Misery Loves Cabernet (30 page)

Don’t overpack.

After debating between the three dresses I packed for our one night stay, I finally opt for a little black dress I picked up at the Beverly Center and a pair of sparkly Jimmy Choo stilettos I got for my birthday.

Knowing we are not to meet until eight o’clock, I decide to sit around my hotel room until 7:56. I don’t want to look too eager for the dinner, and I want to make an entrance. That said, I spent twenty minutes pacing around the room, chomping on nicotine gum, and being, well, too eager.

The room’s digital clock hits 7:56, and I grab my sparkly bag, and leave the room.

I arrive at the entrance of BIN189 at precisely 8:00. I walk through the entrance, past the glass wall of displayed wine bottles, and over to the restaurant bar.

Liam is sitting in the lounge area, wearing a beautiful dark gray suit, and sipping a martini in front of a roaring fire. In the seat across from him, I see he has ordered me a glass of red wine.

“Hello, dear,” Liam says, standing up to greet me. “You look lovely.” He gives me a quick kiss hello on the cheek, then says, “I ordered you a Merlot.”

I look
lovely?
Don’t know what that means. Does it mean he thinks I look beautiful, and he can’t help but notice that I recently shaved my legs? Or, is
lovely
a euphemism men use when describing blind dates with good personalities?

“Thank you,” I say, taking a seat. “So, have you been here long?”

“Just long enough to fascinate myself with people-watching,” he says, taking a sip of his martini. “I cannot believe how many first dates are here tonight.”

I turn in my seat to check out the people in the bar, lounge, and adjoining dining room. Many of the women are dressed to the nines like me. No one wears four-inch stilettos and a short black dress to a lodge in the middle of the mountains unless they’re trying to get laid.

“Actually, there aren’t any first dates here,” I inform him, speaking like an anthropologist, and absolutely sure of myself. “A few second dates. Mostly third dates. And, of course, some people are here for their first romantic getaway.” I look around further to test my hypothesis. “Oh, except that table,” I say, pointing to a slightly overweight gentleman in an ill-fitting suit and his date. “They’ve gone out so many times without sex, the poor guy’s ready to explode.”

Liam laughs. “Well, all right then.” He points to the guy in the ill-fitting suit. “How can you tell with him? Do we men give out signals of desperation?”

“It’s not him, it’s her,” I say authoritatively to Liam. “She’s dressed dowdily, low white pumps, nylons, a tasteful blue dress with a way-past-the-knee hemline. Plus that, her hair is barely brushed. This is a woman who’s not putting too much energy into the date. Which means she’s only dating him because he’s nice, not because there’s any chemistry between them. And, if there’s no chemistry, he might as well pack it in now.”

Liam makes a show of checking out my dress. “Let’s see: hemline above the knee, no nylons, insanely high heels.” He smiles at me mischievously. “Am I to assume I might get lucky tonight?”

“Hey, if you hadn’t just told me earlier today you weren’t looking for a relationship, we might be ordering room service right now,” I say lightly as I take a sip of my wine.

Liam laughs. “Fair enough.” He looks around the room. “What date do you think people assume we’re on?”

I ponder his question a moment. “Second,” I answer.

He smiles as he takes another sip of his martini. “You seem pretty sure of yourself. What are the facts you used to come up with your hypothesis?”

“Well, first of all, we didn’t arrive together. You were waiting for me,” I tell him. “Therefore, we’re not on a romantic together. Second, you kissed me hello when I arrived, thereby indicating that you were relaxed around me: hence, it’s not a first date. However, the kiss was brief, not lingering. It was on the cheek, not on the lips. And there was no tongue involved. Ergo, you’re not dying to get me into bed, and therefore, it’s not a third date. The only one left was second.”

“I see,” said Liam. “Well, I’m afraid, my dear, that I have to disagree with you. This wouldn’t be the second date, it would be the third. This would be the seduction date.”

“I see,” I say jokingly. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

“And what are the facts you’ve used to come up with your hypothesis?”

Liam smiles wickedly. “Well, for one thing, you’ve shaved your legs.”

The fact that he has noticed this makes me want to hide under the table in embarrassment. Or, drag him under the table to have my way with him.

But I try to deflect how I’m really feeling by giving him a shrug as I say, “Women shave their legs for a first date.”

“One would hope,” Liam says, almost smirking. “However, women do not normally dress for a first date the way you have chosen to dress this evening.”

I cross my arms, and glare at him. “And how exactly have I dressed this evening?”

Liam eyes me up and down. “Absolutely captivating,” he says in his lilting Irish accent.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling myself blush. “By the way, if you didn’t have that cute little accent, there’s no way you could have gotten away with saying ‘absolutely captivating’ to a woman without sounding like an idiot.”

“Noted,” Liam says. “Anyway, the second date is the date where you go do the thing you both said you like to do. For example, you talk to a girl about how you like to go running, she says she loves running, you make a Sunday morning date to go jogging in Griffith Park. Or, let’s say she says she likes the theater or a certain sports team, you get tickets to a play or game you know she’d like.”

I can’t help but think back: Didn’t he ask me to go see ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ with him? Twice?

Liam continues. “And, let’s say the girl doesn’t really like to go running, or the theater or sports, she’s just yanking your chain. Well, then, the second date allows you to find out if she’s telling the truth. If not, there probably won’t be a third date.”

“You mean just because a girl tries to show interest in something you like, she gets punished?” I ask him, a little offended.

Liam takes another sip of his martini. “Now, see, this is something I’ve never understood about women: why would you pretend to like something you don’t? Why not just say: I’ll go to the football match, but I’m dragging you to the opera the following week to make up for it?”

“Because then you won’t like us as much,” I answer.

“Darling, we’ve asked you out. That means we like you. Don’t overthink it. Why is it women have to think about everything all the time?”

“Probably because we’re killing time watching the game you’ve dragged us to,” I counter.

Liam gives me an appreciative smile and a wink.

The hostess calls out Liam’s name, and we follow her to a table by a window. As I look out to watch snow silently fall outside over the lake and trees, I wish I was here with someone who did want to take me somewhere romantic for a seduction date.

Or, I should say, I wish Liam was really taking me up here for a seduction date.

“So, hear from Jordan again?” Liam asks as he opens his menu.

“I’ll take ‘conversation killers’ for a thousand, Alex,” I say dryly.

“You can’t blame me for being the least bit curious as to how someone could be so stupid as to let you get away.”

“Speaking of, how is your ex-girlfriend?”

Liam looks up at me. Smirks. “I’m thinking about getting the rib eye . . .”

The waitress soon appears to take our orders. I start with the corn chowder, a specialty of the house. Liam goes with a standard Caesar salad.

“And with the appetizers, we’d like a bottle of your Hanzell Chardonnay,” Liam tells the waitress.

Nice.

For our entrees, I order the New York steak, while he opts for the grilled Rib Eye. “And for that,” Liam says, still perusing the wine list. “I think we’ll go for . . .” He looks up at me. “You like Merlot, right?”

“Actually, when I’m eating steak, I kind of like Cabernet better.”

“Fantastic,” Liam says to me. “Do you like Chateau Montelena?”

Yeah, like I’m going to admit I’ve never heard of it. I smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

Liam closes the wine list, and hands it and our menus to our waitress. “Let’s get a bottle of that with the meal.”

As she walks away, he looks over at me. “So, shall we put the exes in exile, and not speak of them again this evening?”

I smile, relieved. “That would be great.”

“Do you ski?” Liam asks me out of the blue.

“Why?” I ask.

“Don’t give me that look,” Liam says, laughing. “I just thought before we headed back down tomorrow we might want to spend a few hours on the slopes.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” I say sarcastically. “You used to ski up in the Alps, so if someone were to ask you your skill level, you’d say you’re okay. But, in reality, you’re damn good, and have your own set of skis tailor made just for you.”

Before Liam can respond, our sommelier arrives. “Hanzell Chardonnay,” he says, showing us the bottle before he opens it. The sommelier puts a white wineglass in front of each of us. As he opens the bottle, he asks, “And who will be tasting this evening?”

“The lady,” Liam says.

Damn it! Other than knowing if the wine has turned, I never know what I’m supposed to be sniffing, swirling, and tasting. It either tastes good or it doesn’t.

The sommelier pours a small amount into my glass, and the two men wait for my reaction. I swirl the glass, get my nose in there to sniff, then I have a taste.

“It’s wonderful,” I say, smiling.

The sommelier pours for both of us, then places the wine in a silver ice bucket on a stand near the table.

“So, where were we?” I ask as the man leaves.

Liam takes a sip of his wine. “You were pretending to compliment me, yet actually insulting me, about my skiing.”

“No, no,” I quickly correct him. “I wasn’t insulting you. I was actually trying to be self-mocking.”

“First of all, why? And, secondly, how so?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, taking a sip of my wine to stall for time. “The why is easy: Basically, you are intimidating as hell. However, you’re so charming, that occasionally I forget how intimidating you are, and I let down my guard. But then you ask some innocuous question like, ‘Do you ski?’ and I’m back to being intimidated again. So I respond by being self-mocking.”

Liam takes another sip of wine. Any flirtation I may have perceived before has vanished. Now he seems irritated. “I’m unclear here. How am I intimidating again?”

At that, I burst out into an awkward laugh. He seems startled. I take another nervous sip of wine. “Oh, please. I’m surprised you didn’t put skis in the trunk. Oh wait, you drive the perfect car, except it won’t fit skis in a trunk.”

“So, I love to ski. How does that make me unapproachable?”

“I didn’t say you were unapproachable. I said you were intimidating,” I say, starting to feel it is very important to win this debate, and getting angry that he’s not seeing my point here. “I mean, my God, who actually walks around their house wearing boxer shorts?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize my wearing boxer shorts made you uncomfortable.”

“Well, I mean, how would you like it if I walked around the house in my bra and underwear all through breakfast?”

“You can walk around your house any way you’re comfortable,” he says crossly. “And, frankly, I’m a man. I will always encourage a beautiful woman to walk around in nothing but her frillies.”

How can men be so dense? “No woman is comfortable wearing a bra and underwear around a guy she hasn’t slept with!” I nearly yell. “Well, I mean except a Victoria’s Secret model.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about exes tonight,” Liam says angrily.

At this my jaw drops. “You actually dated a Victoria’s Secret model? But you don’t see why you’re intimidating?”

Naturally at this moment, our waitress appears. We abruptly stop arguing. She serves us our appetizers, and refills our wineglasses. Then we sit and eat in silence.

As I eat my chowder, I will admit, I am already tipsy. Which is probably why I’m so upset he isn’t seeing my point. Could also be why, maddening though he may be, I’m still considering grabbing him by the belt buckle, and pulling him into a kiss.

But then that would prove that’s he’s not intimidating, which would make him think he was right, and I was wrong, and for some reason that is enough to stop me.

I sip my wine again.

“So, I take it you don’t ski?” Liam finally says, still angry.

“No,” I say definitively.

“Would you like me to teach you tomorrow?” he asks, his tone steely.

“Fine,” I say curtly.

“Fine,” he says back.

And we continue to eat our appetizers in silence. Liam refills my glass, then his. “I won’t wear the boxers anymore,” he says softly, and I detect the smallest melt in our ice age.

I shake my head, not angry anymore. “It’s not that. I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

“By telling me I’m intimidating?”

“No. By . . . by trying to tell you I wish I was more like you. It came out wrong. I wish I had skied in the Alps. I wish I knew how to produce movies. I wish I liked jogging. It’s like sometimes I look at you, and you’re a reminder of how little I’ve lived up to my potential. And tomorrow, I’ll go out skiing, because I want to be like you. But I won’t be a cute little snow bunny out there; I’ll be uncoordinated, I’ll be embarrassed, and I’ll be wondering how much longer before I can get to the bar at the bottom of the hill.”

Liam smiles. “You’ve just described my first time with a woman.”

I laugh.

And we’re back.

“Listen, we don’t have to go skiing,” Liam says to me. “We didn’t get a chance to go for a hike around the lake. You want to go do that in the morning?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “We can go on a hike anytime. Let’s go skiing.”

Liam smiles. “Well, aren’t you being a bad second date, pretending you want to go skiing when you don’t?”

I laugh nervously. “All right, I’m going to use your advice from earlier, and tell you the truth: I’ll go skiing with you tomorrow, but you’re taking me to a drag queen show Saturday.”