"Oh, you mean based on my father's description," I said, grinning. "He probably still describes me in pigtails."
He shook his head. "Actually, he didn't even tell me your name."
"Oh, um, I'm Grateful."
"You're grateful he didn't tell me?"
"No! I mean, that's my name. Grateful. Grateful Knight. I know, it's a strange name, considering my father wasn't even a hippie." I shrugged.
A slow smile spread across his lips, and his gray eyes twinkled. "Grateful is a lovely name. I suppose it's fitting that a rare beauty have an equally rare name."
The compliment captivated me. Not just the words themselves but the way he said them. With a hint of a Spanish accent, they tumbled over his full lips in a silky smooth ripple, like moonlight spilling over still water. I caught myself staring at his mouth.
My cheeks warmed. Oh. My. God. Had I reverted to an awkward fifteen-year-old blushing at the hint of male attention? I mentally slapped myself.
"Would you like to come in?" I opened the door a little wider.
"Are you inviting me?"
I blinked in his direction. "Um, yes. Where I come from, 'Would you like to come in?' is an invitation."
"In my experience, it's always best to make sure," he said, teasing me with a delectable lopsided grin. Bending, he retrieved a vase of the ugliest wildflowers I'd ever seen from beside the door and handed them to me. "Sage and garlic, to ward off evil spirits." He stepped into the house, eyes darting around the foyer with the curiosity of a tourist.
"Oh, thanks. How thoughtful. My dad must have told you the cemetery kind of freaks me out."
He ignored my comment but turned the full weight of his attention on me. "Do you go by Grateful, or something shorter?"
"Yes, Grateful. You can't really shorten Grateful. Unless I went by a single letter like G, and I'm not a music mogul or one of the Men in Black, so Grateful it is." I led the way into the dining room, where I placed the vase at the center of the table. "And you? Is Rick short for Richard?" Or maybe, wanton sex god?
"Enrique. My parents were Spanish. But call me Rick."
Our eyes met. An awkward pause ensued while we soaked each other in. A magnetic field had formed between us, coaxing me toward him. I refrained, but barely. Delicious warmth unfolded deep within me. I was surprised the drapes didn't melt down the walls from the heat between us and I couldn't stop my mind from replaying the shower scene I'd imagined driving in. Damn! What was wrong with me? I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth and turned away so that he wouldn't see my face redden once again.
"It smells good in here. Were you cooking?" he asked, breaking the tension.
"Yes, actually. I just sat down to eat."
"Oh, I've interrupted your dinner. Please, continue."
"Have you had something? I could whip up a plate for you?" I had no idea what I would do if he said yes. I couldn't actually cook, and I wasn't sure my dad had left sandwich fixings.
"I've eaten, thank you. But, please..." He pointed toward the kitchen.
"Okay. But don't feel like you have to leave." I retrieved my plate from the microwave and took a seat at the dining room table across from him.
"Can I pour you a glass of wine?" I asked.
"Yes. What do you have there?"
"Shiraz-" I froze as I looked at the bottle in front of me. A circle of red still stained the bottom of my glass, but next to it was not the Shiraz I'd opened. Instead, the Pinot gris faced me, sealed and dripping with condensation. My scalp prickled.
"What's wrong? You're as white as a ghost." Rick moved to my side.
"Th-this is not the wine I was drinking. Look." I showed him the top of the bottle. "It's sealed. I put this bottle away in the cellar."
Surely Rick would think I was crazy, but I was too majorly creeped out to maintain the I'm-perfectly-normal facade.
He gingerly took the bottle from my hands, as if the dark green glass might sprout legs at any moment. Tilting his face toward the ceiling, he squinted and his lips pressed into a flat line. "I was hoping this wouldn't start so soon."
