NAT
Jessie shoves me forward into the room so fiercely that I stumble and have to regain my balance. I then hear her slam the door shut to give us our privacy.
Subtle.
I know this dude Giovanni saw her do that. But clearly he’s trying to make a big sale, so he’ll pretend he didn’t. “Hi,” I say awkwardly, forcing a smile. “I’m Nat. And I’ll be the one thrust upon you this afternoon.”
“Giovanni,” he reciprocates, smiling. “So is there a wine I can interest you in?”
“I believe Jessie would like me to try your Orvieto,” I say, trying to couch my embarrassment as I walk up to him.
“Yes. I find her enthusiasm quite refreshing,” he says, pulling out a chair for me at the center table, which is now filled with six wines, each in appropriately shaped glassware.
As I take the seat and allow him to push my chair in, I realize this is sooooo not going to work. I’ll admit: The guy is very, very cute. Like so much so, you expect a film crew to pop out of nowhere and say, “Surprise! You’re on that NBC show where we secretly record single women to see how they’ll react when we put a former prom king right in front of them.”
The prom king looks make me uneasy, and not in the fun way. Too handsome. Notices-the-mirror-before-I-do handsome. Does-yoga handsome. Tries-too-hard handsome.
So I decide to get that exquisite elephant out of the room. “You know, if you had longer hair, you could be on the cover of a romance novel.”
“What makes you think I haven’t been?” he asks, deadpan, as he makes his way to his side of the table.
“Really?” I ask, a bit intrigued.
Giovanni smiles. “No. I just didn’t know what to say to that. It’s like you’re passively-aggressively complimenting me.”
“Oh, it’s not like that. I was totally passive-aggressively complimenting you. I’ll try to control myself.”
“Most women have to around me,” he says, opening his mouth and rolling his eyes to show me he’s just joking. “So, Natasha, which wine can I tell you about first? The Orvieto is the first glass on your left…”
“I’m actually more in a red mood, if that’s okay. What are in glasses four, five, and six?”
“Those are a flight of Brunello di Montalcino. I have a couple of good years here. Perfect with a rare steak and a gratin dauphinois.”
“You’d mix a French potato dish with an Italian wine?” I ask him haughtily.
Back off, Nat. The guy’s just doing his job. No need to pick a fight.
Giovanni puckers his lips as though debating his answer. Finally, he gives me an almost wicked smile. “See, I believe it’s important to mix things up when you can. Indulge in a little bit of everything. And, like the contrast of a French cheese with an American potato, American beef, and an Italian wine can be just as intriguing as an exquisitely beautiful woman clothed”—he eyes me lasciviously, despite the sweats—“in a deceptively casual ensemble.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sorry, do you write romance novels in your spare time? Who talks like that?”
“Oooo … she doesn’t like the compliment,” he pretends to say to himself. “I made her uncomfortable.” Then to me, “Try glass number four. It’s been aged five years.”
I take a sip. Much like him, it is smooth, gorgeous, and I could roll my tongue around it for a while. “That would actually be very tasty with a medium-rare filet,” I concede.
“See, I’d have pegged you for a rare girl,” he jokes.
“Oh, I’m a rare girl indeed,” I counter effortlessly.
“And your tastes lean more toward filet mignon than rib eye?”
“Actually, I’m more of a Chateaubriand for two, for one, kinda gal,” I say, playing along. “But a perfectly cooked rib eye can make me happy.”
“I notice you didn’t say ‘well done.’”
“Not before the date, no,” I say, sniffing the second Brunello di Montalcino.
Giovanni laughs. “So there’s going to be a date? Will I be cooking for you on this date? Or will you be cooking for me?”
I smile slightly. “I think you should cook for me. I hate cooking.”
“Really? Why?”
I shrug and smile bashfully. “There are just so many more enjoyable activities one can do in a kitchen.”
It’s amazing how easy it is to flirt with someone when you don’t really give a shit.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I hear Jessie mutter from the back. I jump up from my seat and race toward the storage room as I hear her complain, “I practically gave him to you gift wrapped and you—”
And I quickly open and slam the door. “Ow,” Jessie yelps from the other side.
Giovanni’s eyes widen in surprise. “Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s a drama queen. Look, I’m sorry. This was fun, but I can’t keep this confident Bond Girl thing going any longer. You’re awesome. But you don’t have to keep flirting with me just to make a few wine sales. Jessie means well. She’s pretty much engaged and wants everyone else to be in a relationship too. I’m sorry. I’ll be good now.”
He looks up at the ceiling in thought, then looks at me. “So, is this the moment where I continue the banter and say, ‘I’d prefer you bad’ or are you really telling me to back off?”
I want to shake my head a bunch of times really fast and say “Wha—?” Instead, I say, “You can continue flirting. I just didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.” Then I sip my wine.
“Once again, you’ve given me the perfect setup.”
I try to suppress my laugh, and wine goes up my nose. Giovanni chuckles. “Sorry.”
“Of course you are. How dare you be funny while I’m drinking?” I tell him mock sternly.
Giovanni laughs a little more. “So … I wouldn’t be able to cook for you, but would you like to go out tomorrow night? I have an extra ticket to the opera if you’re interested. Do you like La Traviata?”
I have no idea. I’ve heard of it but never seen it live. I know it was written by Giuseppe Verdi in the mid-1800s. I also know I hate opera.
But the Universe (or Jessie) has presented me with a good-looking, funny guy who’s easy to talk to. And no, he’s not Marc (whom I kind of miss), but he’s probably better than Marc. “You know what? I’d really like that,” I tell him.
“Great. Are you a night owl? Maybe we can do a drink beforehand and dinner afterward so we’re not rushing through dinner to get to the opening curtain?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say to him.
And it really kind of does.
Then my early thirtysomething woman brain kicks in (damn her), and I start thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t go out on the date.
“I know this sounds like crazy-girl behavior,” I begin awkwardly. “And I’m sorry about that. But I just got out of a rather complicated relationship, so I have to ask up front: You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?”
He smiles. “That’s not crazy. And as of now, no. But I met this really beautiful woman today. So I’ll have let you know after tomorrow.”
I look away from him and smile nervously. Though I can’t see him, I’m positive he’s still looking at me.
Then crazy brain takes over again. I snap my head back at him. “Wait. You mean me, right?”
I seem to amuse him. “Yes. I mean you.”
I grin. “That’s a coincidence. Because I met this really handsome guy today. Like, insanely handsome. Beauty-that-should-not-be-found-in-nature handsome.”
Giovanni nods, turns the corners of his lips down to signal, Not bad. Then he jokes, “Except his hair is too short.”
“Oh, so you saw him too,” I joke.
And we smile at each other.
Okay, he seems nice. And I wouldn’t kick him out of bed and all that. This might be just what I need.
I raise my voice to acknowledge Jessie, whom I see peeking out of the storage room. “We set up a date. You can come back now.”
Jessie charges out to us. “Yay!” she says while quickly taking a seat next to me. “And you’re going to love La Traviata. It’s all in Italian, but the opera company runs subtitles on a lighted board above the stage.”
“I do love Italian things,” I admit to Giovanni as flirtatiously as I can.
Though actually my mind is racing. Subtitles? Crap. I hate subtitles. Why can’t he take me to a Lakers game like a normal guy?