“Wiping the blood away.”
“I could have done that.”
“Oh,” I said. I stared at him for a few seconds, feeling mortified. I was trying to read his expression. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled, but I think he was a little shocked, too.
“No, what I meant was that I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel like they have to do something like that.”
“I know. I told you, I’m not squeamish. I just wanted to help.”
“Thank you.” He held the towel to his waist for a moment and then let his shirt fall. “I should get you up to your room. You must be exhausted.”
“Yes. It’s been a long, strange day.”
“Not all bad, I hope,” he said quietly as we shuffled up the stairs.
“What?”
“You said it’s been a long, strange day, but I hope it wasn’t all bad.”
“Definitely not all bad.” When we got to my door, I turned around before unlocking it. “Actually, I should thank you. You turned a pretty awful day around for me, even after I hit you with my car.”
He nodded. “Well thank you for sopping up my blood.”
“No prob.”
“My list is growing.”
I crooked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? What list is that?”
“All of the reasons why this is gonna be so hard.” I tilted my head, encouraging him to elaborate. He smirked. “Now you’ve added compassionate and tender to the list.” He leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. “Night, Katy, see you in the morning.”
Oh, that list.
I was beginning to make a list of my own, and the promise of seeing him the next day made my heart bounce around inside my chest.
Stephen who? I thought to myself with a smile.
• • •
In the morning, just as promised, an itinerary was shoved under my door. At the top, under the emboldened word WEDNESDAY, there was a list of breakfast items and the extension number to place my order. In the margin, someone had written, I recommend the eggs Comtesse or the eggs Blackstone (minus the bacon, of course).
Wow, this is amazing, I thought. Personal recommendations—and they know I’m a vegetarian.
Under the breakfast choices was a detailed schedule.
10:00 a.m.: Private educational tour of winery with Guillermo. Meet in lobby.
In small handwriting above “Guillermo,” there was a little carrot arrow and the words and Jamie written rather messily. Well, I knew who the annotating culprit was now, and I couldn’t stop smiling as I continued through the schedule.
12:00 p.m.: Private wine and food pairing experience with Chef Mark. And again, a little handwritten note with the words and Jamie.
2:00 p.m.: Facility tour with Susan. Instead of and Jamie, it said, I have work to do, young lady .
There was a big space and then Jamie’s writing again.
But, if you’re willing, the staff at R. J. Lawson would like to take you on a sunset sail in the San Francisco Bay. Meet in lobby at 4 p.m.
Wow, really? They’re going all out . . . or maybe Jamie is going all out . . .
After eating the best eggs Comtesse I’ve ever had, I searched my suitcase for something to wear. I had brought plenty of very reporter-looking clothes, not sure of what the weather would be like, but none of it was appropriate for impressing hot, rugged winery men. Spicing up the same black blazer was going to be a challenge, and then I remembered that I had brought a maroon camisole, something I would normally wear underneath a blouse. I went for it—my sexy silk camisole, the tightest jeans I owned, some heels, and the black blazer, for the sake of good form.
I decided I would tell Jamie as soon as I saw him that I had broken up with my boyfriend, but Susan’s warning scared me, and I wondered if I really wanted a fling with a man who lived two thousand miles away. Yes, with this one, I most definitely do, I couldn’t help thinking.
It was time to update Jerry, even though I had made no progress on the story. I dialed his number and it didn’t even ring. “This is Jerry.”
“I have a problem.”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“I’m serious.”
“Congratulations. You haven’t been serious about anything in a very long time.”
I often had these ridiculous back-and-forths with Jerry in which he would intentionally mock me or try to ruffle my feathers because he thought it inspired my writing. I was also ninety-nine percent sure that Jerry had undiagnosed ADD. Many days we ate lunch in the park together, sometimes Lincoln, sometimes Stanton. We’d eat our deli sandwiches and talk about life stuff. We would be having the most profound conversation about mortality or world hunger and Jerry would suddenly jerk his head around and say, “Oh man, look at that kite, it’s shaped like a giant squid!” I would never even attempt to take him to Millennium Park—forget about it. I know he’d just sit there and stare, mesmerized at those giant sculptures. His brain would go into overload and he would probably chant, “Big metal object, big metal object,” over and over. He did everything fast—he thought, ate, wrote, talked, even walked faster than the average person. His attention span didn’t last longer than a few seconds. His deadlines were sometimes unreasonable, and his brain rarely allowed for small talk in conversations, which made him a straight shooter.
“Jerry, stop.”
“Are you getting the dirt? That’s all I really want to know.”
“Yes, dirt is exactly what I’m getting. R.J. is kind of a dick.”