Page 39 of You're The One
“Oh, yeah. They’re into it. Think it’s a great story arc.” He makes a sweeping motion with one hand, like he’s revealing a movie title on a marquee. “The matchmaker becomes the match.”
He shrugs.
“I hope they’re not holding their breath because that’s not going to happen.”
“No?” His voice is soft, hopeful.
I shake my head. Hard.
“Good.” He smiles. “I hope we can continue building ourfriendship, Mia.”
It sounds like he’s using friendship in a way that doesn’t quite align with my definition, but I say, “Yeah, sure.” Then, because I’m paranoid, I triple-check, “I’m not getting sent home, right?”
He chuckles, not quite as deep as Dominic’s low rumble, but still nice.
Why am I comparing laughs?
I take another sip of wine, reminding myself of my two goals today: get drunk and, as always, irritate Dominic.
FOURTEEN
I can’t concentrateas Summer chatters beside me while we stroll around the vineyard, a cameraman following us closely.
I shouldn’t have said anything to Mia about her drinking. Why do I even care? Probably because I told Logan I’d keep an eye on her. And alcohol poisoning isn’t something he’d approve of. Not that wine tasting is anything serious—she’s sipping Pinot, not doing keg stands at a frat party.
Still, if I know Mia, telling her not to do something is the fastest way to guarantee she’ll do the opposite. She’s going to drink more just to spite me. So now, instead of focusing on the woman next to me, I’m trying to calculate how many samples Mia could have downed in the last forty-five minutes.
“So, hockey.” Summer snaps me out of my thoughts. “Did you always know that’s what you wanted to do?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did either of your parents play? Or was it just something you picked up?”
“Nope, they didn’t play. But when I told my dad I wanted to, he was all in. He’s not really a sports guy, but he made the effort for me.”
“And your mom? Is she supportive, too?”
Talking about my dad is easy, but my mom is another story. It’s a topic I like to avoid if I can help it. My feelings about her are saved for my dad and my therapist. Not even my closest friends know our history, and I’m not about to open up about it to Summer, as nice as she seems.
“Yeah,” I say, because it’s easier than the truth. I shift the conversation back to her. She tells me about her music career, how she’s an aspiring country singer from Nashville, and how her parents and older siblings are her biggest fans.
When I glance down, her glass is empty, and I figure it’s as good an excuse as any to head back to the group.
“Need a refill?” I ask, fully aware of the irony. I’m trying to warn Mia off drinking while encouraging Summer to drink more.
I know I’m being a bit over the top about “protecting” her. Even though I’ve never had a drop of alcohol, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with it, which makes it harder to be rational about the matter. It’s never particularly bothered me when the person I’m dating or my friends drink. And it doesn’t bother me that Mia is drinking, per se. I just want her to be safe. It’s my responsibility to make sure she is.
Summer nods, and we start the walk back up the hill.
A laugh that’s unmistakably Mia’s reaches me the moment the bar comes into view. She’s sitting at a picnic table with the rest of the women… and Bodhi. I asked him to keep an eye on her, not shadow her every step. I didn’t want to ask him to do it in the first place, but I figured that him flirting would be better than Mia overdoing it. But of course, here he is, settled comfortably between her and Victoria, the other three women sitting across from them.
When we reach them, I ask Bodhi to move so Summer can sit, then pull up a chair and take the seat caddy-corner to Mia.
There are more tasting glasses scattered across the table than I can count, but there’s also a picked-over charcuterie board, so I’m hopeful she’s at least eaten something. I bite back the urge to ask and risk setting her off.
A carafe of water and a stack of glasses sit in the center of the table. I pour and pass them around, making sure to hand them out to everyone else before offering one to Mia. No reason to give her an excuse to accuse me of singling her out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak glances at her, careful not to make it obvious. She actually looks like she’s having fun. It’s hard not to stare at her wide smile—onlybecause I don’t see it often.
