26. Ride A Hockey Player, Ride A…Hot Air Balloon?

26

RIDE A HOCKEY PLAYER, RIDE A…HOT AIR BALLOON?

LILA

“ B ristol Brenner, I am never forgiving you for this!” I shout over the howling wind, gripping Bristol like I’m determined to break every bone in his hockey-winning arm.

His voice—preserved in sweet, thick molasses—dissolves the thread of panic inside me, though not by much.

“We’re only a few feet up in the air,” he says, the rumblings of a chuckle lost to the hot air balloon’s crackling burner, and further undermined by the turbulence shaking the basket underneath my feet.

“We are not just a few feet up in the air!”

Temecula’s Wine Country—a landmark of California’s rolling, lush hills—is an unbroken sea of vineyards and million-dollar estates, where swaths of barren land outline rows upon rows of grape-bearing vines. The heart of viticulture—dunked in a sparkling sunrise and dry-brushed with blooms of sorbet-orange—comes to life as we ascend twenty more feet into the air, the hard-boiled yolk of the sun drenching me in a motley of effervescent color. It would be beautiful up here…if it wasn’t for my party-crashing nerves convincing me that I’ll fall to my death at any wrong bump.

Bristol’s arms tighten around me in a protective embrace, and a shiver accordions down my spine from his touch.

“You said you weren’t afraid of heights,” he murmurs under his breath.

“I thought you were talking about roller coasters, not going seventy feet up in the air in a hot air balloon!”

Our pilot whistles awkwardly and averts eye contact as I embark on the freakout of the century. Heights don’t bother me, but crashing to the ground at hyper speed and going up in flames? That bothers me.

My heart’s a mallet swinging incessantly against my ribs. “Oh, God. I just saw the ground. Yep. It’s really far down. That would…” I gulp, nausea outlasting the desire to choke my boyfriend if we ever make it safely back to earth. “That would be a long drop.”

With my head nestled into Bristol’s shoulder, I feel his hand make a slow journey over the ridge of my clavicle and up the steep hill of my throat, where he hooks his fingers underneath my chin to tip it up. “I’m sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise. I didn’t know this would be so scary for you.”

That single, reassuring look has butterflies cartwheeling in my belly, and the tepid warmth in my cheeks isn’t due to the sun toasting my face. A disjointed breath breaks past my lips. “No, I…I love it. I’m just a big baby.”

“First off, you’re my big baby. And second off, you’re not. Not at all. You’re handling this a lot better than I am.”

He has to be lying right now.

“What are you talking about?”

“Having you in my arms right now is the only thing keeping me calm,” he admits, and suddenly, some of my fear begins to phase into the background, much like how our landing site has shrunken into the scenic aggregations of family-run wineries.

“Seriously?” I ask.

He endears me with a tilt of his head, his wind-tousled hair flopping partially into those deep brown eyes of his. “Seriously. This is the first time I’ve ever been up this high, but I wanted to do something grand for you where we couldn’t be followed by flashing cameras. A date where it could be just us . A hot air balloon ride was more of an… out-there …choice, but it’s given me an excuse to hold you, so I can’t be mad about that.”

His touch is featherlight, yet his arms remain sturdy, and the tranquility that radiates off him flowers throughout my entire body. For the first time in fifteen minutes, I still the tremors, catch my breath, and slowly inch toward the edge to get a glimpse of the beautiful rural area handpicked by my boyfriend. I’ve never been to Wine Country, much less observed it up in the air. Bristol went above and beyond to make me feel special, and he has, elevation be damned.

“Thank you, Bristol. It really is beautiful,” I whisper in awe, peering over the mountain crests—a jagged maw that swallows the morning sky. “I never knew how big these vineyards were.”

Bristol mirrors my line of sight, though I don’t miss the love-drunk glances he steals here and there, as if he’s distracted by me (of all things) when we’re over what’s arguably the most stunning tourist attraction in all of California.

“Yeah, they’re almost as beautiful as you. Almost .”

I humor him. “You’re just saying that because I’m your girlfriend.”

My hair lashes against my face, goose bumps ignite over my bare arms, and my nose feels red from the frosty chill. With the turbulence easing up and the wind settling down, I don’t have to strain my voice anymore to yell, which also means that a whispered confession is as loud as a landmine in my ears .

“No, Lila. I’m not saying it because you’re my girlfriend. I’m saying it because you’re so much more than that. You’re my angel. You’re the only person who’s been able to save me.”

Save him. Wow. I never knew he thought about me like that. My nickname makes so much sense now, and tears are about to turn my cheeks into a fully functioning Slip n’ Slide. Oh, no. I can’t cry in front of this poor pilot who I’ve already subjected to a disturbing plethora of curses at six in the morning.

Bristol runs a thumb along my lash line. “Did you know that your eyes change colors?”

“You stare at my eyes often?”

“It’s pretty much all I’ve done for the past three months. Your eyes get all dark and stormy when you’re mad or upset, and when you’re happy, they’re bright blue with barely noticeable flecks of gold in them. Like the glistening surface of water in the sunlight.”

Maybe it’s because I’m not constantly staring at my eyes in the mirror, but I never knew they changed color—I just assumed they were always boring blue. But the way Bristol talks about them makes them sound like they’re the most beautiful thing in this world, which isn’t a title I’d necessarily give any feature of my body.

The gratitude I want to express gets lost in translation somewhere in my groggy head, and I’m left with my last line of pathetically non-nonchalant defense. “What color are they now?”

Bristol pretends to scrutinize me—as if he hadn’t already spent a full minute committing the exact shade to memory—and an oafish smile breaches his lips. “Bright blue. With flecks of gold.”

Of course.

I duck my head shyly as the heart palpitations set in, wanting to bury my face back into his neck so that I can subdue this embarrassment. “What else do you know about me?”

“You snort when you laugh—which you hate—but it’s my favorite sound in the whole world. You’re partial to wearing dresses rather than pants. You can impressively eat your weight in burgers. You put everyone else’s needs before your own. You care a lot more than you want people to think. How much more do you want to know?”

I blink in shock, slow to name the weird feeling in my belly that makes me simultaneously nauseous and excited at the same time. It’s something I’ve constantly felt with Bristol, but nothing I’ve ever felt before him.

“I…we’ve never talked about any of that.”

His fingers come up to skim my cheekbone. “I don’t know if you know this about me, angel, but I’m a pretty observant guy,” he brags subtly, an arrogant grin in place of that deceptively coy smile.

“I really don’t think I’m that interesting of a subject.” I glance down at the hand that caresses me, making note of how close our bodies are, making note of the carnal craving that thrives in my blood, my viscera, my bones—that thrives only for him .

“Really? Because I’ve been obsessed with you for five hundred and one days, and even that hasn’t been long enough for me.”

God, I don’t even know how to respond to that. I’ve never been good at accepting compliments, and with Bristol, it’s even harder. He’s just…he’s every woman’s dream boyfriend. Nothing else exists when it’s just me and him and that razor-thin wire of lust. I need to kiss him until my lips are numb. I need to become so intertwined with him that we can’t differentiate where one of us ends and the other begins.

He’s really been keeping track all this time. He’s really been thinking about me all this time .

A smile broadens over my lips. “You’re a big softie in the morning, you know that?”

“Nope. Only when it comes to five-foot-eight girls with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a knack for knocking me on my ass.”

“That could be anybody. Half the female population in Riverside is blonde.”

His hand migrates to a strand of my hair, and he twirls it around his finger. “Not the kind of blonde that looks like it’s been dipped in sunshine,” he says in a hushed whisper, his heavy-lidded gaze oscillating between my eyes and my lips.

I don’t know what to say. I’m too captivated by the essence of him. And I don’t think there are any words in this world adequate enough to describe Bristol—the way his dashingly good looks must be a reincarnation of Apollo himself, the infinite well of his kindness, the shining beacon in his chest that points the way home every time I stumble astray.

But thankfully, I don’t have to say anything because Bristol steps into me, crashes his lips over mine like we only have five more seconds before the planet implodes, and gifts me with enough love to make me feel like I’m flying.

When we make it back to earth with all our limbs still intact, the mantle of mist over Temecula has lifted, and fingers of morning fire sweep through the acreage of vines, striating the horizon in marmalade streaks. It’s even more beautiful up close, and Bristol leads me to the second part of our date—a surprise wine tasting.

I can’t believe he remembered that I mentioned a wine tasting at the gala. It was a joke, of course, but the fact that he listened to me makes me feel so… seen . We meander into the belly of a large winery, and a cellar made of mahogany and stone welcomes our parched throats. Ceiling-high racks of wine line every wall while the archways are constructed of mortar-slathered granite, and there’s a single table spotlighted under a wagon wheel chandelier.

My mouth’s permanently wrenched open while I take in the understated beauty of it all, and Bristol pulls out my chair for me like the gentleman he is. I’ve always known wine tastings to be on the classier side, so I’m lucky I wore a milkmaid sundress that adheres to both the weather outside and the etiquette inside.

“Bristol, this is…this is incredible,” I gasp, coasting my eyes over the cellar and admiring how the golden, disembodied glow from above cocoons us in an invisible safety net.

He winks. “Just wait until you taste the wine.”

My belly’s overrun with nerves, and the hazy illumination framing Bristol’s side profile shines through those fine bristles of his lashes, slopes down his straight nose, then caresses the plumpness of his lower lip. In here, under the low light and bound to him by a gravitational pull, I can even make out the faintness of sunbaked freckles on his cheeks.

Our server—a man with excellent posture and coiffed hair—brings us two flights of wine and a complimentary charcuterie board. There are ten glasses of wine in total, all filled with a few ounces of either semitranslucent or opaque liquid, and they range from pale white to a deep red. He regales us with the backstory of each glass, of the fermentation process, of the love and dedication put into each flavorful experience, then leaves us to the tasting—not forgetting to mention in a thick, Italian accent how cute we are as a couple.

I pick up the first glass by the stem, glancing at the moondust-colored liquid that sparkles with tiny bubbles. “What if I don’t like it?” I ask Bristol.

“You can spit it into the spit bucket,” he replies, gesturing to the metal bucket next to us .

“Isn’t spitting…disrespectful?”

Bristol chuckles, lightly nudging my ankle with his foot underneath the table. “Depends on the context.”

I clutch my imaginary pearls, glancing around to make sure our server is still out of earshot. “Bristol!”

He raises his hands in surrender, though he doesn’t look the least bit sorry about it. “Okay, okay. If you don’t like it, then we just move onto the next one until we find one that you like.”

“That could take a long time,” I warn, swishing my Riesling around and watching miniature whirlpools form.

Bristol raises his glass to clink with mine, and his russet eyes—entrenched with awestruck emotion—never leave my face, not for a second. “For you? I’ve got all the time in the world.”

If I don’t get to drinking fast, this cellar’s gonna be used for a lot more than just a wine tasting, and that’s, well, illegal .

With blood swirling beneath my cheeks, I take a measured sip of the Riesling, getting a cloyingly sweet aroma of pear that lingers on the bed of my tongue. I pucker my mouth and shake my head. “That’s…sweet.”

“Not a fan of white wine?”

“I guess just Riesling, in particular.”

Bristol’s downed the thing like a pro, and I try not to make it obvious as I watch his tongue flick out to catch remnants of wine on his lips. I still can’t believe this is real. The more time we spend together, the more I can feel our hearts melding like nomadic raindrops splicing on a rainy windowpane, forming one long stream that travels forever downwards.

When I set my glass down, he walks his hand over to mine to tangle our fingers. “Maybe try the rosé. It’s less sweet, crisper, refreshing.”

We mirror each other and both take a pull from our glasses, the rush of light pink liquid sloshing down the channel of my throat and leaving a drier, more citrusy taste in its wake. It definitely tastes better than the Riesling, but I don’t think I’d open a bottle any time soon.

“It’s…not terrible? A lot more refreshing,” I say, rallying a small smile. “I mean, these are all wonderful! I don’t want you to think that I’m not grateful. I’m sure this is boring for you?—”

“Hey.” Bristol’s hand squeezes my clammy one, mellowing me with a single touch, and my surefootedness boomerangs right back around upon his command. “I don’t think that. If you don’t like something, you don’t like it. No harm, no foul. I’m enjoying my time with you. Hell, I’d be enjoying my time with you even if we were just sitting around and watching paint dry. You could never be boring, Lila. It’s not in your blood.”

“I’m enjoying my time with you too.”

Even though we didn’t necessarily go in order like we were supposed to, we end the tasting with the darkest red—a cabernet that sounds as daunting as it looks. Wings of apprehension fold around my heart as I bring the lip of the glass to my mouth, and I narrow my eyes over the rim to watch Bristol drain his own drink. I don’t have much hope for this last one—prematurely deciding to proclaim myself as a hard liquor girl from here on out—but the cabernet takes me by surprise. It’s rich, heady, spicy, bold. There’s no lightness or sweetness. It’s heavy. It’s dominating. It’s… fucking amazing .

I don’t want the drink to run out, but it eventually does, and an unbidden moan pours from my mouth. My wedges do a little happy dance against the stone floor. “God, this one is incredible.”

Bristol’s as elated as I am, but for an entirely different reason. “I knew you’d like it.”

My brows cant upwards. “How could you have possibly known?”

“Cabernets have a distinctively spicy taste. You weren’t a fan of any of the sweet wines, which kind of makes sense because you’re more…”

“Spicy than sweet?”

He taps his finger against his nose, his million-dollar grin freezing my feet to the ground. There’s pride in the way that he looks at me—pride so invincible that it could be ripped asunder by any measure of doubt and still rise from the ashes unscathed. “Bingo.”

I’m gonna kiss this man right now, and I don’t care what security cameras are watching! I’m the one that makes the first move this time, leaning over the table to wrap him up in a kiss, and he meets me halfway, settling his palm over the curve of my cheek. I keep it chaste— for obvious reasons —pocketing every drop of love that falls from his sweet-tasting tongue.

“You’re a big wine nerd, you know that?” I joke.

He nods against my forehead. “Don’t bully me. It turns me on.”

I lose a bit of my ladylike manners when my teeth make a pass at his bottom lip. “And that would be a problem because…?”

He breaks away abruptly—enough to make me snort like a pig—and he calls the server over, fishing his black card out of his pocket with so much urgency that the movement shakes the whole table.

“I’d like to buy every bottle of cabernet you have for sale.”