A Taste of Sauvignon by Heather Heyford Page A

fifty-five degrees. Without a wet suit, you’d freeze to death. You don’t know what do to, and besides, you need a license.”
    â€œSo what am I going to do, then? Watch you from the beach?”
    â€œThat, and talk, apparently.”
    She swatted him.
    â€œYou want me to turn around?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThere’s a little strip of white sand in a protected cove.”
    A mile or so on, she finally relaxed enough to look around the truck’s interior. “Where’s all your stuff?”
    He tossed his head toward the rear window. “Under the tarp.”
    â€œI should’ve brought a couple bottles of water for us. What about food? Two hours is a long time. There might not be many choices at the park and—”
    â€œDo you always worry so much? Ask so many questions?”
    She looked chagrinned, but the incessant questioning ceased, at least for the time being. It probably came with being a lawyer—having to know every detail of everything that was happening, before it happened. Must be hell. He felt a twinge of pity for her and her buttoned-up life.
    â€œYou’re right about food. We’ll stop before we get there.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œPretty soon.”
    â€œWhere?”
    He sighed and propped a wrist on the steering wheel, resigned. “Dry Creek General.”
    She smiled. “I like that store.”
    Gracias a Dios.
    â€œThe smell of curing meat and pepper from all those sausages hanging from the ceiling is a bit overwhelming, but it’s a good smell.”
    She had that right. His mouth began to water just thinking about it.
    He pulled off 101 into an unpaved lot. Inside, the old wood-paneled building was packed to the rafters with high-quality wine country merchandise, from knee-high baskets of gourmet chips, to glass jars of jerky, to tin vases stuffed with dogwood and morning glories. They got in line for sandwiches behind some pickers in work boots and a tourist lady with a brown handbag stamped in gold.
    After Savvy ordered, Esteban put in his order for two sandwiches.
    â€œA guy as big as you must have an appetite to match.”
    â€œThe other one’s for Shane.”
    â€œShane?”
    â€œWe’re picking him up along the way.”
    â€œWe’re taking someone else along?”
    â€œCan’t go ab diving alone.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me that we’d have company.”
    He shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”
    â€œI didn’t know I had to ask that particular question! I might not have come if I’d known. . . .” Esteban let his eyes travel over the myriad sights of the store, grateful for something to look at while she prattled on.

Chapter 14
    S avvy steamed. How dare Esteban haul her a hundred miles from her home without mentioning someone else was coming along! She never did anything unless it had been planned out to the nth degree. Flying by the seat of your pants wasn’t what got you into Boston University School of Law, and it sure wasn’t how you kept up your average, once you got there. Hopping blithely into his truck on the spur of the moment had been a big mistake.
    While they waited in the long line of people to pay, Savvy tried to decide who was the best candidate to ask for a lift back to Napa.
    That’s when she noticed that every woman in the place—and some of the men—had their eyes peeled on Esteban, every chance they got. What was it about him, apart from his size and his obvious good looks? Something solid and authentic. Like Dry Creek General itself, there was nothing phony about him.
    â€œMind if I ask you a question?”
    â€œYou just did.”
    â€œWhich side of the family did you get your height from?”
    He lit up. She must have finally hit on something he liked talking about.
    â€œMy grandfather Morales. There’s an old family legend. Ever hear of the Patagonian Indian tribe, from South America? Magellan