Page 80 of Wild Abandon

Two Irish coffees are placed in front of us, and Nate and I cheers.

“To trying new things,” Nate says.

“To being wild,” I add. I take a drink of the most spectacular Irish coffee I have ever had in my life.

Yesterday, a hot air balloon ride over Napa. Today, Irish coffee in San Francisco. That’s two new experiences in two days. I like this side of Nate.

“Tell me again, why are you subjecting me to this torture?” I ask, panting.

“You wanted to see Lombard Street.”

I stop and massage my calf muscle that is cramping from the insane uphill climb we have embarked on.

“I want to drive on it. Not get a cardio workout,” the words come out funny from my labored breath. Looking behind me, I see the slope of what we already climbed. Looking ahead, I see we still have another block to go. Hands now on my knees, I raise an arm up in the air. “Go on without me. Save yourself!”

Nate looks back at me with a crooked grin. He takes a few steps back to where I’m standing, grabs my hand, turns around, and swings his other hand toward my left hip. “Come on, soldier. No man left behind.” He hoists me up onto his back.

“I can’t even walk up this thing. You are not carrying me up the hill.”

He lets go of my right hand, places both hands under my ass, and carries me up the damn hill.

Lombard Street is as crooked as I’d thought it would be. We walk along the curvy road, in awe of the shape, fragrant gardens, beautiful views of the bay, and we adore the houses built along the road, wondering how on earth people could live here. For one, the tourist traffic is insane. And, two, “How do you get your groceries inside?”

“You don’t cook, so you wouldn’t need to bring groceries into my house.”

“Well then, how is the delivery man supposed to bring me my takeout?”

He laughs and gives me a noogie.

When we get to the bottom, we hail a taxi back to the hotel.

As promised, Nate booked two rooms, side by side. I slide my room key in and enter the room. Then, I turn around. He hands me my bag, and I place it on the desk.

Nate is leaning against the doorframe. He looks down at his watch and then at me. “Pick you up at eight. I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says with a mischievous grin.

“Care to share? A girl needs a little notice,” I say.

He rolls his head back and has an expression on his face, as if he doesn’t want to tell me where we’re going.

So, I add, “Do I need to wear a dress?”

“You can, if you want.”

I pout my lips and tap my foot. “That’s presumptuous of you. What would you have done if I hadn’t packed something appropriate?”

I’m not really mad, but seriously, I didn’t even know if I should pack a bag, let alone a dress and heels. I look over at my duffel bag and am relieved I overpacked.

Nate puts his hand on my chin and pulls my face toward him. He lowers his eyes and looks at me with raised brows. “You look beautiful, no matter what you wear.”

He closes the door, leaving me with three hours and a duffel bag full of clothes and a heart that’s racing in anticipation.

Too intrigued to nap, I decided to bathe. The bathroom has a deep tub, and I haven’t had a chance to take a long, hot bath in weeks. Living with the Santangellos and their one bathroom doesn’t leave for a lot of indulgent bathing time. Yes, this is needed. Plus, my thighs are still burning from the uphill climb.

Riffling through my bag, I look for the two dress options I brought. One is a short cocktail dress I’ve recently worn on a date with Brent. The other is the red dress I saw on my first day in Napa—the spaghetti-strap dress that is sheer from the thighs down. Usually, I’d go through hell, ironing my hair and then curling it to perfection. But Nate makes me feel comfortable with being me. So, after my shower, I let my curls run free.

I spend the next hour passing the time on my cell phone. After I’ve perused every social media outlet and read up on my celebrity gossip and then the world news, I look at the clock, and there’s still fifteen minutes to go.

I stand and look in the mirror again, wondering if I should straighten my hair. I should. It’s a much better look. And I could easily run my flat iron through it in ten minutes, enough to make it less exotic and —