Page 8 of Wild Abandon

Naomi parks adjacent to a large building that says Town Center. I get out and stretch my legs, lifting my arms to the sky and taking in the warm Napa sunshine.

Downtown Napa is a quaint little town along a riverbank. We walk to Main Street, and I look around at the numerous restaurants, art galleries, stores, and wine cellars. Naomi says she’ll text me when she’s done, and then she and Scarlet take off for Naomi’s appointment at the winery.

I aimlessly make a right and start exploring. I stop in a cute boutique with summer dresses in the window and look at the display through the glass. On the mannequin is a gorgeous spaghetti-strap red dress that is sheer from the thighs down. Large roses adorn the fabric, forming a beautiful pattern that almost looks like it could be a red ocean. It’s a stunning dress, the kind I could purchase for work. Until I know exactly what I’ll be doing at my new job—if I take it, that is—I’ll hold off on making the purchase.

I am further down Main Street when my stomach starts to growl. I haven’t eaten anything since checking in at the airport nine—no, ten hours ago. I see a tapas restaurant that looks appealing, but it is too much for this diner of one. I need something a little less formal, a little more like—

Across the street, on the corner, is a building with beige tiles lining the outside walls and large windowed doors with a green awning. I cross Main Street toward Henley’s Pub.

I step over the threshold and immediately feel at home. New York City might be known for its five-star restaurants and high-end clubs, but I’m a West Village girl. Bring me to Down the Hatch or The Spotted Pig, and I’m in heaven. I love a good pub, and downtown Manhattan has plenty of them.

Henley’s has the same familiar feel to it. A long cedar bar runs half the length of the room and curves to the right, forming an L-shape. Rows and rows of liquor are lined on the back shelves with a mirror reflecting the life inside the room.

Tables are set all around the bar, and in the back right corner of the room is a setup for a band. A drum set and three microphone stands are the only equipment, waiting to be used by the next group. Neon signs are tastefully placed throughout the space, and three televisions are built into the wood of the upper moldings.

The only difference between Henley’s and any other pub back home is the distinct smell of bleach.

I take a seat at the end of the bar and eye the beer taps—American lagers, stouts, pale ales and IPAs. Everything a beer drinker could want is showcased in the art form of beer tap handles. I could really go for a beer right now, but a glass of something more sophisticated is probably in order. I’m in Napa, for crying out loud. My first drink can’t be a beer.

Plus, I’ve heard men are more likely to be sensually attracted to a woman drinking red wine.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

My eyes instantly shoot up from the beer handles to the wine on the back bar shelf, and they land on a bottle of—

“Merlot. I’ll have a glass of merlot.” I point to the bottle my eyes are trained on.

“Wine? You’re in the heart of Napa, and you walked into a pub to have a glass of wine?”

Taken aback by his comment, I look over at him and am slammed by the intense gaze he is giving me. I inhale a quick breath, caught of guard by the sight of the man before me.

He has deep-set almond-shaped eyes. They’re like looking at moss in the heart of a forest with no sunshine, yet it thrives and brings a color so vibrant to a rather dark space. There’s remorse in his eyes, and they’re yearning to be forgiven. It’s a shame since he has the face of someone who shouldn’t have a care in the world.

His soft features are accentuated by a strong jaw and stubble that gives him a ruggedly sexy look. He’s too beautiful to be yielding a look as severe as the one he’s bearing down on me.

“It seemed like the thing to do.”

The bartender looks me over for a moment before reaching behind him and grabbing a pint glass off the shelf. He pours a glass of the imperial stout from the tap and places it in front of me.

It’s exactly what I would have ordered if I were back in New York.

“How did you know what kind of beer I liked?”

He wipes the counter down with a rag. His eyes are trained on the cedar as he answers, “You can tell a lot about a person by the type of wine they drink. The merlot you chose has an expressive flavor, packed with dark cocoa undertones. Means you’re most likely a stout drinker. I just took a guess on which one.” He pauses for a second and looks to his left, as if he’s about to turn and walk away, but then he looks back at me and adds, “That’s on the house.”

I raise my glass to him in appreciation. “Thank you.” I take a sip and savor the bold floor as the hops get acquainted with my taste buds.

Placing the glass on the bar, I twirl my finger around the rim and give his body a once-over. He is wearing a long-sleeved maroon shirt and dark blue jeans. From the backside view he’s giving me, I can see he fills them out very well. And from the way his bicep curled when he was holding the glass up to the tap, I would assume the rest of him was equally as muscular—not bulky, just strong.

His dark hair is buzzed short to his head. There are no signs of balding, so I can only assume it is out of convenience, or he likes the tough-guy look. I’m going to guess convenience since he doesn’t look very tough.

Solemn but definitely not tough.

I sip my beer in silence. Too much silence. The televisions are off, and there isn’t a radio playing or another patron around to distract me. All I hear are the soft sounds of him wiping down the counter, a swishing normally not heard from doing such a task.

“How did you know I didn’t want the wine?”

He’s made his way to the other end of the bar and throws the rag into a sink. His lips part and close before he finally settles on an answer. “I saw it in your eyes.”