Page 27 of Que Será, Syrah

“Deputy Romero?”

I glance up from my menu to find Legs standing beside my table, smiling winsomely. “Ms. Martinelli. Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, even as my gaze strays involuntarily across the room to the table where, last time I checked, she’d been seated with her cousins. Yes, they’re still there. And shooting death glares in my direction—which, frankly, is nothing new.

“Well yes, actually,” she replies. “Since you ask. You could let me buy you that drink I’ve been offering. I mean, assuming you’re off-duty.”

Shit. Of course. I should’ve figured that was coming. I hesitate for an instant, trying to decide how best to play this. I could lie and say I’m working. Or point out the obvious, that I already have a drink. I could suggest we do it another time or try and convince her that it’s really not necessary. But then I see a flash of disappointment hit her eyes.

“It’s just a drink, Deputy,” she teases. “I’m not offering to have your babies or anything, you know.”

“Ah. Well. I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

“Mm. Although, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that they would likely be very pretty babies.”

I can’t help but grin. “Oh, no doubt. But don’t you think…” I trail off as I realize that this is exactly how this conversation should not be going. If Miles were here, I know he’d be urging me to shut it down fast, to ‘just say no,’ to all of it. But Miles is not here. In fact, at this exact moment, Miles is probably happily ensconced in a first-class seat, sipping champagne and toasting his bride as the two of them wing their way to a Hawaiian honeymoon.

So, he has no legs to stand on—pun intended—and I… Well, I’ve just spent the better part of the day celebrating his wedding, surrounded by a goodly number of happily paired-off couples; including (I couldn’t help but notice) both of Allegra’s sisters. It’s been fucking torture. And if she’s spent the day feeling even half as left out and lonely as I have, it would be cruel to turn her down. And unnecessary. And…let’s face it, not nearly as much fun as it would be to continue flirting with her for just a few more minutes. I mean…we’re both adults. And it’s just a drink. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, a lot, apparently, because the next thing you know I find myself saying, “I tell you what. I will accept that drink, but only if you’ll join me for dinner.” And yes, thank you, I have lost my mind entirely. I mean, clearly, I have.

Accepting a gift of under twenty dollars (ie a drink, while off-duty) falls into what’s very much a gray area. Yes, it’s frowned upon, but it’s exponentially far less problematic than the conflict-of-interest charges I’m positively begging for by asking her on what could very reasonably be misconstrued as a date.

But hey, what’s life without a few risks?

“All right,” she says, eyes lighting up at my suggestion. “I’d like that.” Her cheeks flush pink. She’s smiling broadly as she pulls out the chair across from me. And that right there—the look in her eyes, the blush on her face, the smile on her lips—that’s all the reward I need.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can’t help but notice that her cousins are still scowling at me. But since that seems to be the whole family’s default expression where I’m concerned—less Allegra—I pay it no mind. As per usual.

She might not remember much about the night we spent together down by the river, but I do. And, ill-judged or not, I want this chance to catch up with the-girl-from-the-party, the-one-who-got-away, and to maybe find out what happened to her that long ago summer. It’s one night—no. Hell, no. Not even one night. It’s a single meal, a couple of drinks, a few hours at most. All of which will take place in public, with plenty of witnesses to attest to the fact that nothing untoward occurred. After which, she’ll go her way, and I’ll go mine. No harm, no foul, and—with any luck at all—no unfortunate fallout.

“So, what’s good here?” she asks.

“D’you mean to drink?” I ask, having noticed that she’d picked up the drink menu. “If you’re talking wine, you probably know more about the subject than I do.”

“Probably,” she agrees as she lays the menu aside. “But no, I meant to eat. I already know what I’ll be drinking. I noticed earlier that they have a Chardonnay from a winery that I’ve been hearing good things about. It’s in the Los Carneros AVA; and I haven’t had any wines from there yet, so I’m curious to try it. I’m just not sure what to get to go with it.”

“They’re known for their burgers,” I say as I hand her the dinner menu. “But the barbacoa puffy tacos are outstanding. That’s what I’m getting.”

“Mmm. That does sound good,” she says. “But perhaps not with Chardonnay.”

“Well, what does go with Chardonnay?”

“Seafood, poultry, some pasta dishes—anything like that.”

“Dungeness crab tostadas?” I suggest.

“Ooh, yes. That sounds perfect. Thank you. I haven’t had Dungeness crab in years!”

“Well, good then. Glad I could help.”

The server comes to take our order, and I get another Saison. It’s called Cuffing Saison, and it’s one of their seasonal offerings. Legs chuckles when she hears the name. “I swear, beers, boats, and racehorses have the best names,” she observes.

“Not wines?”

“Sadly, no. I mean, there are a few that do; but it’s not common. I wish more wineries would get behind the cutesy, clever names. But I guess it’s just not a big part of the winemaking culture.”

“So is Chardonnay your favorite wine?” I ask, as it hits me that that was what she’d been drinking the night we met.

She shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t really have a favorite. Or rather, I don’t just have one favorite. I like a lot of different wines; it depends on the occasion. What about you—do you only drink beer?”

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