Page 35 of The Bad Girl List

I skid to a halt, mouth hanging open.

My dog is on the ground, the frayed end of her leash dangling in the gravel. She’s draped across the lap of a young woman who sits cross legged with a notebook–no, a sketchbook–laying open on her thigh. With her left hand, she strokes the head of my three-legged dog. Her right hand moves in sure, steady lines over the open page of her book.

Our eyes meet. The surprise that flashes between us is like a lightning strike. I had not expected to lay eyes on Dominique Chen ever again, and if her expression is anything to go by, she hadn’t been expecting to see me, either. We stare at each other, neither of us saying anything. Her hair is pulled up in the twin buns I remember so well from last night. She looks hot as hell in her black crop top and dark green cargo pants.

Tequila gives a soft yip, laying her ears flat as she snuggles her head into Dom’s lap.

I’m not sure what’s more disturbing. Seeing the gorgeous girl I almost screwed in a drunken haze in the back of my brother’s car, or seeing my dog in her lap.

Tequila doesn’t like anyone. Not my mother, not my sister, not my brother, not my grandpa, and not my dad. She doesn’t let any of the vineyard workers get near her, either. The only person on the planet who can touch her is me.

Yet here she is, snuggled in Dominique’s lap as if the two of them are lifelong friends, looking up at me with her big eyes as if to say, Is this okay, Dad?

Dom is the first to break the silence. “Trevor, hi. What–what are you doing here?”

“I work here.” I heft the rack of glasses in my hand for emphasis. “What are you doing here?”

“Passport tasting,” she says. “I, uh, have a bit of a hangover. And I don’t like big crowds.” Her face flushes when she says this, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about the back of my brother’s Tesla. “I came back here to get a break and I found this dog. Isn’t she cute? Does she belong to the winery?”

“Yeah, she lives here.” Tequila, the traitor, flicks her eyebrows in my direction, but doesn’t stir from Dom’s lap. “What are you drawing?”

“This truck.” Her eyes brighten as she looks at the rusty, chipped-paint of my beloved vehicle. The one Thomas loves to give me shit for driving when I have a twin to the Tesla like his parked in the barn.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Dom continues. “I mean, I just love its character. It makes me think of the Cars movie.” She bends back over her sketchbook and picks up another pencil, adding some lines to her drawing. “I know everyone else likes Ferraris and those other fancy cars we saw in the parking lot, but none of them have a story to tell. I’d take this truck over your brother’s Tesla any day. No offense to fancy cars,” she adds, flushing again. “They’re just not my thing.”

While getting dressed this morning, I’d convinced myself the girl I had met last night was not half as gorgeous as I remembered her being. I’d had my drunk glasses on, clearly. No way could she have looked like she stepped off the set of a movie.

But I’d been wrong. If anything, my drunk glasses had made her out to be even less beautiful than she is. Under the shade of the olive trees, with loose strands of hair around her face and my dog in her lap, she takes my breath away. I can’t believe how I manhandled her. This is a girl who deserves to be wined and dined, not pawed by a drunken idiot.

“Can I see your picture?” Despite myself, I take a step in her direction.

Unbeknownst to me, a gnarled root from one of the olive trees has it out for me. It lunges up out of the ground, wraps around my ankle, and trips me.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. In reality, I’m so busy staring at Dom that I don’t even see the old root.

I trip. The rack of glasses flies out of my hands.

Life turns into a time-lapse film. The dirty wine glasses somersault through the air, heading straight for Tequila and Dom. My dog yips in alarm and leaps up, hopping for the undercarriage of my truck. Dom’s sketchbook is tossed from her lap as she recoils from the wall of dirty wine glasses coming her way.

All of this happens in a millisecond, but I see everything. It’s like watching a horror movie on steroids.

The plastic rack lands on the ground in front of me. I trip for a second time, catapulting over it. Dominique’s eyes widen as she sees me coming for her, but she can’t move faster than I can fall.

I land on top of her. Wine glasses smash between our bodies. Her cry sends a spike of alarm through me.

I plant my hands on either side of her body, pushing myself halfway up. “Are you okay?” My legs are sprawled over hers, and without meaning to, I notice how good she feels underneath me.

Then I see the little cuts all over her arms and exposed parts of her chest and stomach, and the smashed glass littering her clothes.

Is it really possible to destroy two sets of a girl’s clothing in less than two days? Yes, apparently. For Trevor Moretti, such a thing is possible.

“Oh, shit, you’re bleeding.” I extract myself and help her sit up.

“I’m okay.” She picks a few of the shards off herself, looking a little shaken as small rivulets of blood seep across the exposed parts of her skin.

“I am such a clumsy dumbfuck.” Before I can consider what I’m doing, I sweep her up in my arms and hustle her over to my truck. “I’ll take you to my house. I have a first aid kit there.”

There’s a first aid kit in the tasting room, too, but I don’t think she’d like everyone staring at her. There’s also my dog to think about, who I can’t let wander around. And maybe there’s a tiny part of me that wants to be around her without any distractions.

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