Page 47 of Wild Abandon

“Have another drink,” he answers.

I turn around and squint my eyes at him. “You did not write, Before I die, I want to have another drink?” I’m skeptical, and I know he’s full of it.

“I would have written kiss a redhead, but you’d have just gotten ideas.”

“My hair is not red.”

“Clearly.”

“Next.” A gentleman ushers us over to where we should stand to wait for our car to arrive.

A cable car arrives, and Nate and I get in—him facing up hill, me downhill. When the car starts to move, my stomach drops a notch. I’m not afraid of heights per se. It’s more a slight fear of being lifted in small objects. Put me in a 747, and I’m fine. Ask me to go parasailing. No, thank you.

Nate leans forward and rests a hand on top of mine, which is clutching my knee. I look down at his hand and follow it up his forearm to his bulging bicep, his defined chest, across his chiseled jaw, and along the freshly shaven face, accentuated by strong cheekbones and long-lashed eyes that are so close to me in a confined space. And, instead of those eyes bringing me unease or uncertainty, I find only comfort in holding them.

I let out a long deep breath and thank him with a smile for easing my anxiety.

As we climb up the mountain, the ground below us is farther and farther away, but the views of rolling hills and spacious landscapes around us are more spectacular than I could have dreamed. Our car feels small as we climb higher and take in the vastness of the valley. And the sound? Silent. Just us, soaring above the world.

We get to the top and are greeted with a glass of wine. We stroll through art galleries, overlooks, and elevated walkways. Taking the wine tour, we learn the winemaking process from grape to glass. Motion-activated television screens provide detailed explanations of what we see. It’s amazing what a facility of this caliber can produce in a year.

We head outside and take a moment to appreciate the glorious architecture of the winery. With brilliant white stucco, the winery has a Mediterranean feel to it with towers that house bells that sound on the quarter hour. And the view? The Mayacamas, Vaca Mountains, and Mount Saint Helena—all of which Nate points out.

“When I was a kid, my window overlooked Superstition Mountains. My whole world was surrounded by them. No matter where I looked, there they were. I could never live somewhere I couldn’t see mountains.”

“I’ve lived near water my entire life. I could never imagine living somewhere without seeing the ocean.”

“I guess that means you’re not staying here.” Nate is leaning on the railing, his body facing mine. “No ocean.”

I sway my head from side to side. “I don’t know. I’m just taking it one day at a time. Seeing where the wine takes me.” I wink at my own joke, but he’s not laughing. “So, did you really come out here for a girl?”

“I came to San Francisco to look for my dad. I guess you can say, I came here for my dad, but I stayed for a girl.”

“She must have been pretty special,” I tease.

“She is.” He turns his body away from mine and stretches his arms out on the railing while looking down at the ground, a pensive expression on his profile.

He’s giving us both a moment to absorb that little tidbit of information. Nate still talks to the girl who stole his heart. Maybe she broke his heart, and that’s why he hates love so much.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

I slowly nod my head.

“Do you enjoy playing the cello?”

Okay, that is not what I thought he was going to ask.

I take an uncertain tone. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Last night, you said it’s something you’re just good at. It seemed like you only play because you’re good at it. Not because it’s something you love.”

I shrug my shoulder and twirl the glass in my hand. “I didn’t have much of a choice. Playing comes naturally to me. A teacher told my parents that I was gifted, so they enrolled me in a school for the performing arts, and then I went to college to pursue it as a career. It was never a question of what I’d do. When you’re that good at something, you just do it.” I turn my back to the view and cross my arms over my chest, looking over to Nate. “I don’t live and breathe it like others do. My friend Emma is a composer. She creates these incredible pieces of music, and your jaw drops at the sound. She’s that good. But me? I can play any song without sheet music. The harmonica took a while to learn, but that was because I wanted to learn it. The cello though is just something I do. It’s not who I am.”

“Who are you?” he asks simply.

I take a deep breath and think about the question. “I think I’m still trying to figure that out.” I lift my chin at him. “Are you doing what you love? Working in a bar?”

Nate shakes his head and looks away, pondering the question. “I don’t have a college degree, so I’m pretty limited in what I can do. Bartending pays really well, and the hours are perfect for my lifestyle. I have a full plate and need the flexibility.”