Page 49 of The Bad Girl List

“Draw something for me,” he says. “I want to see what your ideas are. My dad wants to redesign our labels.”

“Sorry, no.” I shake my head. No way will I open that can of worms. If he finds out I was fired for my work on his family label, I’ll be mortified.

When he frowns in confusion, I add, “It’s my vacation. I want to focus on drawing fun stuff, like Tequila and your truck.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to try to hijack your vacation. I just like watching you draw.” The smile he gives me makes me melt. Oliver never once said he liked to watch me draw.

“Taste this wine now.” Trevor slides a glass in my direction. “This one is from Italy. The Sauvignon Blanc is blended with Viognier, which gives it a completely different profile.”

“Is Viognier another type of grape?”

He nods. “We have a small vineyard block of Viognier at the winery. We offer a limited release every year for our wine club members. It’s one of my favorite white wines.”

I take a sip, marveling at the flavor that washes across my tongue. “It is completely different,” I say. “I can’t believe it’s the same grape as the first one. What am I tasting?”

“Those are the floral notes from the Viognier,” he says. “It gives the Sauvignon Blanc a completely new dimension, don’t you think?”

He continues to chat about the wines while I listen, fascinated. I knew from what Annika said that there was a lot more to wine than meets the eye, but hearing Trevor talk about it is a thousand times more captivating than listening to my cousin.

The look in his eyes as he talks is something I haven’t seen before. My fingers itch to draw him, to capture the obvious passion he feels for his craft, but I decide against it. Trevor has seen me draw enough pictures of him. I don’t want my eccentric artist image to morph into something weird.

We fall into easy conversation, chatting about the Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, which has tropical qualities.

I try not to notice the way my body amps up the longer I sit here with him. I’m pretty sure turning me on should not be this easy, especially since we’re not even touching and I’m not even sure if this is a real date.

Trevor sips the wines with me. As he talks about the grassy notes found in the Sonoma County Sauvignon Blanc, we both reach for the same wine glass. Our fingers brush around the wine glass stem. We look up at each other, fingers still touching, neither of us moving.

I clear my throat and sit back. “Are you ready for Twenty Questions?” I’ve been thinking about things to ask him all day.

“Sure. Hold on, I have a list.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.

“You made a real list of questions?” I exclaim.

“This is from my mom. It took my dad less than five minutes to tell her all about you and your family after he left my house. She’s a stickler for details. I’m really glad you agreed to dinner, or else I’d be screwed.”

I haven’t mentioned the Moretti dinner to the aunties yet. I’m still working myself up for the lie. Hopefully, I’ll be up for it by tomorrow.

“Mom sent me a list of things to ask you,” Trevor says. “Have I mentioned my mom likes lists?”

“My family loves lists, too.” I lean forward. “Let me see.”

He flattens out the piece of paper. I scan it. “No allergies,” I say. “My Auntie Dee refuses to eat sushi, and Annika hates raw onions. No one is left handed. That’s a weird question.”

“Gramps is left-handed,” he explains. “He and my grandma had a certain way of sitting when she was alive so they wouldn’t knock elbows. My mom is really amped up for this, in case you couldn’t tell. She’s being extra thorough.”

“She sounds sweet,” I reply. “We’re plain water drinkers. We don’t need anything fancy.”

“Great, thanks. Let me send a text to my mom. She’s been bugging me since she found out about this.” He taps out a quick message before putting his phone back into his pocket and refocusing his attention on me. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, can I ask the first question?”

“Sure.”

“Favorite color.”

I blink. “Did you just ask an artist what her favorite color is?”

His brow rumples. “I thought that would be a perfect question for an artist.” He’s sincere, which makes me think he put thought into what he wanted to ask me. Could he be any sweeter?

“My favorite color changes constantly. Literally. For the last few minutes, I’ve been loving the rusty red of the sign behind you.” I point to the old metal Coke sign hanging from the fence that looks like it’s been exposed to the elements for at least fifty years. I hesitate, then add, “And right now, I really like the way the light hits the side of your face and makes your scruff turn this amazing gold color.”

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