Chapter Ten Don’t Be Afraid to Take a Detour
Chapter Ten
Don’t Be Afraid to Take a Detour
Napa Valley, California
The guest cottage is an absolutely charming two-bedroom, two-bathroom house with shake siding, big picture windows, a large porch, and its own kitchen and living spaces.
“This is your room,” Hart says, depositing my leather duffel bag on the bench at the end of a king-size bed in a room that I’ll now forever think of as the blue room .
It contains a blue rug, blue wallpaper, a blue dresser, a blue quilt, a blue chair in the corner, and a large canvas with geometric circles painted on it in—you guessed it—blue hanging above the bed.
The monochromatic effect is actually very soothing.
And it’s not an aggressive blue; it’s more of a robin’s-egg blue.
His room is across the hall from mine, and there’s a suitcase on the floor with clothes spilling out of it.
I wander through the rest of the house, stopping in the dining nook. “What’s this?” I ask, gesturing to his laptop that’s sitting open on the table. There are lines and lines of code against a black screen.
He pushes it closed. “Nothing. It’s more of a hobby than anything.”
“Coding?” I ask, surprised.
His smile is lopsided, uncertain. “I picked it up in a summer camp years ago, and I don’t know, there’s something I enjoy about it—the absolutes. The certainty.”
“You just ... code for fun?”
He nods, running one hand over the back of his neck. “It’s weird, right?”
“It’s not weird,” I say.
“What would you like to do first?”
“What are the options?” I ask.
“Let’s see, we could ... go biking around the vineyard, taste some wine, visit the farmers’ market—they have a great cheese shop”—he hesitates, then pretend coughs into his fist—“get naked.” His mouth twitches. “I had to throw it in there.”
“You did, huh?” I laugh, shaking my head. I seem to do that a lot around him. I forgot how nice that feels. “How about the biking, and maybe I can try some of your family’s wine?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We locate the bikes—which are beach cruiser–style in the garage—and set off.
I haven’t biked in forever, and it’s more fun than I remember.
The breeze in my hair. A cute guy beside me.
He pedals faster, and I race to keep up with him, laughing.
We cruise side by side down the dirt road that stretches through the center of the vineyard.
“Did you go to your friend’s baby shower yet?” he asks. “Scarlet, right?”
“I’m impressed you remembered. I did go to the baby shower. I visited with her family, and I had a watermelon mocktail—it was wonderful.” And I gossiped about you. I blush.
We reach a large barn, and he points up ahead. “Wine stop,” he announces.
I follow him, and we park the bikes and head inside. He pulls open the big sliding doors for me and flips on the overhead lights. The space is pretty barren, just dozens of large steel drums, and wine-processing equipment. The scent of oak barrels hangs in the air.
“Take a seat over there.” He points to a cozy set of club chairs by the windows that overlook the vineyard. “I’ll be your sommelier.”
He’s sexy like this—in charge and bossing me around. I have a lot on my shoulders at work, and I don’t often have the luxury of being able to turn off my brain and just relax. So of course I obey, heading over and sinking down into the plush forest green armchair.
After gathering some items—glasses, a spit bucket, and a few bottles of wine on a tray—he joins me.
He connects his phone to the sound system, and a sultry song comes drifting over the speakers. “Any particular requests?”
“This is good. What is it?”
“The 1975.”
It’s refreshing to hear something different, and I nod along to the rhythm while Hart pours me a taste of the first varietal he wants me to try—a crisp and refreshing sauvignon blanc.
His long fingers curl around his glass, and he slides it back and forth along the table, watching me while I bring the wine to my lips. Those gorgeous hazel eyes drift to the column of my throat as I swallow.
“You’ll find notes of pear and peach,” he says.
It’s full bodied and decadent. “This is amazing,” I say, taking another sip. “I could get used to this.”
“I’ll take you to my favorite winery tomorrow if you like.”
“This isn’t your favorite?” I ask.
He laughs.
“No. This is where I grew up being bossed around by my grandfather—pulling weeds and hammering down posts for the vines.”
I feel completely relaxed and happy sitting here while he pours me little tastes of all his favorites, tells me about the varietals and the history of the vineyard.
“What made you decide to come?”
“You,” I say without breaking eye contact. “You can be very ... persuasive .”
He leans back in his chair, still watching me. “When I want something, yes.”
My heart rate climbs. He’s like the sun: I almost can’t look directly at him because he overwhelms me.
“Try the cab,” he says, pouring a splash of red into a new glass and handing it to me.
I moan when the dark flavors hit my tongue. Blackberry with notes of spiced tobacco and a hint of vanilla.
“Do you like it?”
“It tastes like heaven,” I confirm. Which means this place is aptly named.
He’s still watching me, his expression intense, while the band serenades us with their haunting lyrics and provocative beat.
A lopsided smile pulls at the edge of his mouth. That mouth. It does things to me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re beautiful.”
Scarlet’s words ring in my head again. No feelings. Just fun. But when he says things like that, it’s hard to turn off my feelings.
“And you are very—” I can’t speak another word because there’s suddenly a mouth on mine—a warm, intoxicating mouth.
My skin tingles at the sensation of his thumb stroking my cheek. Just for the weekend, just once I want to let myself have fun. And if I get swept up in the perfection of this moment, in his raw attraction, in him, so be it.
A notification on Hart’s phone pulls us apart. He gets a text message that seems to annoy him, because he reads it quickly, then shoves the phone in his pocket with a clenched jaw.
We get back to the guest cottage as the sun is setting, painting the endless expanse of sky in shades of orange and red. It’s magical, very romantic.
We settle onto the wraparound porch with a glass of my favorite red from today.
I sink down into a lounge chair and release a happy sound.
“Smile,” he says, holding his phone as though he’s taking my picture.
I try to sit up, but Hart shakes his head. “Don’t move. You’re perfect like that.”
I relax back into the chair and tilt my chin toward the sky, smiling, not because he told me to but because I’m happy. I imagine how I must look—my hair is slightly wild from the bike ride, and I’m sure my cheeks are flushed. He takes the picture and then pockets his phone.
“I’m glad I came,” I say, swirling the wine in my glass.
“Me too. Obviously.” He smiles; his dimples make me tingle. Whatever the text message said seems to have been forgotten. “Come on. I’m going to make you dinner,” he announces, pulling me up from the chair.
“You’re going to make me dinner?” My eyebrows raise. “What about Hayes?” I figured we’d meet up with his cousin later at the main house for a gourmet meal prepared by their chef.
“Fuck Hayes.”
Okay then.
Inside, I take a seat in a stool at the counter while Hart peers into the refrigerator.
“Bagels with lox?” he suggests.
“For dinner?” My nose crinkles. He really is a New York boy. I’ve never had lox in my life.
He shrugs. “Why not?”
“No.”
Chuckling, he surveys the contents of the fridge. “Okay, what about ...” He comes up blank. It’s kind of adorable. For once he’s out of his element.
There is good olive oil and a head of garlic on the counter. “Spaghetti aglio e olio?” I suggest.
“Yeah, nice try. I’m not making Italian food for a real Italian.”
I laugh. “I’ll help you.”
Cooking with him is effortless, just like everything else.
We work well together in the small kitchen, our movements a coordinated dance, him stirring the boiling pasta on the range with a dishcloth hung over his shoulder, me tearing pieces of basil on a chopping board, swaying to the music he’s put on.
After we eat and the dishes are stacked in the dishwasher, we cuddle side by side on the couch while he shows me pictures on his phone.
His travels this spring to Bangkok and Cambodia, where he and his friends went on a backpacking trip.
They look young and carefree without the burden of responsibility that I carry around with me.
“This is Isaac.” He lingers on a photo of him and a guy his age; their arms are slung over each other’s shoulders, and they’re standing at the top of a steep bluff, looking winded but happy.
He’s young, but he seems to have collected a lot of life experiences.
I rest my head on Hart’s firm shoulder and breathe in the scent of him.
He scrolls back too far, and there’s a photo of a girl with long blond hair wearing a purple bikini on a yacht.
She’s wearing a backward baseball cap—his, I presume—and she’s blowing a kiss at the camera.
In this brief moment, the truth of us together, cuddling and making dinner, becomes painfully, brutally honest. I don’t often feel like I’m inadequate, but something about her youthful appearance, her presence on his phone, the idea that she is most likely a conquest of his . .. it unsettles me.
He swipes at the screen quickly to get rid of it, but it’s too late. The damage to my psyche is done. She looked all of twenty-two, impossibly young and fresh, beautiful and carefree.
Before he can offer an explanation, his phone begins to ring.
The name on the screen is Hayes.
“I’ll take this outside.” He gets up and excuses himself, leaving me alone and confused.