Page 21 of The Bad Girl List

The guy tugs on my hand. I slide from my barstool, flustered from the combination of his good looks, the accumulated effects of the Cosmos–and my sketchbook, which lies open on the floor with my drawing of Trevor for all to see.

Trevor pauses mid-step. I sense the moment when his eyes land on the drawing. I let out a squeak of horror and step on top of the page, inwardly wincing at the mark I know my sneaker is going to leave.

“My pencils.” I swipe up the sketchbook and stuff it into my cargo pants.

“Oh, shit, sorry about that.” Trevor steps around to help me as I turn to gather up the pencils. Our fingers brush as he drops a handful into my pencil bag.

Even his hands are attractive. Tanned, with long, strong fingers, remnants of dirt still under his nails. I’d draw them if that wouldn’t be totally weird.

“I’m so sorry,” he says as he watches me slip the pencil bag into a cargo pocket. “I didn’t mean to be such a clumsy ass. I’m a little drunk.”

“Are you sure it’s just a little? I saw you pounding wine on the other side of the bar like you thought someone else might get to it first.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Why did I say that? Alcohol always loosens my tongue, but not in a good way. Now he knows I was watching him.

Trevor’s eyes crinkle in a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. “Caught me. Should we see about getting that stain out of your clothes?”

I’m pretty sure there is no saving these clothes, but seeing that I’m now officially a starving artist, I’ll have to live with them. Besides, this is my chance to talk to Trevor, someone I’d never have the guts to talk to otherwise.

We weave through the people who have accumulated in the bar. I notice Trevor and I both walking with slow, careful steps, like the wrong misplaced foot might land us on our asses.

It’s definitely the case for me. My stomach has stopped trying to sever my spinal cord and now seems to be doing somersaults. If I wasn’t on a mission to drink until I puked, I’d be looking for a bottle of water right now.

“Watch your step.” Trevor pauses at the top of the wooden stairs that lead down to the parking lot, his hand gently grasping my elbow.

“Are you in any shape to hold me up?” I ask.

“Only because I plan to keep my other hand on the railing,” he replies. “Otherwise, I’d be in danger of tipping us both over. I mean, I already fell on you once. If it happens again, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I laugh. His eyes crinkle, and the two of us make our careful way down the steps.

When we make it to the bottom, he exhales. “I think I deserve a medal for that.”

“Two gold stars,” I reply. “One for getting yourself down the stairs, another one for getting me down the stairs.”

“Two gold stars, huh? Do I get two more if I get you to the car unharmed?” The drunken, sexy smile he gives me makes my knees weak. It’s such an unexpected change of expression–very much at odds with the haunted look I’d seen him wear in the bar–that it catches me off guard.

“I think you get gold stars just for standing here and looking hot.” Heat rushes to my face as I realize what I just said.

Trevor’s sexy smile morphs into a sexy grin. I begin to weigh the pros and cons of asking him to be my vacation fling.

“Come on.” He takes my hand. “My brother always parks far away so no one will accidentally dent the car.”

Still holding my hand, he takes me to a car at the far end of the parking lot. It’s so far from the vision I’ve cultivated of Trevor that I stop in surprise.

“This is your car?” My eyes sweep over the silver Tesla. I can’t reconcile the sexy, slightly dirty cowboy grape-picker driving something like this. “What do you call a grape cowboy?”

He gives me a slow blink, reminding me just how drunk both of us are. Did I really just call him a grape cowboy?

“This is my brother’s car,” Trevor says. “He likes flashy stuff. What was your second question?”

“You’re a grape guy, right?” I gesture to his clothes. “I mean, you look like a cowboy, but you said you don’t have any cows so I figure you must be a grape guy, but I don’t know what they call guys who grow grapes. You are a grape guy, right?” I’m babbling now, but my drunken mind can’t seem to get in front of my drunken mouth.

“The official term for a grape grower is vigneron, but no one around here uses that word. We just call ourselves farmers.”

“You call yourself a farmer?” I stare up at his tall form with the perfectly rumpled, dirt-smudged shirt.

“I know the media makes wine out to be sexy, but at the end of the day, it’s all about plants that grow in the dirt and working with the cycles of nature. You know, like with the moon and the gravitational forces that are always at work on the earth.”

---