I doubt you’ve seen one movie this whole year. Am I right? Of course I’m right. You need to call this man.”
“I’m calling him! Stop yelling at me. I just... I wouldn’t go to Queens for him. That’s all.”
“He won’t mind. I promise.”
“Hey, Molly. You can screw at my place.” Bobby’s voice boomed over the intercom.
Molly closed her eyes. She’d neglected to cut off the intercom between her and the booth. When she did look, it was with a glare at the engineer. “I’m one hundred percent certain you’ve hooked up your entire apartment with video cameras,” Molly said. “You’re a perv, Bobby!” Turning her attention back to Donna, she said, “I’ll call you after I set things up.”
Donna said, “Good,” then hung up just as Bobby said, “I’m a guy, Molly. Did you know we think about sex every six seconds? My interest in the subject is a biological imperative.”
“Your interest in the subject is that you can’t keep it in your pants,” Roxanne said, her voice dripping with disdain. Theirs was not a match made in heaven. Shockingly, Bobby looked a little ashamed. Not that it would last.
Molly couldn’t have been happier that Roxanne had joined their team as a producer. Molly had originally worked with a guy named Wesley, who not only didn’t understand wine, but hadn’t understood the basics of personal hygiene. University radio stations were great, but the constant revolving door of personnel was a crapshoot.
“In three...two...” Roxanne gave Molly the signal. Her next caller had obviously taken a cue from the caller before the break and wanted to know what wine to pair with popcorn.
“Buttered?”
“Why not?” the caller asked.
Again, Molly went to the base ingredients, the underlying flavors and texture of the food. Popcorn was, after all, corn. And the butter meant she needed something sharp enough to cut the coating sensation on the tongue. “There’s a nice aromatic wine called Viognier that would fit the bill.” She spelled the word, which she had to do with a number of wines. “It’s a reasonably priced white—at least, the California varieties are. Look for Cold Heaven, and make sure the bottle’s well chilled. Then enjoy the movie.”
The requests continued in that vein for the next fifteen minutes. One ridiculous pairing after another. Molly ended up pleased with the hour. They’d had a lot of calls. She was so happy that she did some extra commercial recordings before she gathered her briefcase, her phone and her notes for the following week’s show and headed out to make the all-important phone call to Mr. Crawford.
But first she borrowed Roxanne’s empty office to steal a few minutes alone with her tablet. Molly checked her messages, texted a few replies and then went to her calendar. It was a masterpiece of organization born of necessity. Every day of the month was broken down into half-hour segments, and each segment was tied to her agenda, including breaks for meals, phone conversations that might take longer than five minutes, blogging, teaching, wine tasting, writing, editing... The list went on. What she was looking for now was evenings when she was free. She usually ended up sleeping or working on her evenings off. Occasionally she’d read, but mostly for research. In the past six months, she’d met Donna for drinks three times.
Ever since she’d gone to her first trading-cards meeting—ironically in the basement at St. Marks Church—she’d been shifting her schedule just enough to clear two possible nights next week when she could meet her date, have a meal or a drink, have sex and make it back to her apartment before one the next morning.
She found them on the following Thursday and Sunday. Granted, it would have been better if she’d blocked out a Friday or Saturday night, but those tended to get booked up months in advance with wine tastings, lectures, classes. She had an all-expenses-paid four-day event coming up in the Hamptons, and she’d had to do some serious reshuffling to attend that.
She dialed the number on the card, her heart beating rapidly, her mouth dry as a desert until her call went directly to voice mail.
Cameron sounded nice. And sexy. And polite when he asked her to leave a message.
“Hi, this is Molly Grainger. I’m calling about your trading card. I’d like to talk to you about meeting for a drink next week. I’m into wine as a career, and you’re into beer, so...give me a call.” She left her phone number and cut the connection, hoping she hadn’t sounded too much as though she wanted to sell him life insurance. But at least it was done. He’d probably call. Just hopefully not while she was stuck in a sardine sandwich on the subway going home.
She’d just made it out of the building when Bobby came jogging up to her. He was dressed in his regular uniform of raggedy jeans and a loud T-shirt, this one declaring his passion for zombies. To be fair, her tailored slacks and starched white blouse were her own version of a uniform. Ever since she’d set her sights on becoming a world-class wine expert, she’d dressed for the part, even back when she hadn’t had ten cents to rub together. God bless the Goodwill and consignment stores.
“Hey, Mol, this whole trading-cards thing. Can I get in on that action?”
She didn’t even hesitate. She wouldn’t wish that upon any poor woman. “Sorry, but no.”
“Seriously?” Bobby’s breath still carried the distinctive smoky notes of Cannabis sativa.
She took a step back. “Seriously.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “See you next week.”
She stopped for a moment to watch him flirt with a young woman standing outside their building holding an armful of books before he went back inside. Had Molly ever been that relaxed, that young? Sometimes it felt as if she’d spent most of her life on a treadmill, running as fast as possible and gaining little ground. But that wasn’t completely true. At twenty-seven she’d already accomplished so much. As long as she stayed on track, there was nothing but success ahead of her.
Which reminded her...it was four-fifteen already, and she had a wine-tasting class at six, which meant she just had time to make it home for a quick shower and change before she had to be at Winesby to do her setup. She’d given the kitchen at the restaurant and wine shop the menu before the classes had begun. Tonight’s tasting was Focus on Red, which she particularly loved.
She made it onto the D train in the nick of time. Not surprisingly, she didn’t score a seat, but she wasn’t so squished that she couldn’t steal another glance at Cameron’s trading card. A brewmaster. A great-looking brewmaster with wavy dark hair, sinfully dark eyes and a mischievous smile. Okay, if he called while she was on the train, she wouldn’t answer. She’d wait. Call him back on her own time. The idea of finding someone she could actually talk to while they were in bed was proving to be very enticing. She just hoped he would be free on Sunday or Thursday, because she honestly didn’t think she could make it much longer with just her vibrator and fantasies of Benedict Cumberbatch to get her through.
AS HARD AS the air conditioner at Bistango’s tried, it couldn’t keep up with the entry area. The summer sun was still out at seven, and the heat followed everyone who walked in.
Cameron hadn’t been to the restaurant in years, but he was happy to be back. Especially when it meant meeting
