Page 52 of One Wild Wish

I gripped the handlebar and killed the engine. Too bad I couldn’t silence the hammer pummeling my chest. “You’re a quick study, but I’d feel better if you had some lessons before your next ride.”

Unconcerned, she thrust her arms into the air. “I am such a rebel.”

An adorable rebel. “That you are. Now scoot back. We have a picnic to enjoy.”

I parked my bike farther down the path, grabbed my backpack and blanket, and guided Rachel to a shaded area protected by tall grasses and a towering willow tree. Growing up, my brother and I had hiked these mountains and explored the creeks and rivers, branches in hand, as we waged war for our kingdom. Kings of the land. It made for quite the wonderland as kids, but I also found hideaways, secret places I’d keep to myself. Like the secluded pond ahead of us.

Rachel shrugged off her jean jacket and peeled off the leggings she’d worn for the ride, practically skipping to the water’s edge. She kneeled down and dipped her fingers in. No pretense. No worry about muddying her sandals. The yellow straps of her sundress were nothing but strings, the loose fabric shifting over her tanned skin. Add the freckles and long hair, and she was the picture of summer.

I shook out the blanket and spread it on the grass. “Nice to see you in something other than black, gray, or white,” I said.

She grasped a handful of water and flicked it at me, missing by a mile. “Is that your version of a compliment?”

“No. It was an observation. If I wanted to pay you a compliment, I’d tell you you’re the most genuine woman I’ve ever known. I also might add that your beauty makes it hard to breathe.”

Her hand stilled in the water, the warm air shifting between us. “That was an improvement.”

“Did you want me to go on?”

She bit her lip and nodded. I could have continued for hours. Mentioned how her laugh filled my empty apartment, how her freckled curves brought me to my knees, how she was kind, and her impressive wine knowledge made me feel like she shared a connection to my happiest childhood memories. Instead I walked over and crouched in front of her, the birds, the frogs, the crickets all singing her praises. “You, Ray, make me feel alive for the first time in ages.”

A small squeak escaped her lips, her brown eyes a mirror of the sparkling pond.

Damn if it wasn’t true. She also made me want to be better. Admitting I was a Master Sommelier and wasn’t using my skills had coated my gut in inadequacy. I may have chosen my clothing and tattoos and piercings, but I could do a hell of a lot better than working at Rudy’s Tavern. For myself, sure. If someone like Rachel were in my life, I’d do it for her, too. Be proud of my work. Proud to be her man.

Before everything went to shit, I’d toyed with the idea of organizing larger events for the area, shining lights on smaller wineries eking by. I could still do it.

After I forced the winery carrying my name to right its wrongs.

I brushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, stealing a slow kiss. Just a taste. An amuse-bouche before the main course. “Now get your ass over to the blanket, so I can lay my bounty at your feet.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?”

“You love it.”

She didn’t admit it, but she didn’t disagree. A hint of progress.

She sat on her hip, tucking her legs and purse to the side. I spread out our feast: Manchego cheese, Castelvetrano olives, duck pâté, prosciutto, dark chocolate, sliced apples, and quince paste, all on a small wooden board. I’d wrapped two wineglasses in T-shirts, and Rachel unrolled them as I lifted a surprise from my bag. Nestled in a cooler sleeve was the 2010 Marcassin Chardonnay—perfection in a bottle.

When Rachel saw the label, she lowered the glasses and yanked it from my grasp, reading it as though it were a bible. “Would it be wrong to press this to my breasts?”

This woman was too much. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She actually smothered it between her tits, ecstasy on her face. Sometimes a guy just wished he were a bottle.

“I don’t want to open it.” She held it at a distance, her expression still dreamy. “Can I take it home and spend some time with it? Maybe open it in a week or two?”

“It’s wine, Ray, not a date. You don’t need to buy it dinner before popping its cork. Wine is meant to be enjoyed.”

“But”—she glanced at me, then down at her dress—“I should have worn something celebration worthy. This wine deserves black tie.”

I had on my motorcycle boots, ripped jeans, and a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt. Most people opening a Marcassin would be in slacks or a tux, piano playing in the background, a five-star meal about to be served. But this? The rustle of the willow branches, Rachel’s sundress, the glow of her freckled cheeks—it put that snobbish shit to shame. Instead of replying, I leaned back and yanked off my boots, tossing them and my socks to the side. Rachel smiled and kicked off her sandals.

I stood and helped her up, then led us to the grass. “Feel that?”

She wiggled her toes. “What?”

I flexed my feet, letting the blades wedge between my toes, cool and fresh. “Life. Everything out here is alive. Not just the birds and insects. The grass, too. How often do you let yourself slow down and feel it on your skin? Remember what it was like to play as a kid, stains on your pants, mud under your fingernails. We didn’t care, back then. Having fun was more important than wearing the right thing or driving the right car. As far as I’m concerned, being out here is a celebration.”