I stood next to him and watched as he popped open a small container with test strips and then inserted one into the meter. He took a smaller device, a lancet, I assumed, and pricked his finger then smoothed the drop of blood over the strip extending from the meter.
“One hundred exactly. I’m good to go.”
“What do you do when it’s too high or too low?”
“Well, my ever-curious little kitten, I’ll tell you all about that tonight when we go sailing. You’ll need to know.” He winked.
That little tidbit made me nervous. “Why will I need to know?”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the restaurant, ignoring my question. “Come on, I’m starving.”
The restaurant had a bar stretching around the open kitchen. Jamie explained that it was designed so guests could get an up-close experience with the chefs, who prepared their signature dishes and offered the guests wine pairings. The restaurant, called Beijar, was finely decorated and lit, with dark, rich booths and muted lighting against the stark light from the kitchen. The effect highlighted the clean, stainless-steel counters and drew my eyes to where the magic happened. I had no doubt Beijar was an experience as much as it was a meal.
We took our seats on the stools at the kitchen bar. Before Chef Mark came in, I swiveled toward Jamie. “Where did they get the name from?”
“It means ‘kiss’ in Portuguese.” When I was with Jamie I forgot about everything else. Just the word “kiss” coming out of his mouth could freeze time.
“Oh.”
“Food is like love, you know?”
“Yes,” I said breathlessly.
“We need it to stay alive.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And wine is like poetry.”
His words, his warmth, were like a stun gun to my brain. I was conscious of nothing but his words. “Oh?”
“If it’s good wine.” He revealed his dimple. “If not, then it’s a tragedy.”
I realized that he had dimples on both cheeks, but his smile was always just a little crooked so it only showed up one side. Adorable.
“Is it Portuguese food?”
“Not really. There’s a little inspiration, but it’s traditional American, farm to table.”
Chef Mark entered. “Hi, Kate.” He reached over and shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Chef.” He wore the standard white chef’s shirt and a black bandana across his hair, tied at the back of his neck. He was an average-looking guy of forty, at least, but his presence was strong. I imagined that he could command a busy kitchen of chefs and servers.
Jamie reached over, shook his hand as well, and said, “Chef.”
“Hey, buddy.” Clapping once, he suggested, “Why don’t we start with a salad trio?”
“That sounds fabulous.” Jamie got us glasses of water and opened a bottle of the Pinot while Chef Mark got to work. He poured me a glass but only poured himself a quarter of the amount.
“Why so little for you? Are you sick of the wine?”
“No, I love the wine, but I can’t have too much because of the diabetes. I can taste it, though. I’d like to have some with you later, so I’m saving up.” My heart did a somersault.
Chef Mark set a plate in front of me, describing each of the four salads as he pointed them out. “Heirloom tomatoes. Avocado and corn in a light vinaigrette. Quinoa with mango and red peppers. And, finally, beet and kale with goat cheese. Enjoy.”
I took a bite of the avocado coated in dressing. Jamie watched my mouth as I chewed.
“What do you taste?” he asked.
“Shallots and lemon and avocado.” I took a bite of the tomato. “That is perfection.”
“We grow those in a hothouse on the estate. The big tomatoes are harder to grow outside in this region.”
Chef Mark asked me how I was enjoying the salads. He mentioned that there weren’t a ton of vegetarian dishes on the menu but that he would try his best to make accommodations.
“Well, I eat seafood, too.” Jamie and Chef Mark both jerked their heads back.
Leaning in, Chef Mark spoke in the gentlest voice. “You are not a vegetarian, sweetie. You’re a pescetarian.”
“That sounds like a religion.”
Jamie laughed and looked over at me with a pitying expression. It was funny how I had berated Stephen on the very topic of being a vegetarian, but here I was getting lectured myself.
“This opens up many possibilities for us. Halibut or salmon, which would you prefer?” Chef Mark asked.
“Surprise me.”
“This opens up possibilities for me, too,” Jamie said, turning his body toward me.
“How’s that?”
He took my fork and stabbed the last piece of avocado off my plate and held it to my mouth. I opened for him. “I like feeding you. I want to take you into the city tomorrow night for dinner. Will you let me do that?” I had swallowed the avocado and now my mouth was hanging open. I must have looked like a moron. He shook his head and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “There’s no more. It’s all gone, angel.” I shut my mouth and shook my head, inhaling through my nose deeply to clear my head. I still couldn’t believe his effect on me.
“So, will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow?”
“Okay.” Positively, undeniably, absolutely, emphatically, definitely, one hundred percent YES!
We finished the lunch, which I could only describe as erotic, although I don’t think Jamie was intentionally trying to make it that way. He fed me the last little bites off my plate, clearly a stickler about wasting food, but it was the attention that he gave me that lit my insides on fire. Never in my life had anyone given me that kind of attention. I sat there trying to commit each moment to memory so I could relive it later when I was . . . alone. Ahem.
Jamie was still a mystery to me. Even though it felt like I had known him forever, I hadn’t asked him one real question about his life, his family—nothing. I made a mental note to do that and then I scolded myself for getting tongue-tied around him. I could not let that happen anymore. He practically hypnotized me with his looks alone. Add to that his words and his sweet mannerisms, and he fully entranced me. I thought about his thumb on my lip and how at ease I was with him. When we parted ways after lunch, I glanced at my phone and calculated the hours until I would see him again.
Susan and I met in her office for the facility tour. She basically took me through each of the buildings and explained the inspiration for the architecture and décor. She informed me that the inn and restaurant were legally on a separate piece of property from the winery itself. She said R.J. had gone to great lengths to make sure that the entire operation abided by all of the strict rules handed down by the Napa County Board. She said that he had paid more than the winery was worth, and it wasn’t a matter of him throwing his money around so much as it was his passion to give the pleasure of this beautiful place to others. She referred to the winery as his escape. I couldn’t see that at all. He seemed barely involved. When I tried to pry deeper into the dynamic between the employees and R.J., she skirted the issue.
“I just didn’t see one redeeming quality in him, but I keep hearing about all of the wonderful things he’s done. Jamie called him a ‘douche’ on the first day and you said yourself to forget about him.” She studied me intently as I spoke.
“Let’s just say he was having an off day. I would recommend that you focus on the winery and operations, not whether or not R.J. is living up to his reputation. If he wants anonymity, what’s wrong with that?”