Method(12)

I spent most of the night pouring wine while telling anecdotes and history about each selection. The first time I get an up-close view of Lucas, Marlon Brando is mid-tirade on the large screen spanning a good width of the courtyard as Lucas is spitting out a mouthful of pinot noir from Coppola’s Diamond collection into some shrubbery. While the majority of the party is rapt on the movie, sitting in the comfortable lounge chairs provided, Lucas is isolated in the back, leaning against a wall across from a small, free-standing bar, looking bored and mildly uncomfortable.

I have to fight laughter when I see him dispose of his wine and damn near go into hysterics when he cocks his head left and right before tossing the rest of the contents of his glass in the same direction. It takes everything I have to keep a straight face when I approach him, presenting him with a bottle of the wine he’d just tossed out like garbage. We’re covered in shadows, the flickering movie the only thing shedding light across our faces.

“You know, pinot grapes are really hard to grow,” I whisper as he eyes the wine in my hand, apprehension flitting a split-second over his features before it disappears, and he reluctantly holds his empty glass out to me. I’d been watching him for the better part of the night. He’d played it cool as new Hollywood, often stealing the room with his presence. I’m not the only woman having an impossible time taking my eyes off him dressed in a well-fitted Armani tuxedo and silky black tie. “They have thin skin and are disease prone.”

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks distractedly as he sloshes it around in his glass before taking a whiff, his eyes finally drifting up to meet mine.

“Not a fan of the pinot?” I ask, biting back a smile. It’s when our eyes hold that the air starts to thicken.

“I love wine,” he says, fixed in our stare a beat longer before his lips lift at the corners.

“Do you?” I ask, my insides coming to life. In our locked gaze, I notice he loses himself a little as well. Explorative eyes rake me, undressing me, and robbing my throat of any moisture. Utterly dazed, I hold my breath until he speaks.

“Have you been here all night?”

My smile widens as his grows and we drink in each other in the greenery-filled courtyard. The night breeze whispers over us and goose bumps erupt over my skin while our silent stare-off ensues. I’m in a black halter dress that hugs my curves and flows over my hips. It’s elegant and understated and the perfect dress for a night like this. My lips are colored merlot, just as fitting, but underneath his penetrating gaze, I feel naked and worshipped.

“Yes, I’ve been here all night.”

“Bullshit,” he counters, leaning in conspiratorially. “I would have noticed you.”

He sloshes his wine again, and I frown. “Do you know why you’re doing that?”

“Doing what?” he asks, gracing me with another breathtaking smile. I find myself stunned by the sight of it but manage to find words.

“Sloshing the wine around and murdering the bouquet?”

“I’m not sloshing.”

“You’re sloshing. Now,” I say, taking his glass and gently demonstrating. “Swirling the glass draws oxygen into the wine to offset the tannic acids which make it taste dry.” I hand the glass back to him. “Now take a sip and let it briefly rest on your tongue before swallowing.”

Never taking his eyes off me, he does just that. “Delicious.”

“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.