The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(44)

And now Pops wants to send us on some sort of romantic trip?

Is this what he was trying to get at the entire time? To get me to fall for Hazel? Because from the grave, he’s doing a damn good job.

“Better?” Hazel asks.

“Yes, thank you.” I turn back to the letter. “‘Now, I’m not saying for you two to fall in love.’” Well, there you have it. He’s not trying to play matchmaker. “‘But what you get from this trip is based solely on you. It’s about reconnecting, about finding your passion, about sitting back and reflecting on your lives and where you want to go from here. This trip is to give you time for soul-searching, and the sights you’ll come across will be magnificent, unlike anything you’ve ever imagined. The rich history will blow you away. The image of Germany wrapped up in a blanket of snow will leave you breathless, and by the end of this road trip, down a romantic fantasy of castles and half-timbered houses, I hope that you leave with an appreciation for the simple things, for the ease of making hard decisions because you follow your heart instead of your brain, and that you’re refreshed with a new understanding of one another. You aren’t anyone in this world without the people around you. Both of you need to remember that. Hazel, my dear Twigs, you can’t do everything on your own, so please stop believing you should. And, Crew, my moronic grandson, you can’t leave the people who’ve been there for you your entire life behind, so stop believing you could.’”

Shit. That last comment hits me hard.

But instead of recoiling, Hazel turns in toward me and rubs my back while resting her chin on my shoulder.

Finishing up the letter, I read, “‘In the envelope, there’s a map of the Romantic Road and where you’ll be stopping for the night. You won’t be stopping in every town along the way, but you’re welcome to, if you want. The Romantic Road isn’t very long at all. You could drive the length of it in a day. But the point of traveling this road is to appreciate the beauty of it. Immerse yourselves in the culture, don’t second-guess one thing, and for the love of God, just enjoy yourselves.’” I smile. “‘Today, when you reach Würzburg, you’ll go to a wine tasting. Germany is known for their beer, but little do people know, they’re proficient winemakers as well, and that’s what you’ll be enjoying today. Directions and other vital information are attached. Have fun. Love you, Pops.’”

“More wine?” Hazel asks. “I’m going to have to eat more bread to get through that.”

“Let’s just hope there’s no rum in it,” I joke.

She nods. “For your underwear’s sake.”





“Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Ingrid, our sommelier, says, guiding us toward an archway that leads to a staircase.

“We’re not married, actually,” Hazel says, surprising me. “Just friends.”

“Ah, my apologies.” Ingrid gestures toward the stairs. “Follow the guiding lights into the wine cellar and we’ll be right down.”

“Thank you,” Hazel says. Taking a step forward, her foot gets caught in the wood, and she falls forward. I quickly grab her by the hand and keep her from tumbling down the stairs.

“Oh, are you okay?” Ingrid asks.

“I got her.” I hold up our connected hands. “Don’t worry.”

The staircase is dark, only lit by sconces, which are somehow secured to the cave-like walls that form the tunnel we’re descending into. “Wine cellar” is right. It almost feels as if we’re entering an entirely different world—the underworld.

As we descend, Hazel removes her hand from mine. That’s the third time today she’s shied away from my touch. Call me paranoid, but I feel like it has something to do with what happened last night and this morning, but then again, she’s still acting more casual about the whole thing than I am.

“Everything okay?” I ask her.

“Yeah, great,” she answers with a little too much pep in her voice. “I mean, this staircase is a little creepy, but if there’s wine at the end of the tunnel, I’m not going to let mood lighting scare me.”

Not wanting to get into it with her, I drop the topic and say, “While you were in the bathroom, I did a quick search on the Romantic Road, and it really is only a two-and-a-half-hour drive, but Pops has us on the road for six more days.”

“Are you complaining about spending more time with me?”

“No,” I say quickly as we reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right into a dimly lit wine cellar. Barrels of wine are held up by iron racks and span all the way down the long tunnel of the underground. To the left is a taste-testing area where bar-height tables and stools are scattered throughout the space, with strings of bulb lights offering a delicate ambiance while keeping the atmosphere cozy and intimate.

“I wonder where we’ll be for Christmas,” Hazel says, dragging her fingers over a barrel of wine. “I’ve always gone to my grandparents’ for Christmas, so this will be new for me. We don’t even have any Christmas cookies.”

“Not true. We have all that Lebkuchen.”

“True.” She glances at me. “I’ve never spent Christmas with you. Do you have any traditions I should know about?”

“Nothing that I think we could do here.”