Method(29)

“You seem to know a lot about a lot.”

“An education and good manners don’t always equal rich and entitled. I don’t know why I’m justifying it to you when you drive a car that could pay for a semester at Harvard.”

We’d been sharing smiles and stealing glances at each other through easy conversation, but things seem to have turned serious. It’s been months since I’ve been on a date, and I’m being defensive. I brave a look in his direction and can’t tell if I’ve offended him with my blunt tongue. “I just…I don’t want you to think that way of me. I’m no princess.”

He takes a seat next to me as I carefully unpack the basket.

“Okay, then I won’t.”

I look to see his eyes scouring my face.

We share a slow building smile before he eyes the contents which consist of mixed cheeses, spiced pears, chocolate, and three bottles of wine.

His velvety voice surrounds me in a caress. “So, sommelier, you’re on.”

“And what do I get if you like one of the wines?” I’m blushing, I know I am, and it’s rare.

He gives me a million-dollar flash of teeth. “I may know a few people who could use a sommelier.”

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

“Reputation is everything around these parts,” he mutters dryly. “Or didn’t you know?”

“I forgot to care,” I say, uncorking a bottle and pulling out two plastic wine glasses.

His voice rumbles low. “Then we have that in common.”

“Good,” I say smartly. “I was beginning to think we wouldn’t find much.”

He pushes some hair off my shoulder, and I visibly shudder from the contact. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing, Mila. I’m not the type of guy you want to have much in common with.”

He’s not apologetic about it, nor is he asking for sympathy. I frown anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t grow up in a beautiful place that inspired me.”

“But something inspired you,” I reply.

“Someone.”

“Ah,” I say, pouring the wine and handing it to him. “Tell me about her.”

“Why does it have to be a her?”

“Isn’t it?” I ask, sitting back with a glass in hand.

“Yes, but she was much older.”

“Like Mrs. Robinson older?”

“Who?”

I lower my glass. “The movie. The Graduate? Dustin Hoffman and Anne Bancroft?”

He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen that one.”

“Wow. I assumed it was a prerequisite to memorize that movie before you become an actor.”

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.