Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Penetrating the stoic blue sky, the sun demanded attention as we stepped from the suite. The sky acted as a dramatic backdrop for the valley view, like something out of a postcard. I filled my lungs with air, the scenery opening up before me, disputing my memory of yesterday’s fiery thunderstorm and the dark, rumbling sky letting loose. Today, Mother Nature had adopted a new temperament.
“Oh, my gosh,” she hushed next to me. I knew why, the eye encompassed this panorama from the second story; there was no other reaction but to gasp in awe. I was so fucking grateful that she had, that she appreciated this because there was something almost nostalgic about the valley. Yes, it had become more commercialized, and I’d heard people call it the Disneyland of the wine region. Even if Napa and Sonoma had become a vacation destination, at its heart, it was a farming marvel with a grounded history, one that included beating the French in 1976 at The Taste of Paris competition, which always bugged my grand-mère. It’s something most people my age know nothing about. But when your very proud-to-be-French grandma had continually commented on how she was pretty sure the Americans cheated, even though that same competition was repeated thirty years later with the Americans once again prevailing, you learn . Rows and rows of grapevines lined the acres of land on either side of Highway 29, the main road leading into the heart of the valley, set against the backdrop of rolling hills covered in more vines. In March, the mustard plants were in full bloom, adding a pop of canary yellow to the vast miles of green.
Holding the cooler in one hand, I squeezed her wrist with the other. “Did you bring a hat, Sweets? The sun is intense today.”
“Yes,” she answered, using her hand as a visor to shield her eyes, peeking upward as if she needed to confirm that I was telling the truth. “Gosh, isn’t it weird how one day you're battling a storm and the next you are standing in the sun’s rays, as if that storm never even happened?” Leaning up on her toes, she pecked my cheek. “You know that saying, tomorrow is another day? I always thought that was so corny and basic, but there’s truth to it. I felt like that thunderstorm last night, but you probably didn’t notice the black cloud hanging over me.”
Slanting an eyebrow over one eye, my look obvious sarcasm, I said, “Nah, I didn’t notice a thing.” My voice was deadpan, letting my face deliver the message.
She chortled, and my mouth broke into a silly ass grin.
Last night, after checking in, I’d ordered room service while she showered, Rakell saying she wanted to see if it would pep her up… it did not . When the food came, I set everything up in the living part of the suite and started a fire with the wood they had stacked in the old-fashioned fireplace, remembering that she was excited that Harvest Inn had actual fireplaces. I opened a bottle of Champagne, but she took only a few sips, then moved her food around on her plate before saying, “Jake, I know you probably just want to get to it.”
“Huh?” I muttered, caught off-guard. “Get to it?” My eyebrows arched.
Her lips creased as she clearly forced a smile onto her face. “Well, I mean, you did all this…” her hand motioned to the food, Champagne, and fireplace.
My stomach knotted. I pushed my plate away, waiting for her next words.
“So, if we want to crawl in bed, I can thank you…for everything—show you my gratitude—I mean for this,” she sputtered, the stiff semi-grin still on her face.
I gritted my teeth, blocking my response. No, I don’t know what you mean. A commingling of shock and irritation shot through me. What the hell? I stilled the features of my face, examining her, her past rushing into my head. This is exactly how she said thank you, and it felt fucking awful. I knew she certainly didn’t offer herself to the men who paid big bucks in such a dispassionate way. She made it sound like I was a kid at the country club parking her car (my summer job before college), like she had to throw a five-dollar bill at me with a flippant “Thank you.” Goddamn, I made sure when I said “Thank you” to folks that I wrapped it in sincerity, not some afterthought.
“Well, I’m ready,” she stated, the obvious ruse in her voice clanging in my ears. She reached over, running her index fingers down my chest in some not-so-subtle display of fake sultriness as if I were too shallow to register her inner turmoil.
Damn, like I was the kind of asshole who didn’t fucking care about anything more than getting in her pants. Acid burned in my throat thinking about her words. Swallowing to distract from the tension scrunching my face, I grabbed the glass of Champagne and sipped it.
She snatched her hand from my stomach. “I just thought you probably...”
Methodically, I’d set down the empty glass, preparing some big-ass speech about how fucked-up her proposal was, how she meant more…but all that I could grind out was, “A simple thank you will do.” Abruptly standing, I turned my back to her; after a calming breath, then another, I’d regained my composure. “I’m tired, so let me get this cleaned up, and we can go to bed.” I heard her sharp intake of breath when I’d turned and wasn’t sure if she was pissed or shocked, and I really didn’t care.
We’d gone to bed without ceremony, and when she said, “Jake?” quietly, as if her next sentence would explain her thoughts, I kept my eyes closed and breathed through it. I had no patience. I was too strung out after battling the storm on the drive to engage in a charade with her, to act as if her insinuation didn’t infuriate me.
When she’d inched her ass against me this morning, I stiffened, still annoyed. Yeah, I laid there last night pretending to be asleep, rehearsing the lecture I was preparing to start off with: Just so you know, sweetheart, get-off sex is not really a thank you. It may be payment in your head, but it’s an insult in mine, especially if we both think this is long-term and since I’m professing love, I think there’s a future here . Any fortitude I’d had about making a point evaporated when her backside rubbed against my morning hard-on as the citrusy essence from her skin swam into my nostrils. Damn, I could drink whatever the hell she washed her body with. Within seconds, my treasonous cock had made sure my stubborn brain had no ability to reason. Giving into everything Rakell, I’d flexed into her touch, leading to a great way to start a day.
It’s not my style to stay mad; my dad literally doesn’t seem capable of holding a grudge, and my mom…Well, let’s just say, you’d better be ready for some silence and some repenting in the way of chores. Still, she caves easily, and my two older sisters have made it their mission to set me straight. I’m only allowed a small amount of pushback to their helpful bossiness. Plus, I’ve lived many years in a family unit of fifty-plus guys since I started playing ball. You learn quickly to let shit go, or the dynamic is fucked. Especially if you’re the quarterback, you’re supposed to lead and keep the team united around one goal, but the focus has to be on each other working together, or the goal might as well be some pot of gold at the end of a nowhere rainbow. There’s not much one player can do to split apart a team family. Good coaches make sure of that, and Coach Easton is one of the best; he calls guys out and will talk his players through shit, but he makes it clear he won’t tolerate players turning on each other. He knows our strength lies in our cohesiveness. So, dwelling in anger always seemed like a waste of energy.
“Perfect timing, our driver is here,” I said, as she stepped out holding a light green hat.
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Driver?”
“Yes, we’re going to at least three wineries. Neither of us will be able to drive by this afternoon. I have a great itinerary planned.”
Adjusting her hat on her head, cresting her lips in a full smile, she beamed up at me. “I’m excited,” she said. Then, barely above a whisper, I heard, “Today’s a new day,” and I felt her fingers squeeze mine. Damn, if that wasn’t the cutest, non-direct apology in the fucking world. I squeezed her hand in return as we descended the stairs and greeted our driver, Larry.
He shook both our hands, took the cooler from me, then moved to open Rakell’s door, but I gave him a chin nod, letting him know I got it. She almost leapt into the car, then adjusted her yellow, off-the-shoulder sundress, her eyes darting to me. “Thank you,” she clucked, her eyes brimming with enthusiasm like she was trying to make up for the dispassionate Thank you last night. I leaned in, adjusting her chin so I could kiss her, and damn if her little, “Mmmm” didn’t get me worked up all over again.
We approached the French-style chateau of Domaine Carneros, a Napa Valley outpost of the Taittinger Champagne house, truly one of the most stunning properties in the region. It sits regally atop a vine-covered hill that’s a vantage point at the edge of Napa, close to the Sonoma border. When she peered out of the window, I heard her utter as if she’d been taken off-guard by the impressive structure, “Ahhh…wow! This is more beautiful than Chateau d’Yquem.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she knew one of the premier Grand Cru Chateaus in France, famous for their dessert wine. If I remember correctly from my grand-mère, it’s in Bordeaux. Although I’d visited my grandparents in France a few times, taking me to expensive wine houses hadn’t been on their agenda. They took me to Disneyland in France, making me promise to speak French the whole time. Dwayne and I visited five years ago, a few years before my grand-mère passed away, and we had a travel agent set up a wine-tasting tour, but it was at all the touristy places anyone can get into, so the elite houses weren’t part of it. The truth is, wherever you drink wine in France is good because, well, you’re drinking wine in France.
Looking her way, I asked, though I already knew the answer, “You’ve been there?” Of course, she’d been there . Jake, remember there’s not much this girl hasn’t seen.
Immediately, her face flushed from my question, and she stuttered, “Well, yeah, um, but I barely remember it.”
Bullshit, sweetheart, no one goes to the Chateau d’Yquem and forgets it . I reached over and undid her seatbelt. Putting my forehead to hers, I growled, “Bullshit, but we’ll make sure today is a better memory.” Pulling back, I locked my eyes with hers. “Got it?”
Her sharp intake of air sounded more aroused than shocked. “Yes, yes,” she forced out in a breathy whisper.
Into her hair near her ear, I said, “I’ll get your door.” Now I had today’s challenge in my head; this wine-tasting trip would stand out from any before it. I’d make sure of it. Larry pulled up in the semi-circle driveway at the base of the steps, in the center stood a meticulously groomed circular bush surrounding a three-tiered topiary with white and red blooming flowers adorning the sides.
She pulled on my hand, and I stopped staring at the greenery sculpted into round rings that gradually grew smaller, reminding me of one of Cameron’s stacking ring toys. He’d struggled while figuring out that the largest goes first, then the next size down. According to Melissa, Cassie had that mastered when she was a little over a year old, but Cameron couldn’t quite grasp the concept; the smaller rings would get stuck because he’d put them on before the larger ones, then shriek and throw the whole thing against the wall. My mouth turned down thinking about that simple task and how frustrating a fun activity was for him.
“Jake?” Rakell questioned, her voice ringing with unease. “Are you thinking about how many people it takes to keep this level of greenery and flowers so perfect, how workers must be here early in the morning and have to continue working in the hot sun, trimming all of this so we can have this picture-perfect view?” She removed her sunglasses, a crease forming between her brows as she surveyed the grounds.
“Huh, no, I was thinking about one of those stackable toys…” That was a bizarre thing to say, but hell, I didn’t want to dampen the mood by diving into my nephew having autism and how things that may be intuitive or simple for other kids were a challenge for him, and how isolating that must feel.
She let out a short snort and said, “And I was thinking about how much work we put into making things look just so, like, well, this may be a big jump, but like models, I mean for my photoshoots—sometimes there’s more than a half a dozen people working on me to make me look like some non-real version of myself, so it’s like everyone is seeing me as if I existed in an altered state of reality. It’s funny how we all see different things.” She reached for my hand.
“That’s true, and for the record,” I said, taking her hand, “I want the realest version of you; that’s what I think about.” I soaked up her soft mewl as we ascended the many steps to the magnificent chateau, flanked by more carefully manicured green shrubs and blooming flowers.
Then, the prerequisite, semi-snotty check-in, as if these California natives had been trained in the elite sensibility of the top chateaus in France. I knew that climbing the two-hundred-plus stairs, smiling through the check-in, and negotiating to make sure we had a table with an umbrella near the railing was worth it once we sat, and she said, “This viewpoint is spectacular.” She pointed outward, then slid her hand in the air, right to left, as if indicating that she could see from one corner of the valley to another. The chateau sits close to the border where Napa intersects with Sonoma, offering a wide-sweeping picture encompassing both valleys. I made a mental note to thank Rodger and Melanie for showing me this place.
“Wow, I feel like I can see forever,” she said, smiling. “I think this may even rank higher than the views in Bordeaux.” When I turned to agree, she wasn’t looking out past the veranda. She leaned into my side, her catlike green eyes resting on my face. “All this beauty is making me horny.” She snickered . Such a fucking Jake line. The girl’s stealing my lines .
Trapping her head with my hands and positioning her face, I growled, “Don’t steal my lines, or there will be a price to pay,” my mouth a breath away from her lips.
And just as expected, my bawdy minx rolled her eyes and said, “Jake, if it is clever, it’s my line. If it’s obvious and corny, it’s yours.”
I nipped at her lip, laughing when she squealed. “My next line is to tell you how much that ornate stone railing reminds me of that night I fucked you from behind on the Driskill balcony, when I had to cover your mouth because you were so loud I was afraid that the folks strolling Brazos Street would hear my girl explode,” I said gruffly, not hiding my cockiness, eyes squarely on her face, watching her shocked expression, her mouth forming a large O as her eyes grew into saucers. I wanted to chuckle, to call bullshit on the embarrassment blanketing her face. This girl was the queen of dirty talk; no way she was offended by that. Then I heard someone clearing their throat behind me and swiveled my head to see a young twenties-looking guy, red-faced, with sandy blond hair, cut short on the sides with that wind-blown winging look in the front, holding a magnum bottle of Champagne and listening to me talk like a dirty dog to my girlfriend. I felt my face drop.
“Ah, sir, miss, we, this is…like to start our guests off with our Blanc de Blanc. It’s a club favorite, and sir, you are part of our La Rêve club.”
“Yes,” I responded, looking up to him, while he avoided my eyes. Shit, this kid is mortified and Rakell’s probably ready to smack me.
The kid lifted the bottle slightly so we could see the label, then tipped it to pour a taste into Rakell’s glass. The tremor in his hand was making the pouring precarious.
Rakell cleared her throat, her fingers pinching the stem of the glass. “Um, Scott,” she said, reading his name tag, “thank you. Can you tell us a bit about the tasting notes on this one?” What a class act…she knew he was nervous. Her voice sounded honeyed, reassuring, pushing us all past the awkwardness. I was hoping he didn’t recognize me…not everyone loves football, I reminded myself.
“Yes, Miss, it’s 85 percent chardonnay, estate grown, and 15 percent estate pinot grapes.” He took a deep breath, then twisted his lips into a tight grin, watching us bring our glasses to our mouths, but before Rakell took a sip, I extended my glass toward her. She quickly tapped my glass, slanting her eyes away, refusing to look at me.
“I’ll tell you my toast later,” I said under my breath, trying to swallow my guffaw from her eye roll.
“Mmm, that’s so nice,” she said, directing her attention to the kid, Scott, raising her glass a bit in his direction. “So apple?” she added, taking another quick taste. “A little lemon, but it also has a nice structure.”
“Yes, yes, excellent palate,” he said. “Would you like to do the premium tasting, since it is part of your club membership?”
“That sounds great. We’d also like caviar, the charcuterie plate, and a cheese platter,” I said.
He nodded before letting us know he was here if we needed anything else.
I shifted my eyes to the pissed-off blonde by my side, trying not to laugh when I looked at her pinched eyebrows, her whole face scrunched up in a scowl. I put my hands in the air and said, “Guilty, guilty.”
She set her glass down with a thud, her hand hitting my chest, making my sternum pull in and my arms drop to my sides. “Bloody bloke, that guy is mortified,” she hissed.
“Sweets, come on, I didn’t know the kid was hovering over me, trying to get a listen,” I teased.
“You’re ridiculous. Maybe you shouldn’t talk so dirty, Mr. Skyler.” Her voice had dropped lower, a huskiness in her tone contradicting her bullshit disappointed act. This, the way she took me to task, semi-mad, but mostly amused, I loved, when we are just being ourselves, having fun, no pretenses.
I narrowed my eyes, bowing my head toward hers, just about to whisper, “I bet I know a really bad girl who is pretty wet right now.” Then I heard Mr. Perfect Fucking Timing clear his throat again, which I suspected he would be doing every single time he approached our table.