“Is it?”
He narrows his eyes. “You saw me toss it.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, and as a representative tonight of Mr. Coppola, I’m appalled.”
“And you are?”
“Mila.”
“Mila,” he repeats, “Lucas.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m a fan.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Are you a fan of my movies, like I’m a fan of wine?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m being honest.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m embarrassed.”
I lean in because I can’t help myself. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that.”
“No?” he whispers as the air crackles between us, he inches forward, and we get close to indecent in what little space we have left.
“No, you should be embarrassed that you’re pouring it on my shoes.”
“Oh, shit, sorry,” he says with a chuckle before setting the glass down on a nearby oak barrel before looking back to me. I can’t help it then, I burst out laughing.
He shakes his head. “You know you’re partly to blame, you’re distracting.”
“Oh? I’m to blame for the abuse?”
“Absolutely.”
“You really hate wine?”
He shrugs. “Honestly? No offense to Mr. Coppola but I’m only here because I’ve been strong-armed into coming. So, no, I’m not a wine enthusiast.” He juts his chin toward the party, sliding his hands in his pockets. “My friend is somewhere around here trying to schmooze. You want honesty? I’d rather be home drinking a Yoohoo.”
This time, I crinkle my nose. “Now that’s disgusting.”
“Chocolate wine of the south,” he says, adding a little accent for emphasis.
“Impressive.”
“Only if it’s ice-cold and you hold your nose,” he says matter of fact.
I laugh again and am hesitant to pull away from our exchange. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Lucas, and shame on you for not noticing me.”
“Yes, I admit that was really stupid,” he says in a tone that has chills racing up my spine.
“Forgiven,” I say with a wink, “but be nice to the wine, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mila,” he whispers, with a lopsided grin.
He’s still got his hands in his pockets, and I’m utterly lost as I stand there ogling him with a bottle full of wine, empty glasses calling, and a job to do. I want to freeze time and just be able to look at him, but the moment has long passed, so I turn and walk back toward the crowd perched in front of the screen. Adrenaline peaks
as I spend the night recounting the way it felt to be in his presence, to be admired by him. As the night goes on, I slowly deflate when I spot him talking to others amongst the party, particularly a handsy woman who can’t seem to stop touching his chest. I decide that inkling I felt was probably a product of my starry-eyed imagination. Actors are well-known for having consuming presences, it’s what makes them stars.
It’s only when I’m grabbing my things to leave that I see him again. I’m halfway to the front door when he emerges from one of the parlor rooms next to it. A slew of voices still carries from the courtyard, but my job is done, and I’m too exhausted to cater to any lingerers.