“Fine,” I said if it was the worst prospect in the world. “What time?”
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Hudson caught that as he walked by us. The look he gave me was one of warning. And this from someone who actually liked Marco. I averted my gaze feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter.
I fled the brewery, changed my mind a hundred times, and finally reluctantly met Marco an hour later halfway between Sunset’s parking lot and the main building.
In terms of bad ideas, quitting my job and coming to Sunset Vineyards might just be one. But agreeing to dinner with Marco Grado? There was no ‘might’ about it. He was showered and still in jeans but...oh Rachel, what have you done?
“I should have told you to bring a sweater,” he said when he saw me with a spaghetti-strapped sundress.
“In August?”
“It can get cool on the water at night.”
On the water. Hmm. “I can go grab one.”
He grinned. “Or I can just keep you warm.”
“Marco—”
“Alright, alright. Come on. I have a sweatshirt in my car if you need it.”
Of course, he did everything expertly. From the boyish grins, to opening the door of his pickup for me, to asking if country music was ok as we drove. He was an expert dater, after all. I couldn’t even venture a guess as to how many women had sat in this very seat being charmed by him.
We talked about the day, about the brewery, and less than ten minutes later, Marco pulled off the street onto a dirt road.
“How does anyone even find this place?” I asked as we drove into the woods.
“Word of mouth. The only tourists here are ones that have some sort of inside scoop. But anyone who lives in Kitchi Falls, or on the north lake, knows about The Dock.”
I didn’t have to ask about its name. We pulled up to the tiniest building and, at first, I couldn’t imagine how anyone could fit inside. But as we got out of the truck, the restaurant’s namesake came into view. Apparently, the entire restaurant was a long dock all lit with white bulb lights. It looked like something out of a fairytale. There were so many lights. As we passed the building, I peered inside.
“There aren’t any tables in there. It’s just the kitchen and where the owner lives upstairs. It was his great, great grandfather’s house. Started out a lot like Grado, with just a card table in the backyard for friends who loved the owner’s cooking. Eventually they built this dock.”
“Why not add onto the house? Like an actual restaurant?”
“You can ask Freddie,” Marco said. An older gentleman greeted us as we approached.
“Freddie, meet Rachel Watson. Part owner of Sunset.”
The look he gave me was becoming all too familiar. Not entirely friendly. Definitely suspicious.
“Pleased to meet you, Rachel,” he stuck out his hand, and I shook it.
“She was just asking why you’re so stubborn about building an actual restaurant.”
I laughed. “I didn’t quite say it that way.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. The dock came first, and my father had no taste for expanding. And to be honest, I don’t really either. We do a good business like this. The dock sets us apart, so I’m content to leave it as is.”
“Obviously he could be doing even better business. It’s impossible to get a table here except on Tuesday or Wednesday. At least during actual dinner hours.”
Freddie gave Marco a look. “You did ok,” he said, bringing us onto the dock. “Only because I like your parents.”
We walked past diners on both sides of us. Beyond them, a smooth lake as dusk set and the daytime boaters gave way to more calm waters.
“You’re the best,” Marco said as he led us to the farthest table at the very end of the long dock.