by Tara Lain
“Consumers are vastly different.”
Bettina said, “Are you thinking of joining the Junior League?”
“I thought you were already a member,” Bo said.
“No. I was invited to the meeting as a guest. Sadly, I probably won’t be joining. I have limited time outside of work, and I need to get involved in the trade associations.”
“So you’ll be joining the local vintners’ group?”
She nodded. “For some events, I guess. I gather some are for owners only.”
“Yes.”
She leaned closer. “Of course, those are the very meetings I want to attend.”
Bo laughed. “You’re not missing a lot.” He glanced at her. “But I doubt we’d want our silly obsessions and petty jealousies to appear in social media.”
She raised her brows. “Oh? Are they all so petty?”
Bo’s words got stuck in his throat. He wanted to ask, “What have you heard?” but swallowed hard. “I guess not to us. They often feel very serious.”
“I’m sure.” Sage turned to his mother and started talking about the best places to shop—not that his mama would know.
Bo took the break to swallow a couple of bites of food, but he couldn’t settle down and enjoy the taste. Was Sage being purposefully provocative? He’d give a lot to know what Ottersen had said to her or what she’d heard through exposure to the community. A newcomer’s view would be worth a lot. Still, his brain wouldn’t settle on the best way to broach that subject. He also had to focus on the fact that she’d probably come there expecting to be asked on a date.
“Bo?”
He glanced up. “Yes, Mama?”
“You were a million miles away.”
“Sorry.”
Bo tried not to be distracted as the women talked and finished their meals until finally his mother said, “I thought we might take coffee and dessert in the living room.”
“Oh yes.” He rose and held the chair for Sage, then did the same for his mother. Blanche and Bettina were already up, knowing they’d be expected to help.
This time Sage didn’t volunteer but instead stepped behind Harvey’s chair and leaned over with a smile. “Would you escort me in, Mr. Walshman?”
“I’d be honored, my dear.” Harvey was a canny old duck, but he seemed quite beguiled by Sage. He stood and offered his arm, which she took with great formality.
“So you’re from Georgia?” Sage smiled as they walked to the living room together.
Bo’s mother took his arm and whispered, “See. What did I tell you?”
“Umm. She’s good at PR.” He grinned.
“Bo Marchand, behave yourself.” She gave him a light smack on the arm.
“Always, Mama. Always.” Sadly, he behaved a lot more than he wanted to.
After what felt like a year of chitchat, dessert was finally over. Sage turned to Bo. “I’d love to see more of your beautiful home.”
The woman did have an interesting way of manipulating the people around her. “I’d be delighted to show it to you.”
They both rose, and Bo led the way down the hall toward the back of the house. “There’s not a lot to see. The place started out with various sitting rooms and amenities, but most everything is a bedroom these days. I do still have a sitting room and office if you’d like to see that.”
“Love to.”
He pushed open a door on their left, and she passed him into the big room with its high ceiling, stone fireplace, cushy leather furniture, and big messy desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with everything from winemaking references to novels of the Old West. Fortunately he stashed his gay romance novels in a secret box on a high shelf in his bedroom, along with his porn.
She stopped and smiled wide. “Finally, something in this house that looks like you.”
He’d have laughed, but it hit too close to the heart. “When my family moved in, it was so close to my father’s death, I felt it was important for them to be able to feel at home.”
“That’s very nice of you. I’m not sure I would have been able to do it.” She strolled to the bookshelf and looked at titles.
“I didn’t want to move back to Georgia, so I guess they brought it to me.” This time he did chuckle.
She turned abruptly. “Would I be correct in thinking that your family railroaded you into being here for this dinner and you have no interest in dating me?” She didn’t sound angry. More neutral.
“You’re a direct person. I like it, although it’s a shock to my Southern system.” He smiled.
“Sorry. It’s my Southern way. Southern Illinois, that is.”
He crossed to the leather couch and perched. “You’re correct that they did set this up and insist that I be here. On the other hand, I like you and think you’re attractive. I even like your directness. But I must confess to having a certain unrequited fancy for another. If I seem less than wholehearted, that might account for it.”
“An unrequited fancy.” She barked a laugh. “You do have a way with words.”
“So I’ve been told.” Bo looked at his hands. He hadn’t said anything untrue. He did like Sage, and she was attractive—if not attractive to him. The unrequited fancy part was gospel.
Sage sat on the couch next to him. “Here’s the deal. There aren’t a lot of eligible men in the valley.”
That was sure as God-made-little-fishes true.
“Certainly there aren’t any bachelors as connected to the community as you.” She flashed some teeth. “Or as attractive.” She leaned back on the couch, making him do the same. “I’m assuming that your unrequited fancy doesn’t provide you with an appropriate social partner. I’m not looking for romance. Maybe we can help each other out?” She glanced at him sideways.
“I don’t currently have a lot of time for social partnering.”
“Me either. But there are those occasions where it would be nice not to show up alone.”
She had a point. It would also provide him with cover, but— “You may be aware that your employer’s not particularly popular with the other vintners. If we start appearing together, it will cause talk.”
“Um, yes. I’m aware of his controversial reputation. I guess people could think you’re revealing secrets to me under the influence of my charms.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Or vice versa.”
She slapped her knee. “Perfect. You can tell them I talk in my sleep!”
“How much of your motivation comes from a desire to be privy to some of that inside information as a result of being my date?”
“Oooh, who’s being direct now?” She gave him a little push. “I guess the answer is some. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not digging dirt on you or anyone. I’m just interested in knowing the news of the community as soon as it happens because it’s important to my doing a good job.”
“You may hear unflattering things about your boss.”
“Yes, I know.” A small crease appeared between her brows. “While I’d love to counteract the negative publicity, Mr. Ottersen hasn’t asked me to do that. In fact, he hasn’t discussed the issue with me or made it part of my job.” She shrugged. “I’m certainly not going to publicize it, so I have nothing to gain.”
That seemed unlikely, but a secret gathering could go both ways. “Perhaps we can try it. If the reaction is too negative, we may have to pull back.”
“I’m up for that.”
He shifted on his seat cushion. “And you really don’t care—”
“That your heart’s engaged elsewhere? No, I really don’t, although I’ll admit to being fascinated by the identity of the lucky lady.”
Bo gave a small smile.
Sage stood. “So you’ll call me?”
“If you give me your number.”
She recited her phone number, and Bo keyed it in to his phone, then stood beside her. He said, “There will be a wine tasting event coming up. Perhaps we can go public at that time.”
“Sounds great.”
<
br /> He walked to the door of the room, and she followed him. She crossed through the door, then turned back. “So tell me the truth. How much of your motivation comes from the chance that I might spill something about Ottersen’s plans?”
Bo met her eyes. “Why darlin’, why would you think of something so devious from little ol’ me?”
They both laughed their way back to the living room.
Chapter Five
“BO, WHERE are you going again?” His mother leaned forward in her rocking chair.
“I’m getting ready for the festival, Mama. There’s a great deal to do.”
“It just seems like you’re gone an awfully lot.”
“Maybe Bettina, Blanche, or you would like to help?” The thought made him twitch, but the chances she’d take him up on it were—
She waved a hand. “I’m sure we’d only slow you down.”
Right. Chances—zero. “I’ll get done as soon as I can.”
“Why haven’t you asked Sage out yet?”
“There hasn’t been an opportunity.”
“What opportunity? You have to eat. So does she.”
“We’ll work it out in our own time, Mother. She’s busy and so am I.”
She must have realized he was running out of patience because she said, “Very well, dear. You know best.”
He kissed her cheek and walked out of the living room. Not until he stepped into the garage did he let himself feel excited. Scared, actually. Stupid. Purely stupid. You’re just going to rehearse a scene from a play, not have wild, pornographic sex.
He actually clutched his belly at the thought, then let out a slow breath as he slid into the car. He’d like to find a way to tell Jeremy he was gay, but it was a risk. First, Jeremy might not be interested, even though he seemed to flirt a lot. But interested or not, Jeremy was an out and proud gay man. It could be hard for him to understand the shitstorm coming out would be for Bo—with the vintners who could think he lied to them, and especially with Bo’s family. Not that Jeremy would openly gossip, but things could slip.
Bo pulled out onto the dark road that wound through the wine country, turning right toward Paso Robles. Then there was the possibility that Jeremy could misunderstand Bo’s offer of help. If he knew Bo was gay, would he think Bo’s business assistance was contingent on sex? Bo hated that idea. He honestly liked Jeremy and felt like the guy was getting a rotten deal from Ottersen. Jeremy had worked hard and deserved to succeed. It made business sense for Bo to help him—period. No contingencies. Would Jeremy believe that? Fuck. All too complicated.
In fact, telling Jeremy he was gay could be crazy, but when he saw Jeremy, he went a little crazy. More than a little.
Twenty minutes later Bo parked behind Jeremy’s winery. Elvis once sang about shaking hands and weak knees and being shook up. Man, he related to that song. The back door of the tasting room opened and Jeremy stood there with his mane flowing over his shoulders. Men had killed for less beautiful sights.
Smiling because he had no choice, he climbed out of the car. Damn, it was chilly. He waved a hand toward Jeremy. “Go inside. It’s cold out here.”
Jeremy just grinned as Bo walked up to him. He said, “Just looking at you keeps me warm.”
Bo sucked in air but hoped Jeremy didn’t hear it as they walked through the doors into the service kitchen. The gleaming appliances shone in the light filtering through the windows from the small parking lot.
Jeremy grasped his hand and led him through the maze of prep tables and counters. Bo was tempted to stumble just so Jeremy wouldn’t let go of him. Inside the tasting room, just the lights over the bar had been turned on, and two glasses of white sat side by side, a slight sweat of condensation gleaming on their sides.
“No reason not to enjoy while we work, right?” Jeremy picked up one of the glasses. “To our success, uh, in discovering the secrets of the vicious vintner.”
Bo raised his glass. “The voracious, vicious vintner.” Bo held up his wineglass and stared at the color against the light. “Where’s your assistant tonight?”
A little crease popped between Jeremy’s fair brows. “Are you interested in him? Trying to hire him away from me, maybe?”
“What? Oh God, no.” Talk about backfiring. “I just know you said he works long hours.”
“I do let him rest sometimes.”
Why did that answer not make him feel entirely better?
Jeremy met Bo’s eyes. “So what have you picked out for us? Antony and Cleopatra? Stanley and Stella?”
Cute. “Who’d play Stanley?” Bo gave Jeremy a raised eyebrow, but his heart still beat in his throat.
“Why, me, of course.” He leaned his head back and bellowed, “Stella!”
Bo clutched a hand to his chest and accentuated his drawl. “He was as good as a lamb when I came back, and he’s really very, very ashamed of himself.”
“Hell. I didn’t know Stella ever said anything in that whole play.”
“True. Blanche gets all the juicy lines.”
“So if not Streetcar, what?”
Bo handed Jeremy one of the two sheets of paper in his pocket, then recited Falstaff’s line. “Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?”
Jeremy cocked his head and read, “Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.”
Wow. “That was damned good.”
“Thanks. I really like Henry the Fourth.”
“I think the other winemakers will get a kick out of this speech.”
“Especially all the hot wenches.” Jeremy’s cheeky grin popped into place.
Bo frowned, and the words slipped out. “I’m not interested in wenches, hot or otherwise.”
“Really?” Jeremy looked half-surprised and half-fascinated.
“Uh, I mean there aren’t any women among the winemaking community who I’m interested in.” He felt an opportunity slip out of his hand. At the same time, Sage’s face flashed in his mind. I’ll explain that later. “Shall we read the rest?”
Jeremy nodded, all that fair hair rippling, and Bo plunged into his next line just for the distraction. “Indeed, you come near me now, Hal, for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that wand’ring knight so fair.” His heart tripped. Knight so fair. He groped for his wineglass, hit it awkwardly, and tipped it right over onto Jeremy’s arm. “Damn! I’m so sorry.”
Bo grabbed the glass and hurried around the bar for a rag of some kind. He found a roll of paper towels and dabbed madly at Jeremy’s soaked shirt, the wine creeping up the cotton fabric toward his shoulder. “That was so careless of me.”
“No problem, really. I always keep a shirt close at hand for just such accidents because they seem to happen several times a day. The red’s the worst.” He walked behind the counter near where Bo stood, opened a narrow closet, and pulled a white shirt off a hanger. Then, as Bo tried to keep his tongue in his mouth, Jeremy proceeded to strip off his wet garment and drop it in a hamper, also in the closet. He pulled another shirt up from it and laughed at the huge red stain on the front. “See what I mean?”
Dear blessed God. His comparing Jeremy to Brad Pitt washed back into Bo’s brain, this time the lean, hard body of Fight Club. How did a normal person get abs like that, below shoulders and arms like that? Whoa.
With no apparent hurry, Jeremy sidled to the bar sink, took some towels and wet them, and began to wipe the wine off his glistening golden skin. Bo would gladly have volunteered his tongue for the job. Jeremy held out a fresh wet towel to Bo. “Would you mind? The wine seems
to have seeped up onto my back a bit.”
Catatonic. For a second he thought he’d embarrass himself by being unable to move, but he managed to pull it together and take the towel from Jeremy. Jeremy turned and presented a masterpiece of shoulders and triceps for Bo’s careful inspection. Bo’s dick pronounced Jeremy flawless. “You’re very fit.”
Jeremy glanced over his shoulder abruptly, and for an odd second, he looked—what? Worried? Guilty? Why?
“Uh, yes, I used to be into working out.” He turned his head, but his shoulders had tensed a little.
Taking a breath, Bo wiped the wet towel over Jeremy’s smooth skin on his shoulder and down the side of his back. His hand faltered more than once at the heat penetrating the wet paper and the overwhelming desire to drop the towel and just touch that vanilla crème texture. Thank God Jeremy was turned backward because Bo’s erection threatened to take over the tasting room like Godzilla in Tokyo.
Okay, he couldn’t resist, and probably Jeremy couldn’t tell. Bo let his fingers slip off the side of the paper and slide across Jeremy’s back. Not perfectly smooth as it looked. There were little variations in texture here and there, tiny moles or freckles, like a living, breathing human. Oh dear God, that was more disturbing than perfection. The need to lean in and rest his cheek against all that strength flamed through him.
Suddenly Jeremy made a funny, snuffly sound, as if he was stifling a moan and a sigh at the same time.
Bo froze. Fuckity frogs and fishes! Swiftly and efficiently, he wiped the last dregs of wine from Jeremy’s flesh, dropped the towel on the bar, and walked out toward the opposite wall, taking deep breaths so there was no chance of Jeremy spying his boner. “How are you thinking we should present the scene? With full blocking and costumes?”
Jeremy cleared his throat and when he spoke, it sounded strained. The possibility that it could have anything to do with Bo’s touch both thrilled him and made him want to run. Jeremy said, “It would be hard to get Elizabethan costumes on short notice. What if we just rent hats and do the scene from stools. We could probably add a few stage directions here and there, but no scenery or anything.”