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“What kind of wine?” she asked.
“Ha. Getting fussy are we?”
“No. I’m taking your advice and lightening up.” On impulse, she covered his hand that held the cooler and gave it a squeeze. “This is incredibly nice of you, you know.”
“I’m an incredibly nice guy.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She laughed, and then went silent as the ground turned from sand to sparse cacti, then to shrub brush and a few sparse pine trees. The roar of the waterfall intensified, and the spray cooled the air by several degrees. A brilliant glittering pool came into view amongst the rocks and willows.
“How did you know this was here?” she asked, glancing around in awe.
“The tour guy told me about it.”
They came to a halt next to the pool, beside a small tangle of mesquite.
“We lucked out,” said Jack. “Depending on the wind, we could have ended up at Lone Pine, Condor Point or Dead Man’s Gulch.”
He set the cooler down on the grass to spread the blanket.
Kristy kicked off her shoes. “Dead Man’s Gulch? Now I’m picturing alkali residue and bleached cow skulls.”
“Not exactly romantic.”
She did a double take. “Why would we want romantic?” Then she immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. They weren’t dating. They’d been particularly clear on that point a few minutes ago. She should have let the comment pass.
He bent over the cooler, swinging open the lid. “I mean in the generic sense.”
There was a generic sense to romantic?
Nope. She wasn’t going to ask.
He retrieved a bottle of wine. “Oh, look,” he announced. “The hotel packed Chateau Le Comte merlot.
Now that’s hardly generic.”
He gestured for her to sit down on the blanket then took a seat beside her. The wind waved its way through the mesquite trees, while birds twittered from branch to branch. Jack rustled through the cooler, retrieving two long-stemmed glasses, a corkscrew and a plastic-covered platter of cheese and wafers.
Making quick work of the cork, he poured them each a glass of the wine.
He smoothed back his dark hair and held his glass up for a toast. “To us,” he said, his eyes going silver in the brilliant sunshine. “In the generic sense.”
Everything inside Kristy relaxed. There was something so reassuring about his expression. It told her they were okay. They could go ahead and goof around, drink wine, see the sights, and it didn’t have to lead anywhere.
She clinked her glass against his. “You know, this is about the strangest thing I’ve ever done.”
He took a sip. “Yeah? Well, for me, it’s not even close.”
She tasted the fragrant wine. It was smooth and light, the flavor bursting in her mouth. Then she eyed him up. “You do realize that absolutely begs the question…”
He grinned. “It does, doesn’t it?”
She nodded encouragingly.
He thought for a moment. “Let’s see. If I had to choose, I’d say it was the fire.”
That definitely got her attention. “You lit something on fire?”
“Hunter lit something on fire. I was only along for the ride.”
Kristy took another sip of the merlot. “It was Hunter’s fault. Of course.”
“It was definitely Hunter’s fault. He was upset. Still, if it wasn’t for the gypsy and the elephants, we’d have been fine.”
“You’re making this up.”
“I swear it’s true. We were maybe fourteen and fifteen. We all went to the circus. Dad being Dad, and Gramps being Gramps, we got a special pass to go behind the scenes.
“Hunter decided to get his fortune told. But special pass or not, the wrinkled old gypsy made us pay twenty bucks. Trouble was, back then, we weren’t as grounded in reality as we are—”
Kristy scoffed, practically choking on her wine.
“What?”
“Grounded? Your private jet has mechanical trouble, so a helicopter is picking us up after a bottle of Chateau Le Comte at the Grand Canyon. You call that grounded in reality?”
His eyes narrowed. “You want to hear the story or not?”
“Absolutely. Sorry.”
“At least now I know I have to pay for the helicopter and the jet,” Jack muttered.
“You’ve made amazing progress,” she allowed.
“I have. Anyway. I told Hunter to keep his money. But he wouldn’t listen. He paid her, and the gypsy gave us the standard someone-close-to-you-has-suffered-a-loss spiel.”
Kristy had seen con artists at work before, testing basic questions until the subject engaged with one of them. “It could be an economic loss or a personal loss,” she mused aloud, attempting to put the right quavering note in her voice. “Or maybe ‘he has dark…no, light hair.’”
