Page 75 of Wild Abandon

I release my hold on Nate and look down at the treetops and stunning panorama of Napa Valley.

Nate has a look of elation. Like a kid in a candy store, he takes in every sight, inhales every bit of fresh air, and basks in the intense silence of the moment.

The pilot points out various locations down below and even fires up some history of the valley. I’m sure Nate’s heard it all before, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows I want to learn it all.

Our trip is over before I know it, and we head back toward the field.

A red structure below catches my eye. “There’s Russet Ranch!”

It looks so beautiful from up here. From the vineyard to the garden. Even the old garage looks great. I’m looking down, beaming, and I smile when I catch Nate staring at me.

“You really love that place, don’t you?” he asks.

“It’s magical,” I say. I go back to looking down as we head closer to the field.

When we gently touch ground, I look over at Nate and say, “We should do that again!”

He laughs and tips the pilot.

I’m still beaming at the experience when we get into the car and drive back to Nate’s house. I put my hand over his, more to get his attention than anything romantic. He turns to me.

“Thank you. That was amazing.”

Nate blushes. “It was my way of saying I’m sorry. Are we even now?”

“Most definitely,” I say.

My tummy decides to growl, causing his eyes to dart to my screaming stomach.

“I should have fed you first. Come inside.”

I follow him in, and before I know it, we’re moving about his kitchen, gathering ingredients for dinner. For a man living alone, he certainly has a stocked fridge. I assume his girlfriend keeps it stocked, but I don’t bring her up. The last time I did, he didn’t talk to me for two weeks. I don’t want to ruin the moment. If this is the relationship we’re going to have, then I’m okay with that.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been eyeing every corner of the place, looking for a photo. I mean, how serious could it be if he doesn’t even have a photo of her lying around? Then again, he doesn’t have much as far as decor.

Nate is sautéing garlic, and I dice the onions as he asked. He’s making his grandmother’s Sunday sauce. A tradition he grew up with and still keeps every week. I look in the refrigerator and grab the ground meat. When he tells me to start on the meatballs, I just stare at him with uncertainty.

“You’re making that face again,” he says.

I snap my lower lip away from my teeth. “I don’t know how to cook.”

“You love food! How do you not know how to cook?” He’s bemused.

“Never had a reason to.” This is the first time I actually wish I did know how to cook.

Nate puts his arm around my waist and pulls me in front of him by an open area of the counter. His fingers pin me at the hips. “Today, you have a reason to.” He places a bowl on the Formica and hands me an egg.

“What are we making?” I say. I’m a little breathless.

“Meatballs.”

Yes, meatballs. I knew that.

Nate’s an excellent teacher. He hands me the ingredients and tells me what to put in the bowl and when. I don’t mind getting my hands messy, so I dig in, knuckles deep, and grind the meat.

When I mention to him that I’m pretty sure my dad’s meatball recipe calls for day-old bread, he leans into the pantry cabinet and pulls out a stale loaf of Italian bread with a huge smile on his face. “Mine, too.”

We talk about our favorite foods and how I love to travel, having been all over the world. Nate’s experiences have been minimal, only traveling the two years after high school before landing in San Francisco, but he definitely has his fair share of culinary discoveries.