Page 17 of How to Say I Do
Wyatt scribbled his ranch into imaginary existence on the table between us. The vines he'd planted on a north-south slope, the blocks of Rhone Valley grapes—sirah and Mourvèdre—and the Spanish tempranillo and Italian Sangiovese he was cultivating. “I rooted these with mustang grapes,” he said, brushing his fingers over the place where he'd described twenty acres of cabernet sauvignon planted in the shade of an oak grove. “Wild mustang grapes are native to Texas, so they root deeper and grow stronger. They taste terrible on their own, but when they blend with another grape, and when the sun, and the rain, and the wind all cooperate, those flavors spin together gorgeously. Fruit-forward, jammy and intense, with a full mouth and a beautiful bouquet, but an airy finish that evaporates on your tongue.”
He could have been describing black magic. I was hypnotized by his voice, all those slow and steady rumbles doing more to paint pictures than my imagination ever could.
“It was my dad's idea to bring native Texas fruit into the rootstock. He was working on ideas for blending mustang grapes when he died.” Wyatt brought his hand between us. “And right here, behind the house, are the first vines we planted together. They're the oldest grapes I have: ten acres of petite sirah. I never blend those. Sometimes it's garbage, ’specially if I didn't do a good enough job in the growing season. But sometimes...”
“What do you call that one?”
“That one?” He swallowed. His hand brushed across the table like he was smoothing away the drawings he'd just etched onto my brain. “That one is called Son's Tears.”
He moved on quickly, describing the other blends he'd cultivated. Baby Boy, a tempranillo blend. Saddle Song, a rich and throaty cabernet. And Yellow Rose, his master blend, an evolving mix of Sangiovese, cabernet, and even some pinot. “She's my love,” he said. “Temperamental, and heartbreaking some years, but when everything is right, and when the grapes grow perfectly and the fermentation runs smoothly, and the sweetness and the tartness are balanced…” He sat back and beamed.
I could have listened to him for hours. I could have sat there until the sun rose, until the sky bloomed gold, and until he re-drew my entire world. I loved listening to him, and watching the way his eyes lit up, and how his fingertips danced as he explained each of his vineyard blocks. How he leaned in, and how I followed, and how he tipped his hat back so we could sit as close as a whisper. We were locked inside a dream, a perfect night on a perfect beach—
Until I yawned in his face.
Wyatt chuckled while I stammered and covered my mouth and wagged my hand between us. Jesus, he’d probably seen my fillings from fifth grade and my tonsillectomy scars.
“It's late. You gotta be exhausted.”
He was gracious, of course. I was dog tired, running on the last remnants of my drunken slumber. “What time is it?”
“After midnight.” Wyatt stood. “I'll walk you back to your place.”
That was ridiculous. My villa was far away, on the other end of the beach, but he wouldn't hear my protests. “It's just up the sand and back,” he said. “I'm happy to walk you. Besides, my dad taught me it's the right thing to do.”
We left the band behind as they started their last number. The ocean murmured beside us, running lace-covered waves up to our toes. There was no one else on the beach, and once the darkness swallowed up the El Amanecer, we were alone.
“So...” His voice tumbled on the sound of the surf, then hung in the space left behind. “What's on our honeymoon itinerary tomorrow?”
How was it possible he wanted to spendanotherday together? His ideal all-inclusive vacation couldn't possibly include saving my ankles or revisiting his oldest, deepest wounds for a stranger's curiosity.
Tomorrow was the day I’d been most looking forward to, though. I used to Zen myself out last year while struggling with difficult clients by imagining floating on tomorrow’s crystalline water, running my hands through waves of diamonds while the sun warmed up my soul.
I'd imagined Jenna with me, but, with a little mental editing, I could slot Wyatt into her place and imagine him and me together instead.
“Well,ifyou’re interested, tomorrow we will be whisked off to a hidden cay miles offshore, where there’s nothing but sand and surf and the two of us. We’ll have kayaks and paddle boards and snorkels, and all day to explore. Lunch will be catered to the beach of our choice. After, we can snorkel, or swim, or bake ourselves on the sand.” Or, it had not unsubtly been suggested to me months ago, make love with my new wife since we'd be the only people around. Privacy guaranteed.
“That sounds amazing.”
“You want to go?”
“Are you kidding? I already can't wait.”
“Are yousureyou don’t want a break from me? I’m a hot mess, Wyatt, I know I am. I mean, I always am, but especially right now. I’m…”
“I don’t want a break at all. I’m having a great time with you.” His shoulder brushed mine. “And I gotta say, you’re giving me a pretty awesome honeymoon so far.”
I laughed.
Wyatt stayed on the sand when we arrived at my villa. Someone had lit the candles inside all those glass hurricanes out on my deck, and the flickering light cast a glow across my slice of private beach.
“Beachside brunch again in the morning?” Candlelight caressed the curve of Wyatt’s smile.
“That was only for today.” The rest of the week was supposed to be breakfast in bed, me feeding Jenna honey-coated strawberries that I chased with champagne kisses. “But why don't you come over in the morning? We can order room service and eat out here.”
“Sure.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Does nine a.m. work?”
“That's perfect.”
