Nowhere but Here Read online

  “Yes, I have a million questions,” I said quickly.

  “I think Jamie can help answer most of them, he really knows his way around here.”

  I nodded. “Okay, it was so nice to meet you. Thank you.” I reached my hand out, and he shook it. “You’re welcome, mija.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek in a familial way that made my heart warm.

  Jamie came in, rolling a barrel on its side. As he passed Guillermo, they nodded at each other. Chelsea plopped down in the corner on the cold concrete.

  “Katy, are you ready for this? He turned the barrel upright and removed the lid. I leaned over and inhaled a mixture of aromas. It was sweet and sour, earthy and oaky—a pungent but natural smell. I could see the glimmer of grapes at the bottom as the light hit them.

  He was watching me. “Well, shoes off.” He grinned, grabbed a bucket, and turned it upside down so I could sit.

  I removed my shoes and socks a bit reluctantly. “Am I going to ruin these grapes?”

  He knelt in front of me and began rolling up my jeans from the bottom. Then he held one foot out and examined it. I was terribly self-conscious in that moment. Jesus lord, is he checking for fungus?

  “I will personally drink every drop of wine made from these cute little feet.” He wiped my feet off with a damp rag and then spread it on the floor for me to stand on. “You might want to take off your sweatshirt. You’re probably going to get hot—it’s hard work, grape-stomping.”

  Remembering that I was only wearing the camisole underneath, sans bra, I panicked. “Um . . .”

  He flashed me the most self-satisfied smirk. “I’ve seen you in your underwear already.”

  “I have a tank top on,” I huffed, and then removed my sweatshirt. The camisole fell an inch above the top of my jeans, exposing my midriff. It was fucking silk and I was braless. Can you say zero class?

  Still grinning, he squinted his eyes as he scanned my attire. “I don’t know if I would call that a tank top, Katy, but I like it. Let’s get you into this barrel. Okay, put your hands on the top. On the count of three, you’re gonna jump and I’ll lift you in.” He stood behind me, very closely, and put his hands on my hips. “One,” he said in his normal voice. He smelled of cardamom and musk from working but his breath smelled fruity. “Two.” He tightened his grip. This was taking way too long. My spine was tingling and my legs were losing all feeling. He leaned in, pressing himself against me. Oh my. His mouth hovered right over my ear. “Three.” Chills shot through my entire body, my knees buckled, and I started to collapse. Holding me up, he chuckled. “You’re supposed to jump, silly.”

  Fighting a smile, I turned around and faced him in mock anger. “Well, stop whispering in my ear like that.”

  “You liked it.”

  “You’re making me shy, and I am not a shy person.” I took a deep breath through my nose to steady myself.

  “I promise, my goal is not to make you shy.”

  Turning back around, I jutted my ass out, forcing him back a few inches. He stepped back but still held a firm grip on my hips. “I will count,” I said firmly.

  “Okay, baby.”

  Goose bumps. Again. Just from the word “baby.”

  “One-two-three,” I yelled in fast succession and then jumped. It was like floating; there was suddenly no gravity, and time slowed again. I closed my eyes and thought I would open them to find myself free-falling through a wild galaxy full of marshmallows and Sweet Tarts and chubby little cherubs playing tiny, heart-shaped lutes.

  Back to reality, I bent my knees to clear the top of the barrel. Jamie lifted me effortlessly, as if I were a child. I stretched my legs, my feet touching the grapes. I squished my toes into them and giggled for at least twenty seconds while he watched me.

  “Start crushing, lady.” Jamie held the barrel steady while I stomped around, laughing. The grapes were tougher than I thought they would be, but still squishy enough that they tickled me a bit. I paused, took a deep breath, and wiped a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

  “Why are you so happy?” I said to a smiling Jamie.

  “You really seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  “I am.” I stomped around a bit more and then paused again. “You’re right, this is a workout.” I glanced down and noticed my silk camisole sticking to my body. Jamie followed my gaze and then looked back up at my eyes. I saw the movement in his neck from swallowing and then I watched his chest rise and fall on a deep breath. I felt my nipples harden against the material.

  “Can you help me get out?”

  “Sure.” He stood behind me again. “Jump and pull up your knees to your chest.”

  When I jumped he grabbed my hips, lifting me high above the barrel, then set me down on the towel. He put the bucket behind me and I sat down.

  Kneeling in front of me, he carefully cleaned every bit of grape from the bottoms and tops of my feet and between my toes. When he hit a ticklish spot, I jerked. “Ah, Kate Corbin, the always serious investigative reporter, first on all the breaking news, is ticklish!” He grinned impishly.

  “No, no, no!” I shouted as he began a brutal assault on my feet, pulling me toward him off the bucket. I fell to the floor and began rolling around, tossing and turning like a freakin’ animal. “Stop, please!” I began mock-crying. At this point I was lying on the concrete warehouse floor, flat on my back. He stopped immediately and leaned over me, a knee on either side of my hips, his hands planted on each side of my head. He was on top of me, essentially, and he was searching my eyes. There were tears in my eyes, but not sad tears.

  “Are you seriously crying?”

  “More like laugh-crying. I hate being tickled.” He jumped up to his feet and held his hands out for me.

  “You scared me, Katy. I thought I had hurt you.”

  “No, it’s just a little embarrassing to be tickled by an almost-stranger.”

  “We’re friends, remember? We decided last night.”

  “Oh right, friends,” I said hesitantly.

  His eyes were trained on my mouth. “Friends,” he said again.

  I nodded quickly and then looked away in embarrassment. I could feel red splotches appearing all over my face. My thoughts had gone way beyond friendship with Jamie, and I had only just met him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at his watch. He was wearing a plain black Luminox, the kind Navy SEALs wear.

  “Are you a diver?”

  He looked at his wrist again. “No, I got to hang out with the SEALs once and they were all wearing these watches. I thought it was cool, so I got myself one.” He smiled a really boyish and innocent grin.

  “Why were you hanging out with the SEALs?”

  “It was one of those school field trip things a long time ago,” he said quickly. “It’s eleven thirty, I need to go get cleaned up before we meet Chef Mark. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at noon?” I nodded. “Can you get back okay?”

  “Yes, I’ll see you over there.”

  Walking through the vineyard, I fantasized about what might’ve happened in those next few moments on that warehouse floor with Jamie as he hovered over my body. I would reach up and take his hat off, watching his hair fall to the sides of his cheeks. I would run my fingers through it, and then he would lean down to kiss me.

  Just when his lips were about to touch mine, I was jolted from my daydream by the buzzing of my phone. It was a text.

  Stephen: I had the super open ur apartment so I could return some of ur stuff.

  What the hell? I thought.

  Kate: STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE

  The cursor rested just after the word “alone” before I hit SEND. Staring at it, I thought about my life in Chicago, and it made my stomach ache. I thought about Stephen with another woman. I thought about Rose and my mother and Just Bob
, all alone, all their lives. I wondered what hurt more: the kind of loneliness you feel when no one is around, or the kind of loneliness you feel when the person who is supposed to love you doesn’t care at all, not even enough to fight with you, let alone fight for you. Have you ever felt lonely in a crowded room? Have you ever felt alone when you are not? It hurts far more, and I didn’t ask for that pain. I realized in that moment that Jamie made me feel that I could be, at the very least, at the bare minimum, worth coming home to.

  I hit SEND Almost immediately, he responded.

  Stephen: AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE A WRITER? IS THE F-BOMB THE BEST YOU CAN DO?

  Kate: GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

  Would Stephen fight for me?

  Stephen: HAVE A NICE LIFE.

  Guess not.

  Page 7

  * * *

  Poetry

  While visiting my room and cleaning up, I decided to go back to a blazer and flats instead of heels. Heels somehow seemed out of place here. I headed toward the restaurant and caught Jamie standing in the doorway of his truck. Hearing me come toward him, he turned. “I have to meter really quick before we eat.” He was wearing a clean white T-shirt and black jeans with Converse. His hair was damp and slicked back. The growth on his face was thicker than the day before, and I wondered what it would feel like to brush my cheek against his.

  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 t
he 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?”

  “It’s not in my nature to give anyone anonymity. I came here to get the story on him.”

  “I can see that. I left his e-mail address on a note in your room. You can send him any more questions you have, but I really believe you will get the best information here, on the grounds.”

  We left each other abruptly. I got the sense that Susan liked me but was perhaps frustrated with R.J.’s distance and lack of participation.

  I went back up to my room and began to draft an e-mail to R.J.

  Dear R.J.,

  I’m sorry our first interview didn’t go as well as we both hoped. I think e-mail will be a better platform for us. I’ve listed a few questions. Please answer at your discretion.

  All the best,

  Kate Corbin

  Chicago Crier

  1. Can you give me any details about your personal life? Are you single? Do you live alone? What are your hobbies? Is your family involved in your business ventures?

  2. Why did you decide to buy a winery?