We make small talk on the drive over as he navigates the hills. It’s a warm day with just enough breeze to make it perfect. “Step” by Vampire Weekend plays in a lulling melody in the background.
“So, what exactly is it you do?”
“I’m a sommelier, which is just a fancy name for wine steward. I don’t like to call myself an expert, but I’m hoping to get there. My dream is to have my own label one day, my own vineyard. Nothing too fancy, just a place to grow my own grapes.”
He nods. “That’s admirable. What does one have to do to become a wine expert?”
“I studied viticulture and enology in school. I was practically raised on a vineyard during spring and most of the summer months. My parents rented the same house for years, so it felt like a second home. My mother said she loved the peace, but I think she loved it more because it was hard for me to get into trouble there.”
“You, trouble? That’s surprising.”
“I’ll have you know I appreciate good sarcasm.” He twists his lips to hide a smug grin and I have to rip my eyes away to keep in conversation. “Anyway, her ploy to keep me from becoming a pregnant teen paid off for both of us. I got interested in crafting wine, albeit it made me a little bit of an alcoholic at fifteen, but that’s how it came to be. But what she never discovered was I wasn’t the only kid isolated out near the grapevines.”
My confession wins me his suppressed grin. He glances over at me, his eyes drifting from the exposed cleavage of my sundress to my lips before darting back to the road.
“You are trouble.”
“I disagree. For the most part, I followed the rules and hid my rebellion well amongst the vines. Mostly in an old cellar.”
“We don’t have to go into the details,” he assures me with a pointed look. I love the little hint of jealousy that leaks from his words. It’s cute, if not a little premature.
“For now, I’m just taking odd jobs. I got back from France a year ago. I was there as an understudy to a world-class sommelier. I even got to test my own label.”
“How did it turn out?”
“I wasted a few vines,” I say with a laugh. “No one was impressed.”
“Sorry,” he says, catching my eyes briefly.
“You never know unless you try. It takes years to perfect a recipe and a fortune to execute. I’ll try again. For now, I’m just taking odd jobs, like last night.”
“Nothing to sneeze at.”
“I agree. Making a living in this profession has been a dream in itself. At the moment, I’m networking, and it’s paying off. I’m getting more and more offers. And there’s just so much more I could be doing if I wasn’t getting these gigs.”
“Such as?”
“I could get a job at a vineyard, get my hands in the dirt, run tours, or present in the tasting room.”
“Sounds nice.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re bored already.”
“And you’re here to change my mind and palate, right?”
“Right,” I say, feeling strangely turned on at the idea of winning him over. With easy traffic, the drive doesn’t take too long. When we pull up to the parking lot, there are only a few cars there. “Well crap,” I say, nodding toward a sign posted next to the entrance. It’s just after closing time. I glance over at him. “What now?”
He puts the SUV in park and lifts a finger. A man appears out of nowhere approaching us, and Lucas rolls down his window. “Mr. Walker, sir, happy to have you with us today.” The man eyes me. “Both of you.”
“Thank you,” Lucas replies genuinely. “I really appreciate this.” The man motions for us to park.
“Of course, the perks,” I mutter with a grin. He gives me the side-eye, and I raise my hands in defense. “I’m not complaining.”
It’s still a few hours before sunset, and we have all the time in the world to frolic…privately. I’m having a hard time concealing my elation. Huntington isn’t just a library. Attached are extensive grounds full of botanical gardens, a conservatory, and museums full of priceless art. We park close to the entrance and Lucas takes my hand to help me out of the SUV. His grip is warm, and when he slides his thumb over the delicate skin of my wrist, heat stirs in my belly before he lets go. Gathering the basket from the back, he again grabs my hand as we approach. At the entrance, an older woman stands in wait at the door without a hair out of place, a friendly smile on her face.
“Mr. Walker, welcome.”
“Thank you, this is Mila.”