The strains of a jazz band drifted out as Sam pulled open the door of the Lighthouse Cafe. A popular nightclub, the bar was crowded, the lights dim. He spied Blake standing at the bar with a group watching a muted television, their cheers drowning out the jazz band.
Blake called over to Sam. “Better order now while you have a chance.”
Sam, about to tell him that he couldn’t stay, caught sight of the same woman he’d seen up on the pier that afternoon. Tall, slim, her wavy red hair swept back into a ponytail, she was dressed in a tailored blue-and-white linen shirt, navy capris, and white sandals. She stood in the doorway, looking around, her face lighting up with a smile as she waved at three other women sitting at a table across from the bar. Instead of joining them, she walked up to the bar not two feet from Sam.
The bartender asked her what she wanted to drink.
She picked up a wine list. “You don’t have any red wines from Spain, do you?” she said.
“Sorry. It’s California or bust.”
Her smile faded. “It would’ve made the perfect toast.”
“Remi!” one of her friends shouted from behind her. “We have wine!”
She glanced at the table, saw her friend holding up a bottle of chardonnay, then returned the menu to the bartender. “Thanks anyway.”
He nodded, and moved on to the next customer.
“Earth to Fargo. You realize the game’s on?” Blake, seeing the direction of Sam’s gaze, clapped him on the back. “Don’t even try. The women at that table are blue-blooded East Coasters. Way out of your league. It’ll take them about ten seconds to size you up, figure out you’re a California boy with a four-wheel Jeep, determine your credit limit, then spit you out. All the Fargo luck in the world won’t help you there. Heck. Their shoes cost more than you make in a week.”
“And you would know this how?”
“I used to date the blonde. Olivia Brady. It didn’t last, and I’d just closed a multimillion-dollar real estate deal.”
“Ever think it’s you, not the money?” Sam gave him a cocky grin.
“Word of advice, Fargo. You might want to avoid mentioning where you work—and it will come up. Trust me on this.”
“Noted,” Sam said. He moved to the end of the bar, picking up the wine menu, scanning the list of California reds, seeing the host of usuals from Napa, all with price tags to match and out of his new lifestyle. He skipped past them and saw a reasonably priced California Spanish wine from the northern San Joaquin Valley. He got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll take a bottle of the Bokisch Tempranillo and four glasses. Can you send it to the table where the redheaded woman is sitting?”
CHAPTER THREE
Sam watched as the waitress brought over the wine and glasses, setting them on the table.
“I think there’s some mistake,” the blond woman said. “We didn’t order any wine.” She pointed to the bottle of chardonnay.
“From the gentleman at the bar.”
All four women looked in Sam’s direction. One gave a cool smile, then shook her head. “Thank him for us, but we can’t accept.”
Sam, seeing the waitress reach for the bottle, walked over, saying, “I’m actually on my way out, but I heard you were celebrating. Four of you, four glasses, and a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. Enjoy.”
He started to turn away when the redhead caught his gaze, her green eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “You were at the beach today.”
The other women looked at him with renewed interest, the blonde saying, “You’re the one who saved that surfer. The hero.”
“Hero, no. Right place, right time? Yes.”
The brunette looked at her watch. “Speaking of time, we’re late.” She drained her wineglass, then pushed her chair back. The other two rose with her. She looked at her friend, who hadn’t moved. “Are you coming, Remi?”
Remi tapped the stem of her nearly full wineglass. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I finish this.”
The three hurried out, leaving them alone.
“Dinner reservations,” she explained, then nodded at one of the empty chairs. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”