Page 27 of Wild Abandon

He leans over the bar and rests his elbows close to my own while he starts skimming through my prospective dates. The bar is bustling with people hovering around, trying to get a drink. The two female bartenders are working tirelessly while Nate is perusing my phone.

I raise my hand to grab the phone, but he scoots back toward the shelves and crosses his arm, continuing to look. His head is shaking, and his mouth twists up into a comical expression, as if he thinks every guy on there is hysterical.

Standing up, I reach forward and try to get my phone back. Nate is too far, so I just end up swiping at air.

“Can I have my phone back, please?”

He is thumbing the screen. He eventually stops and starts reading. “This is your profile?”

I raise a brow, as if to ask, So?

He holds the phone up and starts to bellow out, “I love to curl up with a glass of wine and read a good book. That’s your opening line?”

Now, it’s my turn to lean back and cross my arms, but this time, it’s in defense. “What’s wrong with that?”

He looks at me and then looks back at the phone. “I’m not looking for a hook-up. I’m looking for my partner in crime.” His tone sounds as if this is the most outrageous thing he’s ever read.

I want to tell him that it’s better than the profile Naomi wrote for me the other day. It pretty much said, I’m a sexy redhead, and if you want to see if the carpet matches the drapes, give me a ring!

I received about fifty unwanted suitors, thanks to that porno paragraph. The wording I have on my profile now is exactly what I’ve had for the last five years, plus a tweak to fit my new Napa persona. It lets men know who I am and what I’m looking for.

“Looking for a man who enjoys the symphony, walks on the beach, and is willing to travel the world with me.” Again, Nate does not seem impressed.

I don’t see a ring on his finger, so he clearly is just as bad at dating as I am or is one of those anti-commitment guys, which is more likely the case, given his stance on love and death and all that nonsense.

I tilt my head to the side. “Okay, Mr. I Hate Everything About Love Yet Seem to Know Everything About It, what would you write?”

Any sign of friendliness fades from his face the second I finish my sentence. Taking one strong step forward, he places the phone on the bar and looks at me with a clenched jaw and eyes sending daggers of intensity my way.

Great. Now, I’ve insulted him, and I have no idea why. Not only is my dating relationship with men a complete mess, I can’t even strike up a witty conversation with a guy who has made me a drink and wants to give me dating advice.

“I’m sorry,” I say timidly yet in a louder voice than I wanted to. In order for him to hear me, I have to speak up. “Apparently, every time I bring up love, you get all serious.”

He is still staring at me. His body is tense as he holds on to the bar. People are trying to get his attention for drinks, yet he is standing here, unmoving.

I release my arms and lean forward into his space. When I do so, he blinks back and jolts just so but doesn’t move. I take this as a good sign.

“Listen, I’m new to town, and aside from my girlfriend, I know no one. You seem like a decent enough guy, sending me drinks and helping with bad dates—despite the fact that I can, without a doubt, handle my own.” I put my hands up in defense and then lower them. “I’m not looking for a romance with you, and I promise not to bring up love anymore. Just stop doing that angry face, okay?”

Nate’s chin rises up. His downcast eyes look at me, and the silence between us is deafening, despite the music playing in the background and the constant chatter of bar patrons.

My chest rises, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I let it out and start to feel odd for making that statement.

Did I just profess my undying friendship to this guy?

I recount my words and wonder why I am so damn bad with them around him. Perhaps that’s why I went into music—to pour my heart into the music of the cello, to avoid expressing my feelings, instead spending hours practicing in my room. Sometimes, I wonder what I’d do if—

“Angry face?”

“Huh?” I snap out of my internal diatribe and am enraptured once again with the green.

He points to his face and starts making a circle in the air around it. “You said I do that angry face.”

Insert awkward shrug by the girl seated at the bar, holding a bluegrass cocktail in her hand. Yes, that would be me.

“It’s kind of mean-looking, and it makes me feel uncomfortable.” There I go again with my verbal prowess.

And that’s when he does this thing that almost knocks me off my barstool.