Page 59 of Wild Abandon

When we get to the truck, Nate puts Willie Mays in the backseat and then turns to me. With his hands buried deep in his pockets and mine crossed over my chest, we’re awkwardly standing there, not knowing how to say good-bye.

“This was fun—”

“Thank you for—”

“You go first,” Nate says.

I motion toward the house. “Thank you for helping us today. It was really nice.”

Something about what I said doesn’t seem to sit well with Nate. “You’re welcome. But I wasn’t being nice. I was being your friend.”

Friend. I wish that word didn’t sting. “Looks like Naomi and Jeremy really liked you. We should do this again. Maybe bring your girlfriend.” It’s a half-assed invitation.

Nate suddenly looks really uncomfortable. “About that. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.”

“No, you didn’t,” I assure him. “I totally had you pegged as being in a relationship.”

Nate leans forward and laughs. “You’re such a liar.”

I hit him on his arm. “And you’re an idiot!”

We both laugh, and it feels good. Maybe I can be just his friend.

Nate climbs into his truck. “Will you be coming back to the bar to visit me?”

“I don’t go there for you.”

“Right.” He grins, and if he were next to me, I’d hit him again. “Night, Crystal.”

“Good night, Nathaniel.”

I watch as his Tahoe drives down the road. Before it’s at the corner, I am walking back to the house, ready to tell Jeremy that I’m ready to be set up on that date.

chapter TWELVE

His name is Brent Montavale.

And he does not do online dating.

He has no need to. Six foot four, square shoulders, a trim waist, and a face like a movie star, Brent is the type of man who has women come to him.

Kinda makes me wonder why he agreed to go out on a blind date with me.

Brent is recently divorced from—and this is according to Jeremy—a gold-digging Swedish model who didn’t realize their ironclad prenuptial would keep her from inheriting anything if she ever cheated on him, and, unfortunately, she was.

In his mid-thirties, Brent is looking for a down-to-earth girl who isn’t after his millions.

Enter me.

We had a brief phone conversation last night where we exchanged pleasantries and decided where we should meet. Brent recommended the Michelin-rated The French Laundry that has a wait list of six months, yet he has no trouble getting a table at a moment’s notice. I, a creature of my own dating habit, wanted to recommend Henley’s, but taking advice from Jeremy, I decided to amend my ways.

I agreed to dinner but not at the place that charged three hundred dollars a plate. Instead, we are seated at an outside table at Bottega in the town of Yountville. I figured it was nice enough for Brent’s taste but still within my comfort zone.

“Jeremy tells me you’re a cellist. That is exquisite.” His voice is smooth, and his eyes never falter from anywhere other than my face. “Where do you perform?”

“At weddings mostly. And I teach a few days a week at a free school for the performing arts. Well, I taught. Now, I work at a winery.”

“Aren’t you classically trained?”