Wild Abandon (25 page)

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 —

Knock, knock.

I still have thirteen minutes until Nate arrives. I walk to the door, expecting housekeeping, but when I open the door, instead of a woman with a cart of cleaning products, there is a man.

A beautiful man.

A beautiful man wearing dark jeans, a black button-down, and wing-tip shoes.

A beautiful man with wide shoulders, a taut chest, and corded biceps that are partially uncovered by the rolled long sleeves.

A beautiful man with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and full lips.

And, to my surprise, a beautiful man with thick brown hair that is styled perfectly in a way that’s messy, and it makes me want to run my fingers through it.

His eyes are looking upward, as if trying to look at his own hair. An unsure expression on his face. “I was getting sick of wearing hats.”

I walk forward and raise my hand to touch a tendril. It’s short but just long enough to style. “I love it.”

As if he wasn’t already incredibly perfect in the looks department, this has totally driven him over the edge.

His shoulders relax, and he lets out a breath, causing me to laugh.

“Why so nervous?” I ask.

Nate shakes his head at me and smiles. “You have no clue, do you?”

I tilt my head at him. “About what?”

He closes his eyes and then looks down. He smiles to himself and raises his face, his olive-green eyes bearing down on me in the most intense way. “I’m taking you dancing.”

We step out of the cab and into the Boom Boom Room with its black-and-white-checkered floor, red ambient lighting, and low tumblers with tea-light candles. A long bar is to the right, and a jazz band is at the far end. The place is small, unassuming, and absolutely perfect.

With his hand on my lower back, Nate escorts me into the booth side of a small table for two. When I am seated, he takes the chair opposite mine and moves it so that he is directly next to me. Shoulders touching, knees brushing, and a belly fluttering—mine, that is.

He orders our drinks—Jack on the rocks for him, the local stout for me.

“You look happy.” Nate takes a drink, giving me a chance to admire the way his lips wrap around the glass. He looks happy, too. With the new hair, he looks so different. Softer.

“This has been a day of trying new things. I’m surprised you chose something you thought I’d like. I was afraid you might have me base-jumping off the bridge or something.”

“I tried but was told it’s too windy today. Alcatraz was my second choice.”

“Nate, you are a true romantic.”

“You look beautiful. How’s that for romance?”

“It would be romantic if you meant it. And it’s definitely not romantic since you are not romancing me.”

“What if I were? What if this were a date, and I had changed my shirt three times after spending a ridiculous amount of time on my hair because I hadn’t done it in years?” He stops, and his eyes turn dark. “What if I were trying to romance you?”

I swallow hard, trying to push down my heart, which is now lodged in my throat. “I’d say that what you just said was quite possibly the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.”

Nate leans in, his warm skin on mine. “Even more than the fact that I spent last night counting stars, thinking of all the reasons I like you, and that I ran out of stars?”

I blink and sit back a bit. “You did not!”

“You’re right. I didn’t,” he says.

The spell is totally broken, and my heart comes down and lodges itself right back in my chest.

“But if I had, would it be romantic?”

“No. It would be total cheese!”

“Noted.” He laughs into his glass, and I take a huge gulp from my own. “Do you want to dance?”

“You dance?”

“I dance.”

So, we dance. The place got packed quickly, and we have to move through bodies to get to the front of the stage where a band is performing. There is free space on the dance floor, most people just standing and enjoying the music. We do that thing where you stand and sway, our eyes mostly on the band, not each other. At least, mine are on the band. Looking to my side, I see Nate. He’s focused solely on me. I have no choice but to acknowledge my evening companion and draw my body toward his.

And draw it does. As soon as I am facing him, truly in orbit of him, his hands find the sides of my dress, and they pull me in, hold me tight, and sway me to the intense jazz being played.

Polyrhythmic jazz.

The music of two different and conflicting rhythms playing simultaneously, beating through the air, creating a blended sound so perfect that we can’t
not
move with each other. We are the sounds. Two different people, coming from different worlds with dissimilar interests and paths that should never have crossed. Yet here we are. Dancing to the rhythm made especially for us.

Our hips move in sync, our chests brushing, as they should. But my eyes are so focused on his shoulder that I’m afraid if I look up, I’ll get caught. Caught with the intense attraction I have yet am supposed to stay so far away from.

And because I’m an idiot and a fool, I look up. I look up into his soulful eyes. I look up into his intense features.

Nate lowers his forehead to mine, keeping our eyes locked. I wrap my hands around his neck and allow myself the luxury of being drawn into him, fully, wholly, and in a way I have been craving since that night in the poolroom. Since the night those full lips were on mine, and his strong hands roamed to places I have been dreaming about ever since.

Am I allowed to have these feelings for someone who doesn’t want me in that way?

Am I allowed to have these feelings for someone who is taken by someone else?

Probably not, but I can’t do anything but let him hold me, move me, as I pretend for just a few minutes that he is about to kiss me because my mouth wants his on mine so bad that I can’t stand it.

Nate’s hand lowers to my hip, hovering in dangerous territory, pushing boundaries, crossing the line. I allow my hands to drift from their clasped position behind his neck and run my fingers through his hair and up his scalp where they lightly pull at the ends. He groans lightly, so I release my fingers and drag them down along the sides of his neck. His breath hitches when I brush the sensitive skin.

When he finally lowers his fingers and digs them into my skin, I exhale so loudly that it’s as if I was holding my breath. He takes in a deep breath of his own. Our chests are so close that I can feel his heart beating. It’s pounding through his skin.

We move and sway and are so close that our noses touch. We’re two fighters in the ring, practicing a series of intense holds. Fighting each other, our moves are so intense that you can’t tell who’s winning.

Our lips.

Our lips stay on their sides of the ring. Not ready for battle.

The music turns fast, as fast as Nate’s racing heart, and we are suddenly aware of how foolish we must look, clutching at each other in the middle of a jazz club. And when I feel the intense bulge of Nate pressing against my core, I become so aroused that I let go of him and excuse myself to use the ladies’ room.

After waiting in the long line, I finally make it in and hover over the sink, allowing myself a moment of privacy to compose myself.

I look into the mirror. My cheeks are flushed. My hair is an intense mess of curls. My lips could use some gloss. My eyes could use an extra swipe of mascara.

Feeling like a friggin’ mess, I adjust my dress, which still looks spectacular, comb through my hair, swipe under my eyes, pull my shoulders back, and set back into that bar.

When I get back to the table, Nate is there, his elbows on his knees, looking off to the side in thought. As I walk toward the table, he looks over and immediately straightens up. His eyes widen at my approach.

I sit back down and see I have a fresh glass in place. “Long line,” I say, almost as an apology for taking so long. I don’t know why I do that. As if a woman can’t stand the thought of a man thinking she took a long time in the restroom.

He’s studying me. Why is he looking at me like that? I grab my cocktail napkin and wipe my nose, making sure I don’t have anything hanging out.

“I like your hair like that,” he finally says.

I lower the napkin.

“Thanks. It’s a mess.” I wave off his compliment.

“It’s gorgeous,” he states. “The day I came to the ranch, you had it up, and the curls were falling down. It was pretty.”

From flush to blush, I feel my cheeks redden. So much for the girl who doesn’t blush. “I like your new look.” I gesture to the hair that is now sticking up a little in the back from where I ran my hand through it.

He smirks from the side of his mouth. “I heard women like a man with hair they can grab.”

And, now, my cheeks are insanely red, I’m sure. I lift my shot glass and drink it. Nate does the same.

We spend the next two hours drinking, listening to the band, and dancing. When we drink, we toast to something ridiculous, like our new hair or Uncle Jesse from
Full House
, or the fault line. When we listen, it’s with pointed ears. He asks me questions about music, pulling whatever knowledge he can from me, for a better understanding of what he’s listening to. And when we dance, it’s with a safe distance. No more intense holds or hair-tugging. We have found our rhythm. Two different pieces of music, playing side by side, not gelling together.

When we exit the cab at the Radisson, I trip over my heel, and Nate has to help me walk straight. I have a sense of déjà vu but know that I am far from drunk. I had a great time. I drank, I danced, I laughed, and I am deliciously buzzed. But not drunk.

“There she goes with the bom, bom, bom,”
Nate starts singing.
“Her hips, they sway with the bom, bom, bom.”
His eyes are closed, and he is pretending he is the rapper who sings the verse,
“It’s guerrilla warfare with her bom, bom, bom—
ouch!”

I took my shoe off my wobbly foot and am hitting Nate in the chest with it. “You know the words?”

Nate is backing up and using his hands to block my assault on him. “I might have watched it once”—I hit him again—“or twenty times. Seriously, woman, put down the shoe!”

I hold it up over my head. “Or what?” I dare.