Page 38 of Wild Abandon

“We’re very involved.”

I clench my jaw and shoot daggers at Nate. “Salvatore, I think we should move our date somewhere else.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Salvatore step away from our table.

“I was just looking for a good time. You two do”—he looks back and forth between the two of us—“whatever it is you do.” And like a mouse, Salvatore scurries out the door. If he were a superhero, he’d be The Flash.

Before the door is closed, Nate takes Salvatore’s empty chair, spins it around, and takes a seat.

“What did you do that for?” I stomp my four-inch heel on the ground.

“He compared you to wine,” he answers matter-of-factly.

“Yes, it was cliché but not worth ending my date over.” I fold my arms over my chest with a huff.

“It was a cheap line and incredibly inaccurate.” He looks up from his seat, all rugged and hot in the black-on-black thing he’s got going on tonight. “Most wines do not age well. After a year, they start to smell like mushrooms. Do you really want to be with a guy who says you’re like a rotten fungus?”

I turn my head to the side and scratch the back of it, trying to find a rebuttal. To be honest, no, I do not want to be with a guy who compares me to mushrooms. I want a guy who knows exactly what vintage I am.

“The wines that do age well are often terrible for several years.” Nate raises his arm and motions in the air to get Laurie’s attention.

She catches it and gives him a wink.

He turns back to me as I stare, dumbfounded. “If he were being honest, he’d say women were like wine for three reasons.” He lifts a finger with each point. “There are too many to choose from, the good ones are taken, and they all cost an arm and a leg.” He has a smug grin on his face with that last statement.

I raise my middle finger at him in response.

Laurie appears with two stouts, two shot glasses, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“Is this your signature cocktail?” I ask.

He takes the two unfinished wine glasses on the table and hands them to Laurie.

“I wasn’t done with that!” I say.

“Why were you drinking wine? To impress that jerk?”

“I happen to like wine. And I was trying to be cordial.”

“What’s up with that hair thing?”

I run my fingers through my long strands that have loose curls at the end, cascading down my right shoulder—the way I always perfect it for dates. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You do this thing when you’re on dates.” Nate sways his head in a circle and then lowers his chin in show. “It’s your sexy move.”

He’s making fun of me, but instead of being offended, I turn the tables. “Aw, Nate. Are you upset I haven’t done my move for you?” I mockingly bat my lashes.

“No,” he answers with a pout. He raises the dark ale to his mouth and looks away.

I strum my nails along the glass. “Do you have a move?”

“Don’t need one.”

“Come on. Everybody has a move.”

Resting an elbow on the table, Nate cups his face, rubbing his pointer finger back and forth along the skin in between his chin and lower lip. “You can’t handle my move.”

“Try me,” I dare.