It was nearly nine o’clock, but it appeared that with nowhere else to go, and several passengers stuck in the airport, the few facilities that were open were going to remain so.
We sat at a cozy table against the wall of the restaurant and ordered dinner.
“Care to see the wine list?” the waiter asked.
“Absolutely,” Brogan said, smiling at me in a way that made my insides shiver. He was gallant and gentlemanly, and his attention was focused on me in a way I wasn’t sure Paul’s ever had been. I didn’t think Brogan had looked at his phone once in my presence, actually. And Paul’s might need to be surgically removed from his hand.
And my god, his smile.
That smile was beginning to be dangerous. Every time he flashed it, I found myself squeezing my legs together tightly.
When the list was presented, Brogan asked if I saw anything I liked. I thought about bullshitting, but the guy had been hired to work at a winery. Probably not the best plan. “I’ll be honest,” I told him. “I usually just drink what’s poured for me. So much of it tastes the same.”
Brogan dropped the list to the table and let his mouth fall open in pretend shock. “No,” he said. “White and red definitely taste different.”
“Well, I did know that.”
“So which do you prefer?”
“White, I think.” I looked over the list of white wines. “What do you recommend?”
“Beer’s my thing, Dix. I know a little about wine, but to me, it’s all about what you like. I can’t stand having some snobby wank telling me that sweet wine is for little girls and California cabs are too fruity. That’s up to the drinker, I think. And if I want a nice little Finger Lakes Riesling, then there should be no judgment there.”
“Are we getting a nice little Finger Lakes Riesling?”
“No, too sweet.”
“Well, I agree with you, and I’ll admit to something totally stupid.”
“Stupid and wine-related? This should be good.” Brogan’s eyes glittered above the single candle on the table and he leaned forward slightly.
I noticed how the corded muscles stood out beneath the dark tan on Brogan’s forearms, the clean square cut of his fingernails. There was something about a man with nice hands. “I like pink wine, but I don’t order it because it’s embarrassing.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous.”
“I’ve been mocked.” I put my hands to my chest to show how deep the pink wine mocking had wounded me. “A man at a business dinner asked what I’d have and when I ordered a rosé, he actually rolled his eyes and wondered aloud why all women insisted on drinking pink wine.”
“Moron. You never treat a dining companion that way. Unless it’s my brother.” Brogan reached forward and put his hand over mine. “I’m sorry you were mocked.”
I tried to focus on Brogan’s words as he talked about how he believed that rosé held a very respectable place in the wine world, how French dry rosés and Spanish riojas were among his favorites when it was hot outside. But I couldn’t concentrate because his hand on mine was warm and soft, comforting and firm. And his skin touching mine ignited a burning sensation low in my belly, creating a needful longing for something more. It was very distracting.
“All right. Let’s do this the old fashioned way,” Brogan said, releasing my hand. “Close your eyes and put out your finger.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your index finger. Kindly extend it, and no peeking.”
I did as I was told, feeling ridiculous.
“Very good. Now just drop your finger down onto the wine list. Good, like that. And move it up and down until you feel you’ve found the perfect wine for us.”
“You can’t be serious.” I sat with my eyes closed, holding up one finger.
“It’s an adventure.” His voice held a broad smile that set my insides jiggling again.
“Fine.” I dropped my finger and stopped it just as I heard the waiter approach again.
“What will it be?”
I popped open my eyes to see Brogan peering at the words beneath my finger. “The Prosecco, please. Good choice, Dix.”
It was ridiculous, but Brogan’s encouragement stoked the growing fire in my belly further, and I adored the way he’d taken to calling me “Dix.” I wanted him to touch me again, but his hands were in his lap, grabbing at his pocket with an annoyed look creasing his eyebrows.
“Are you okay?” I hadn’t seen him looking anything but jovial—it was almost a shock to see him frowning as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Excuse me, I realize exactly how rude this is,” he said as he looked down. “Oh, no.” He glared at the phone.
“What is it?”
“My father. He was none too pleased when I told him about our situation. Just a moment. Excuse me.” Brogan rose from the table and walked out to the front of the restaurant, pacing the terminal as I watched him frown into his phone. He returned to the table looking chagrined. “I may have to go.”
“What? Where?” Dixie’s heart sagged low in my chest.
“My father’s private pilot was at JFK when this began, and Dad convinced him to try to fly in here and pick me up.”
“Is that even possible in this?”
“My father believes that anything is possible if you pay people enough. He said the pilot is making his approach now and that I should check the charter gate.”
I stared at Brogan in disbelief. “He must really want to see you.”
“It’s more about controlling the world, I think.” Brogan looked down for a moment at the still-open wine list. “Dixie, I’m really sorry. I wanted to eat with you, and drink wine with you. I hoped to get to know you better.” His amber eyes met mine and I found myself desperately wanting the same things. “Would it be all right if I call you when I get back?”
“Of course,” I said. I fished in my tote and pulled out a card, passing it across the table to him. “Be safe, Brogan. It looks awful out there. I can’t believe anyone is flying.”
“Come with me? I can convince him to stop through Oregon.”
I shook my head. I traveled often, but I didn’t enjoy less-than-ideal flying conditions, and taking off in a blizzard would certainly be more excitement than I was willing to sign up for, even if it would mean more time with Brogan.
“Oh, before I forget.” Brogan sat the small package in front of me, and then leaned over and kissed me quickly, sweetly. “See you again soon, Dix.”
I stared at him for a moment, unable to form words as my mind spun, trying to find a better plan to employ, one that would keep Brogan here with me. And as he smiled one last time, and then turned to walk away from me, my plan-ridden mind failed me utterly. I watched as he spoke to the waiter, and then the jean-clad legs of the handsome Irish brew master disappeared down the terminal, and I felt my heart sink. How much more disappointment could I possibly take?
The wine we’d ordered arrived just as I felt myself about to melt into a puddle of dejected Christmas misery.
“No thank you, I won’t be needing it now.” I couldn’t bring myself to meet the waiter’s eyes.
“The gentleman already paid for your meal, and for the wine.”
Of course he did. Because he’s perfect.
“Oh.” I found nothing else to say as the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured me a taste. I took a sip and nodded to him, and he filled my glass. I sipped the sparkling wine quietly as the waiter went about his business, helping the few other people dining nearby. I liked it—it had a kind of refreshing mineral taste I couldn’t quite put my finger on—but I didn’t feel much like drinking. Or maybe I felt like drinking too much, and the airport wasn’t the best place to get completely blitzed all by myself.
My dinner came, though I wasn’t hungry. I picked at my food and stared at the television over the bar, my eyes not really seeing the coverage of the furious storm blanketing the upper Northeast. The rest of the country was calm, it seemed. Only my tiny corner of the world had been completely shut down on Christmas Eve. My excellent spate of luck seemed determined to continue.