Chapter 7
Burn
When I think of Silicon Valley, Apple and Microsoft come to mind, or Google and Facebook. Not cattle, olive trees, and grapevines, which is what I’m staring at now.
The day started with a plan to apartment hunt for Jagger. He has decided he’s staying in California, even if he doesn’t get the movie part, so finding his own place is the next logical step—or that’s what I think. For him, this is a means toward no longer invading River and Dahlia’s space. But I know Dahlia doesn’t care—she’s told me she likes having him there. I’d like to think he’s staying partly because of me, but I can’t help but think that it’s because he’s running away from his ex. There seems to be a distance between us since I found the ring. I’m not exactly sure why, but I can’t shake the thought that I’m a rebound.
Last night was the first time since we started dating that we slept together, but didn’t have sex. This morning when we woke up, we lay in bed and talked for a long while. He talked about his parents and I realized that even though I thought the unconventional way in which he was raised didn’t bother him, I might have been wrong. A resentment toward his mother bled through his words, and he quickly changed the subject to my grandmother. Jagger still hadn’t seen her movies and for some reason he wanted to watch them tonight. As we continued to talk, I let yesterday’s events fade away from my thoughts.
Eventually, we rolled out of bed to start our day. Once I was ready, I went upstairs to check on Dahlia, but all was quiet. I left her a note to call me later and told her I hoped she was feeling better. Jagger and I stopped for breakfast, and while Jagger was circling a few apartments to check out in the paper, an ad for a winery caught my eye.
Noticing, he asked, “Have you ever been?”
I shook my head.
And just like that, the apartment hunt was postponed.
***
“Did you know the term Silicon Valley was coined by a business man in the early nineteen seventies but it wasn’t until the eighties that the term became widely used?”
I purse my lips and shake my head. I love how he is full of random information. “Please tell me how you know all this stuff—were you a child prodigy?”
His mouth twists. “Nah, when I was younger I had a slight stutter and my therapist recommended reading out loud. So my dad bought this giant set of encyclopedias, and every night I’d randomly flip one open and read out loud to him the two pages it fell open to. I just remember what I read.”
“What else do you know about this part of California?”
He shrugs. “I know the computer companies wiped out the area’s natural vegetation when they invaded it, but have slowly replaced it with new orchards. I know the word silicon comes from the fact that silicon is used in the parts needed to manufacture computers. I know valley refers to the Santa Clara Valley. And that’s about all. But I think I picked all that information up from watching the movie about Bill Gates.” He smirks.
Buzzards circle low overhead as we drive through this majestic part of California. Grapevines meander in the breeze, arcs of water shoot from sprinklers onto fields of crops, and old towns with beautiful churches rush by.
“Are you feeling hungry? Should we stop?” He points to a sign that reads, “Olives and Grapes This Way.”
“Only if you don’t make me try any artichoke bread,” I joke, knocking his knee.
His eyes dart to my hand and he grabs it fast as sin. He brings it to his lips and kisses the back of it. “Fortunately for you, I found it to be just as disgusting as you did, so I can promise you we won’t be tasting that again. Now, olive paté, that’s fair game.”
I wrinkle my nose and he settles my hand on his thigh—I like it there.
“I saw that,” he says with a grin, as he turns the car to the right and slows down.
“I may stick with the wine half of the sign,” I say in a raspy voice.
The deserted winding canyon road seems to go on for miles before he suddenly pulls the car off to the side.
“Everything okay?” I ask, somewhat alarmed.
With the car in park, he leans over the console and presses his hard body against mine. His soft lips kiss along the tender skin of my neck and once they find my lips, our tongues entwine in the most erotic dance. Breathless, he sits back in his seat. “Everything is fine. I just realized I hadn’t kissed you in a while.”
I touch my fingers to my burning lips as the ache that erupted in my body moments ago centralizes in one place. I look around at the vast nothingness that surrounds us and wonder if it’s really possible to have sex in a car. But he’s back on the road before I can suggest the possibility.
The town is quaint—bed and breakfasts, boutiques, and restaurants line the street. He parallel parks between an old dented pickup truck and a shiny black Mercedes. The flower-and-cactus-filled Spanish-style patio of the restaurant is full, but we decide to wait for an outdoor table. Once we’re seated, we order margaritas—one classic and one apricot. After a quick glance at the menu, he looks up.
“The Puebla-style chicken is cooked over a red oak fire. What do you say we both try that?”
My eyes zero in on it and the words sausage and bananas make my stomach turn. “Did you read what it’s made with?”
“Yes, the splash of sherry sold me.”
I roll my eyes. “You are attracted to the foods with alcohol with them.”
“No, I’m attracted to what’s good,” he growls in my ear, setting my already heated body aflame.
Since grilled salmon isn’t on the menu, I concede and decide to try it.
Once we’ve eaten, we spend the afternoon browsing the shops. One shop sells intensely flavored, Tuscan-style oils. Jagger lifts a small piece of bread dipped in oil to my mouth. “Just try this. I promise it’s delicious.”
I take a very small bite and the pepper infused in it has a bite that only leaves me wanting more. I take the cup from his hand and a small piece of bread from the basket on the table. “I’ll finish that,” I say.
His sly grin curves up wider. “I told you you’d like it. I know what you like.”
His words grab me and again that feeling overtakes me—the feeling that I know I love this man.
At the end of the old-fashioned street is a small winery—like the one I saw in the ad. A sign above the door reads, “Rh?nes.” A bell jingles as Jagger swings open the door. I look up at the scruff on his face and graze my hand down it as I pass by. The small room is filled with people and wine—red at one end and white at the other. Upon passing through the second door, we approach a long narrow set of rickety stairs. Jagger laces his fingers in mine and keeps hold of me with his strong grip, as his orange shoelaces guide our way down. When we enter the wine cellar, Jagger pays the admission and is handed a small clipboard with a list of wines and a pencil. I’m immediately drawn to the word organic and stop at the table labeled “C?tes de Tablas.” Open bottles of wine line the table with small, already poured glasses surrounding them. We each take a glass and sip it. The wine is a dark red, rich, balanced, and delicious.
I crane my head back as he stands beside me. “Rh?ne style wines are my favorite.”
He tastes his sample again. “It’s not bad.”
“Not bad?” I say in mock exasperation.
Impersonating the customer who was just minutes ago standing in front of us, he describes the attributes he likes about it in a deep stern voice. “It’s extremely juicy and the taste reflects the lime-stone rich soil . . .”
I kick his shin with the heel of my shoe. “Stop it,” I whisper.
He sets his cup down and his hands are on my hips. “What? I’m just commenting on the wine. I thought you liked it when I recite random facts.”