Page 53 of One Wild Wish

She stepped closer, until her toes covered mine. “Then let’s celebrate.”

I cupped her cheeks, feeling the grass below me, the blue sky above, Rachel in my hands. “Sounds like a plan.”

I didn’t kiss her. One more touch and I’d be hiking up her dress and pressing her back into a tree. I slapped her ass instead. She jumped, rubbing her bottom with a playful scowl. We sat back down, and I picked up the Chardonnay, only to realize I’d forgotten the most important thing. “Shit.”

Rachel froze. “What?”

“No corkscrew.”

She smirked. “Well, Master Sommelier, it’s a good thing you brought me along.” Shifting on her hip, she tipped over her purse, spilling its contents onto the blanket.

How everything had fit inside was a mystery. “Remind me to bring you if I get stuck on a deserted island.”

She sifted through pepper spray, a few tubes of cream, small scissors, tape, paper, a whistle, Band-Aids, thread and a needle, mini flashlight, batteries, Advil…

I’d never understand the relationship between a woman and her purse.

I held up what looked like a bell. “Is this in case you lose your voice, the whistle breaks, and you need to hail a cab?”

She cackled, sharp and abrupt, the sound infectious as always. “It’s a bear bell. You know, in case grizzlies invade San Francisco and I need to ward them off. Always best to be prepared.”

When I chuckled, she added, “It’s my mother’s fault. She gives me all this stuff, worried I’ll rip a skirt and have to repair it, or that I’ll get kidnapped. Or aliens might land, and we’ll discover they can be killed with cortisone cream.” She held up three tubes.

“Seems plausible,” I said drily. “But why carry it around? Just tell her you don’t need the stuff.”

She pulled a Swiss Army knife from the pile and played with the attachments, opening and closing the corkscrew. “I know it’s silly. I’m twenty-seven. I shouldn’t do what my mother says or care what she thinks. It’s just, family’s important to me. Since my dad died, my mother’s anxiety has gone a bit nuts. If carrying this crap calms her, what’s the harm?” She passed me the knife, tossed her phone next to mine, and re-stuffed her purse.

“It’s nice that you care about her,” I said.

It’s also why I’d lied to her the other day.

I busied myself cutting the foil and twisting the corkscrew, guilt coiling with the movement. I shouldn’t have lied to Rachel, but if I’d told her the reason I’d joined the contest was to leak my family’s deceit, an act that would sabotage their winery, she’d have shut me down. Family was everything to her. I’d have to tell her eventually. If she stopped fighting our pull and things moved forward, there couldn’t be secrets. But she’d already been searching for excuses to cut me off. No point handing her the knife.

The cork eased out with a quiet pop, and Rachel clapped like a kid about to inhale cupcakes. She held out the glasses, and the golden liquid sloshed up the sides as I poured.

I loved the ritual of wine. The dance of man and nature—vines tended, grapes crushed, fermentation coaxing the fruit into greatness, and this. The moment of decision. Pass or fail.

Good, bad, or perfect.

I smelled the cork and Rachel did the same. Next we swirled the glasses, breathing in their bouquets. I didn’t want to sip mine yet. I preferred watching her lips touch the crystal, the flush of her cheeks and pleasure in her eyes as she swallowed.

“Holy shit” were the first words she managed. Then, “Like, holy shit. My mouth just had an orgasm.” She inhaled, taking in the sundrenched pond and blue, blue sky. “It tastes like this place.”

I resisted the urge to taste the wine on her lips, instead sipping from my glass. It really was a mouthgasm. “Lemon peel,” I said, the first taste on my palate.

She took another sip and shook her head. “Lemon meringue.”

Always the competitor. I swished my next taste, and there, just there, was the candied sweetness she noted. “Apricot marmalade,” I said, then we alternated suggestions.

“Chamomile.”

“Brioche.”

“Green apple.”

“Quince.”

She scrunched her nose. “Quince? Nope. More apple than quince.”