Method

He averts his eyes, surveying the garden. “I wasn’t formally trained. I didn’t watch many movies growing up.”

He’s becoming more interesting by the second. “Really?” You wouldn’t know it from the way he delivers on screen.

The intensity on his face gives way to a smirk as he gently swirls his wine. “But I’m a quick learner.”

“I can see that.” I bite my lip, and he watches while another blush creeps up my neck. The last twenty-four hours have epitomized surreal.

“I don’t have to be told more than once.”

Already, I’m strangely drawn toward this man, something more than just attraction, but I have to admit at this point, the chemistry is enough. He seems shy, but not in a way that he lacks confidence. He’s curious in a way that sounds sincere. He seems eager to learn about whatever knowledge he’s devoid of, and that’s a turn on for me.

There’s a good chance, given enough time, I could fall for him.

And it’s probably not a good idea.

I can practically hear my mother’s upcoming rants as I drink him in fully.

But I’ve never been fond of playing it safe. I find life boring on the safe side. I give myself permission to give into the attraction if that’s my decision. The intimacy of the setting and the intensity of his unwavering stare both have me restless with want. He’s waiting, and I practically have to rip my eyes from him to keep my mind from racing further.

“Okay, so we have three bottles today, not nearly enough but it’s a start.” I kneel before him, my lavender sundress pooling at my knees as he lays on his side next to me, propped on his elbow with his wine in hand.

“This,” I say, swirling my glass, “is Caymus which is bottled in Napa Valley, it’s a cabernet which is the most popular red wine.” I pop open the container with mixed cheese and grab a slice of Swiss. “Take a nibble of the cheese and then take a sip and tell me what you taste.”

He does it, and I can see his derision for it the minute it hits his tongue.

He swallows it down. “I tended bar for ten minutes, and I know what cabernet is, I just can’t believe people voluntarily drink this shit.”

“Blasphemy,” I scorn. “Do you drink beer?”

“Yes,” he answers, staring at the wine like it’s a red-headed stepchild.

“Well, wine is an acquired taste, much like beer.”

“Understood, but this…tastes like I’m drinking a tire. No thanks.” He passes me the glass, and I sip it. “Mmm. Goodyear.” We both laugh at the stupid joke, and he pops a pear into his mouth. I playfully slap his hand.

“Not yet, I’m doing a presentation,” I say, covering my pears with the plastic lid.

He puts his palms up. “Sorry.”

“I went to a lot of effort to put this together,” I chide.

He bows his head with a smirk. “And I’m grateful, I assure you.”

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help my smile. “Are you going to take this seriously?”

“I will, I am,” he clears his throat. “Promise.”

“Okay,” I say, sipping the last of the spilled grapes and corking the bottle.

“This might be more to your liking.”

I pour a touch of my new selection into his glass. “This is a rosé from the Allegretto Vineyard, that’s in Paso Robles. The vineyard is only three hours from here and happens to be one of my favorite places in the world. Rosé wines are made when red grape skins are left in contact with the wine for a brief time, allowing a little color to be imparted but not as much as for red wine. This particular brand is a little less dry, and I think that’s what you’re having trouble with. It’s got hints of melon and berry.” I look up to see I’m being watched. Needles of adrenaline prick my skin as I begin to succumb to the draw and

realize we’re both gravitating toward the other with each second that passes.

I go on nervously pouring him a taste, and he takes it eyeing my offering before his attention shifts back to me. As nervous as I am to have his audience, it’s equally enthralling. “You know there’s a reason wine has been used in celebrations for thousands of years. It’s magical in a way.” I glance over to see him studying my lips. “Something drawn from earth, plucked at its peak and aged for just the right moment. It’s symbolic.”

I’m helpless to his gaze and get lost in his depths as I try to find my words. I fail, my whole body heated. Instead, I pluck a pear from the container with an appetizer fork and press it against his lips. “Take a bite of this,” I say, and he takes a healthy nibble never taking his eyes off of me. “Now, sip.”