“Of course,” I lean forward, intrigued.
“Alright, before this was a Mexican restaurant, it used to be a steakhouse with a huge wine collection.” He points to the redwood beams behind him, “Massive. Anyway, one of the servers walked into the dining room, carrying an entire baguette and saucer of olive oil. She looked up and saw a man hanging by his neck above the bar.”
My eyebrows shoot up, “For real?”
“Oh yeah,” Joaquín nods, “right up there, from one of the beams. She freaks out, drops everything—waves of olive oil all over the floor. But then he disappeared…” he pauses suspensefully, “or maybe no one else could see him except her.”
“OK, that’s terrifying,” I laugh.
“That one’s creepy,” Joaquín waves his hand dismissively, “but this one is good,” he says while rubbing his hands together dramatically. “One night, a couple was sitting here at the bar and they watched a bottle fly off the top shelf and land upright on the bar.” He slams his palm down on the bar top, making me flinch, “It didn’t bounce, it didn’t wobble, it didn’t break, it just landed upright with a bang.”
“No way,” I chuckle, leaning back in my chair.
Joaquín pops the cork out of the Malbec bottle and tilts the glass, pouring until it’s a third full. Then he slides the glass toward me.
“Taste it,” he thrusts his finger at me, “and tell me it’s not your favorite!”
Joaquín is right. Just like he said, the wine is thick, fruity, and smoky. It tastes so good, I could down the entire glass right there.
“This is fucking amazing.”
Joaquín lets out a whoop of laughter and leans back against the redwood beams. I glance at Bowen and see he’s laughing to himself, his white teeth gleaming as the light hits his face just right.
Joaquín narrows his eyes, “You know why?”
From the look on his face, I just know he’s about to say something shocking. I shake my head, smiling with anticipation.
He nods to the top of the shelves, “Because that bottle fell from that shelf up there.”
My eyes moved from Joaquín, to the glass, then back to Joaquín, “No!” I exclaim in astonishment.
“Well,” he gives a shrug, “it was one of four or five on the same shelf, but it might’ve been the one.”
It doesn’t matter, I’m still stunned, absolutely dumbfounded I might be drinking wine from a haunted bottle. Is the wine haunted? Am I drinking ghosts? I have no idea what to say.
“But,” I pause, my mind racing, “but, how did you know I like spooky things?”
“Maybe I’m just that good,” he winks at me and taps the bar top, “let me know if you need anything else.” He grins and, in an instant, he’s halfway across the bar, leaving Bowen to his whiskey and me to my haunted wine.
I jerk my head around, my mouth ajar, “What just happened?”
Bowen takes a swig of his whiskey and cracks a smile, “Looks like you found a kindred spirit.”
I glance at him a couple more times as I smooth the front of my hunter green sweater and gaze up at the redwood beams, envisioning a body hanging from the rafters. Talk about holiday spirit…
I take another sip of the wine and hold it on my tongue, savoring the rich taste while Bowen stares at me with a faint smile on his face. He sits perfectly still, his elbow propped up on the bar and his chin resting in his hand.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, shooting him a side-eye.
He shakes his head with a laugh, “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that looks the most beautiful when she’s thinking about haunted houses and murder scenes.” Then he reaches over and runs his fingers across my back, “Are you happy?”
“Yeah,” I close my eyes, taking in the moment, “I am.”
He gives his whiskey a swirl, “In that case, you know what would make this even better?”
I shake my head.
“If you say you’ll marry me.”
I give one long blink, as if I couldn’t be any more stunned at this moment. Before I can respond, Bowen sets down a small, black, velvet box on the bar top and slides it in front of me. The lid is open, revealing a cushion teal sapphire with pave set diamonds along the gold band. I touch the box with my finger and stare at the ring, my mouth half-open.
I jerk my head up, “Are you serious?” I ask in a whisper.
Bowen grins, “I’m asking you, aren’t I?”
I gaze down at the ring and clasp both hands over my mouth, “But we’ve only been together—”
“Four months,” Bowen finishes my sentence, “are you planning on going somewhere?”
I smile at him as I pluck the ring out of the box, gaping at the large, teal stone, “No…”
Bowen takes the ring from me and holds my wrist steady while he slides it onto my finger. Then he kisses the back of my hand, “I already know what I want, and I knew it long before tonight. But,” he shoots me a look, “I knew if I asked you when I really wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to handle it because you have to plan everything, like, six months in advance.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
I do have to plan everything six months in advance—at least, I used to… Now, I don’t seem to mind that Bowen decided to buy me a new vehicle or asked me to move in with him after only a short period of time. And now the thought of marrying him after only four months feels like something more akin to excitement rather than being crushed under a boulder. I don’t have to be on-guard all the time because I trust him. I can’t change who I am overnight, but being with him makes so many of the neurotic things I do seem unnecessary. Maybe I can be free again…
Bowen rotates my hand back and forth, examining the ring shimmering on my finger, “I realize you—" he starts, but I don’t give him a chance to finish.
