend? Holy hell, this is embarrassing,” said Greta.
“No. Definitely not my boyfriend. I’m not even sure he really knows I exist, but I do know where we can fully objectify him while consuming alcohol and not having to wake up at 5 a.m.”
“Sold,” said Carly without hesitation.
“Yeah, I’m in. Ogling without goggles creating blind spots? I don’t care if Steve is on call that night. I’ll get a sitter. Let’s win. Well, let’s not necessarily win,” Greta said, eyeing the team from the Little Rock Jewish Community Center, “but let’s at least not come in last,” she said with a gentle low wave toward the team that looked like they were gathering for synchronized swimming with their full-face makeup.
“I checked them out in warm-ups. Let’s not be cocky, but we’ve got this in the bag,” said Jill. “Not last it is!”
Our event was called and we stepped up to the blocks. I glanced up toward Bert. I couldn’t help it. And he was still looking at our team. I pulled my goggles down off my cap, licked the lenses, and smashed them onto my face with the heels of my hands.
***
Tuesday night found us around a table in a busy Pig and Barley. I’d taken the liberty of ordering four flights of wine and one of every appetizer on the menu. I hardly ever went this big on my expense account, but that’s what it was there for—for showing my face and having a good time in my customers’ restaurants.
Greta was the first to arrive as I slid a fresh Apalachicola oyster down my throat.
“Okay, so show me,” she said with a grin. “I’ve got two hours because apparently Tuesday is the new Friday for nursing students, so my sitter won’t stay past nine.”
“Not yet.”
She plunked down in her seat, a patterned tunic and cigarette jeans. “Not yet as in he’s going to jump out of a cake?”
I laughed. Surely she was being silly, but the idea of a shirtless Lickable Man spattered with vanilla butter cream was anything but a turn off.
“Not yet as in I haven’t see him yet,” I replied
“Oh, well, what do you have going on here?” a comically exaggerated pout on her lips.
I gave her a quick tour of the wines and snacks, encouraging her to dig in. I’d never been shy around food, and as the other girls arrived, I tucked into my third tasting pour and ate more than my fair share of bacon wrapped scallops.
“So, was this an elaborate plan to get us out?” asked Jill.
“You know, you could have just said let’s hang out, right? Salsa was fun. Glad we’re doing this again,” said Carly.
“Is he not coming? Oh, that sounds terrible. And by terrible, I mean absolutely deliciously wrong. He should totally be coming. In a totally excellent way,” offered Greta, a flush from the wine bringing out the pink in her coffee complexion.
I held both my hands up in surrender. “I’ll find out.” I made my way up to the bar and signaled for the bartender on duty. The woman wore gentle cat eyeliner and her raven hair in a messy bun. A CBGB’s shirt complemented her punk attitude. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. We’re fine,” I said, gesturing toward my table. “Is Bert working tonight?”
“No. He’s usually not in on Tuesdays. Anything I can do for you?”
“Oh, no,” I said, scrambling for an excuse. “He’d had a Negroni on the menu a few months ago and I was talking about it with my friends and they’d never had one, and Jill swears she can’t stand gin—”
“With the clementine instead of the orange peel?”
I nodded, glad to have my stupid lie apparently accepted so readily. “That’s the one.”
“Coming up, then,” she said with a knock on the bar’s lacquered top. “There’re four of you? How about I make two and do little minis in four glasses?”
“You are awesome.”
“Want me to let Bert know you were looking for him?”
“Nah, it’s nothing important. I’ll talk with him when I see him next.”
A knowing and slightly sour smile appeared on her lips. “Cool. I’ll bring them around.”
Returning to my table, I confessed that I’d blown it. Bert was not making an appearance and we’d have to reconvene another night. Everyone feigned disappointment at the entire evening being blown, with Greta being overly dramatic about the waste of forty bucks on a sitter, but we all whipped out our phones to calendar a make-up and I swore I’d call ahead to find out when he was going to be able to grace us with an opportunity to engage in a little Grade A objectification.
***
After nearly a year in Memphis, I still was on my own a lot. I’d planned to go to Mississippi for the Southern Foodways Alliance Symposium, but couldn’t get up the energy after a long week that was topped off with a Wednesday dinner that I thought was business, but the general manager for Flight clearly thought was anything but. This I learned at the bar of Brooklyn Bridge where I found his paw well above my knee. Dude, if you’re going to ask me out, ask me out. Don’t use talk about going exclusive with my distributor as a reason.
So, Friday night found me with my nose in wine industry blogs and trade publications. While Wines and Vines sounds like fun, it is far from it—industry trends, financing, harvest schedules, and water and land management. Maybe I should have gotten my MBA, but owning the winery with Kenzie wasn’t something either of us had expected would happen, at least not for many, many years, and my mom had encouraged me to follow my passion about food writing.
Nursing my second glass of a fruity and juicy red Languedoc, I Googled myself—literally, not figuratively. Well, not myself, but our winery—von Eck Estate—for reviews, mentions and any news of counterfeits. Th
e fact that someone was selling a fake version of the highly collectable Gemini blend that my grandpa put out in honor of my mom and aunt’s birth pissed me off.
I knew this was just part of business and fraudulent wines were a worldwide problem. I hadn’t been upset when a lot of counterfeit first was discovered at auction in Japan, but when it happened again in New York this spring, it felt personal. No news was good news, so I paged through Netflix until I found a mindless movie to drift off to.
The hour-long drive to Oxford, Mississippi was easy the next morning, shooting down the interstate in the used SUV I’d bought when I arrived in Memphis. I had a company Prius for sales calls, but since I wasn’t a big driver in Davis or New York, I felt safer in the old tank.
As I hummed along to Bob Marley singing about three little birds, I found myself happy. I was looking forward to learning more about Southern cuisine, up-and-comers in the regional food scene, and eating farm-to-table goodness.
You can take the girl out of Napa, but growing up within spitting distance of French Laundry and with a mom who was an ardent Alice Waters devotee shapes your life. I didn’t truly understand food could be anything other than slow until I went to college and had my first go at trying to use a microwave. One electrical fire and dorm evacuation later, I learned that a microwave was not simply a really fast conventional oven.
Once at the conference, I browsed the booths, chatted with vendors, caught up with some of my own customers, sat in on a few lectures and generally enjoyed being around other foodies. The best thing about the event was the lack of a wine focus. Not a large quantity of high quality wines grown in the South outside of Virginia, and even then, none with the gravitas of von Eck, but still the attendees, sommeliers, and restauranteurs were our target audience.
This is a totally legitimate business expense, I rationalized, as I sat down to a heaping plate of fried catfish and hushpuppies with some newly made friends and a craft IPA out of South Carolina while watching a documentary about the history of okra.
The film was really well done, for a movie about seed pods, but I’d need a little buzz to continue to fake interest in it for the remaining, I looked at my watch, oh, dear God, remaining hour.
I pushed away from the communal table to get some booze. Any booze. And that’s when I saw him. Lickable Man. He was standing in the beer line and chatting with a pair who were obviously a couple. My step faltered slightly. Sure, his restaurant was farm-to-table and focused on low country cuisine and lots of my other customers were there, but I just hadn’t expected to see him. I looked down at my outfit and wondered if he’d even recognize me in my ripped jeans and a striped T-shirt. I wasn’t dressed to kill as part of my seduction game this evening. I was dressed like Drennan.
Before I drew attention by standing still in the middle of the bustling room, I jumped in the beer line and patiently waited for my beer, wishing I had a friend or at least something to do other than focus on not ogling him.
He had on a blue and white checked button down with the sleeves rolled up. Damn his muscular tattooed forearm. The left one a blank canvas, contrasted with the sleeve that filled the right. At the swim meet I’d gotten a much more detailed view of his decorated body and couldn’t stop from mentally peeling away his layers of clothing right then to do the same. A big Ganesh on his torso and other tats scattered on his body, including a chain that wrapped around his calf, I recalled. But before I began drooling, I shifted my attention.
I thanked God that I’d passed up the artisanal cocktail demonstration session for a chat with a couple of sommeliers out of Atlanta who I knew, otherwise I wasn’t sure I would have had the self-control to not walk up and skim my fingertips along his firm forearms. As the line inched forward, I tried to act casual, checking my phone and making small talk with the other people waiting for fresh beers.
As he and his friends walked by with beers in hand, our eyes met and I melted into the soft chocolate of his. “Drennan, hey,” he said, sticking out his hand as his face lit up with a smile.
I returned his open smile, suddenly sheepish about my objectification of a person who’d always been kind to me. “Bert. Good to see you.” I steeled myself with a deep breath before shaking his hand. Soft and warm, as our palms met I wished he would wrap me up in his arms.
“You enjoying the symposium?”
Lost in the nearness of him, I was quiet for a beat as my brain caught up with reality and I let go of his hand. “It’s great. Looking for a refill,” I said, wiggling my empty beer cup.
“I can take care of that,” said the clean-cut blond man next to Bert. The guy was classically hot, but no one got my motor running like Lickable Man with his tats, occasional scruff, and mellow attitude. That’s what moved Bert to the top of my fantasy list—wondering if the laid back attitude ever broke and if I could break it.
The friend took a beer from the pretty brunette at his side and offered it to me. “I’m Trip and this is my wife Marisa.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I replied, waving off the beer. “The line isn’t that long. I’m Drennan, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. And sure you can take the beer. It’s okay. The two were for me. She can’t have more than a taste anyway.”
Marisa slapped Trip in the bicep. “Hey, not broadcasting yet.”
“Sorry,” he muttered and turned to Bert expectantly.
“Oh, yeah, so Drennan’s a wine rep that calls on Pig and Barley,” said Bert, who was trying not to be obvious about checking out the lack of cleavage on display in my casual outfit. I guess he was wondering where the goodies were hiding. Maybe my seduction game had been more successful than I’d realized. His continued sly appreciation of my body made the bustling event space seem stifling.
“So you’re the one who leaves us presents,” said Trip, continuing to carry the conversation when neither Bert nor I made any effort do to more than look at each other. This was uncharted territory—us interacting socially—but the Big Bad Wolf grin gave away the game. His nonchalance was beginning to slip.
Leaves us presents? My brain tried to process the question. “Sometimes I leave Bert bottles of wine that I think he’ll like.”
Trip nodded at me with a kind smile and pulled his wife into his side, running his hand to her waist and slipping fingers under her shirt to touch her skin. No doubt what they would be up to later.
“Trip is the co-owner of Pig and Barley. Supposedly a silent partner, but not so much tonight,” Bert offered with a bemused shake of his head.
“Oh, that’s cool. Glad you enjoy the wine. Are you a big wine person?” I asked, wanting to keep Trip happy. Silent partner or not, he would have some say in sales.
“No,” Trip shrugged. “Not really. Marisa and I are more into craft beers.”
“Yeah, I noticed you guys have a nice selection on tap at Pig and Barley.”
Bert didn’t pick up the conversation, and a beat of silence later, I worried that maybe I’d read him wrong and it was time to leave. “Okay, well, thanks for the beer. It was nice to meet you two, and congratulations on the secret thingy that you definitely didn’t share with me. Bert, good to see you as always. And congrats on the great swims last weekend.”
I needed away. I needed fresh air. Too small, too close, too tempting. He wasn’t reciprocating. He’d had tons of opportunities to give me an opening, to react to my flirtation, to suggest drinks or dinner—I needed to let this crush go.
Those games that I’d been playing with Kenzie, my attempts to capture his attention, had stopped being games a while ago. My crush had reached the stage that if I were still in junior high, I would have been practicing my signature as Mrs. Drennan Forsythe. And, had I been in my sorority house, I would have unabashedly written his name on a paper cutout of cowboy boots and pinned it to the corkboard in the upstairs TV lounge, signaling to my sisters that it was his boots I wanted to be knocking.
I walked back to my table, finishing half my fresh beer by the time I reached my seat,
and tried to focus on the remainder of the film, but I couldn’t keep my thoughts and my eyes from straying to Bert who sat a few tables over.
Lickable Man, indeed. But what part would I want to lick first? The line of his neck to his clean-shaven jaw to enjoy the sandpaper scratch of a five o’clock shadow? The lines of the bird tattoo that snaked down his muscular right forearm?
Regardless of where I envisioned my tongue meeting his skin, conjuring the heat and pulse of him beneath my touch brought a flush to my cheeks that no amount of booze could match.
Chapter Nine
Bert
“So, who’s Sweet Valley High?”
“Huh?” I asked Marisa, as we strolled around in search of dessert. “Sweet Valley High?” I didn’t understand and my mind was not on Marisa’s comment anyway. It was on Drennan.
She saw me at the swim meet? Maybe she was just watching a friend swim and I hadn’t felt her up. But once the pieces snapped together, I knew it was her I’d groped in the pool. I’d thought about her body enough to have a good idea what she’d feel like in real life, but damn. She was way more succulent than I’d imagined.
“Yeah, the Sweet Valley High twin who took my beer.”
“Drennan . . . I can’t remember her last name.” Do I even know her last name? “She’s our main wine vendor’s rep.” I shrugged and pointed out some craft ice cream display, trying to keep my composure cool before Marisa teased me more. I liked Marisa and she made Trip happy, but sometimes her teasing wore thin—I had three sisters who gave me plenty of shit already.
“Really? I think she’s going to be the new Snatch.”
I took a big gulp of the aggressively hopped IPA and shook my head. “Please stop calling her that, Runner Girl.”
“Are we going to watch the rest of the film?” asked Trip, gesturing to the doors to the ballroom where most other attendees were learning about how okra seeds had been brought over from Africa during the slave trade.
