Page 18 of The Bad Girl List

“Thanks, Gramps.”

“Anytime, Trev.”

I leave Gramps to his card game and find a seat at the bar, purposely not sitting with my brother. Partially because I am not up for small talk, but mostly because sitting halfway around the bar by myself gives me a clear view of the girl with the colored pencils.

Thomas sends Minnie down with a glass of red wine for me. I glance at it, then order an entire bottle of Cab from her instead. I’m on a mission to get so shitfaced that I fully expect Thomas to have to carry me to the car. There’s no reason to waste time ordering one glass at a time. This way, I can take care of my own refills.

Besides, Minnie’s conversation with the half-Asian girl is growing more animated by the second, and my brother is actively trying to insert himself into it. She won’t want me to keep bothering her every few minutes for another glass.

“You guys aren’t the only ones who get hit on,” Thomas declares. “You should see the cougars who come through our winery. If I was into that, I could be married to a kinky rich woman and kept in the luxury I deserve.”

Dear God. My brother and his mouth.

I take a long drink from my glass and hunch over, positioning myself behind my wine bottle in an effort to be subtle in my preoccupation with the artist girl. She takes a big swallow from her Cosmo, flips a page in her book, and resumes drawing. For a brief second, I think our eyes meet from across the bar, but it happens so fast that I’m not sure if I imagined it or not.

“Oh please,” Annika says. “You think you deserve the lap of luxury? Why? Because you happen to be pretty?”

“Oh, hell no.” Thomas deflects her obvious disdain with one of his big smiles. “It’s my charming personality that makes me a shoo-in for a life of luxury.”

The women laugh, both of them shifting their attention to Thomas, which of course he soaks up like a sponge. He loves being the center of attention, even if the women are giving him endless shit.

I can’t tell if the artist girl has noticed me or not. Strands of her black hair have come loose from her buns and hang in front of her face, almost like she’s using it as a curtain. I’d swear her eyes dart in my direction every so often, but I’m drunk enough by now that I don’t trust my perceptions. What the hell is she working on so intently in that notebook? I don’t know why I think she would be paying attention to me when she has my loud-mouthed, dynamic brother describing the over-the-hill women (his words, not mine) who flirt with him at the winery.

“Nah,” Annika says, “it’s not your charming personality the older women like. I’ve heard the rich old cougars like them dumb and moldable.”

“Oh, but not too dumb,” Minnie says. “They need to be smart enough to know where the pool towels and suntan lotion are kept.”

“You ladies are full of compliments tonight,” Thomas says, completely undeterred by their insults. “Not only do you think I’m hot, but you think I’m smart, too.”

The girls laugh. Thomas orders a round of drinks.

Now there’s a guy who is the walking definition of figuring out how to get to yes. Maybe he should be the one Dad grooms for sales. Thomas might have a wild side, but he’s nothing if not persistent. If he went after wine accounts with half the enthusiasm that he uses on women, Moretti Winery would probably double its revenue.

The girl flips to another page in her sketchbook and resumes drawing. Curiosity is getting the better of me. What is she drawing that has her so enamored? How is she not distracted by the antics of the three people right next to her?

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m working out various ways to start a conversation with her. What sort of girl is she? She’s obviously not the sort who’s into meaningless small talk, or she’d be up to her elbows with the others. Sitting next to her and cracking a joke is out of the question. I’m not nearly as funny as Thomas, and if his antics aren’t enough to get her attention, nothing I can say will top that.

What if I just sit down next to her and introduce myself? I quickly rule out that option. With wine on my breath and eyes that are obviously drunk, I’ll come off like a dumb jerk.

Or … maybe it’s not such a bad idea. With another few glasses of wine in me, the idea seems better by the second. The desire to talk to her is starting to feel like an itch I have to scratch, and it gets more intense with every swallow of wine.

By the time I’ve reached the bottom of my bottle of Cab, my head is good and foggy. The pain I’ve carried since Elle’s accident is distantly numb. Everything is just about perfect, except I still haven’t figured out a way to strike up a conversation with Zeke’s artist-in-residence.

I move halfway down the bar, eliminating five seats between me and the artist. There’s still an additional five stools between us, plus Thomas and Annika, but it’s the best move I’ve come up with.

Minnie is so deep in conversation and laughter with Thomas and Annika that it takes three tries to get her attention.

She saunters over to me. “What can I get you?”

“A bottle of the Moretti Old Vine Zinfandel.” It’s customary for winery owners to buy their own wine from local establishments. It’s seen as a classy way to support the business, and is a good way to get the staff to recommend the wine to their customers. The tip she’s going to get from our bar tab should make her night.

“Coming right up.” Minnie plunks the open bottle of wine down in front of me. “Enjoy, cowboy.”

“I’m not a cowboy. I don’t have any cows.”

Minnie rolls her eyes at me and walks away.

Someone else laughs. I look up in time to see the artist smother her mirth and duck her head. I stare at her a few seconds longer than necessary, my thoughts trying to catch up with what just happened.

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