by Tara Lain
Still turned away, Bo nodded. “Yes, I was thinking pretty much the same thing.”
“Good.”
“Yes.” Bo glanced down. At least his jeans didn’t look like there was a live animal trying to escape. He turned and plastered on a smile. “So shall we taste just our wines or be more ecumenical?”
Now fully shirted, Jeremy leaned on the bar. “Adding other vintners’ wines to the selection would give us a good excuse to taste some new vintages before they’re available.”
“Excellent plan.” Bo finally felt calmed down enough to walk back to the tasting bar and lean on it, safely across from Jeremy. A new glass of white stood on his side of the bar. “So you trust me with this?” He grinned as he picked up the glass and sipped the dry chardonnay.
“I’m taking a big chance. I don’t have any more shirts in the tasting room. After this I have to go nude.” Jeremy’s glance could have been flirtatious, or maybe that was more wishful thinking.
Bo saluted with the glass. “We’ll have to risk it.”
“So do we include Ottersen in the tasting?” His lopsided grin was full of mischief.
“I think in the name of democracy we have to, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah.”
Bo stared at the smooth wood of the bar and tried not to think of Jeremy’s skin. “I happen to know someone at Ottersen’s I can ask to provide the wines.”
“You do? Most excellent. How do you—” His cell buzzed somewhere on his person. Jeremy dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out the phone. He glanced at the screen and looked—conflicted. Like hopeful and worried at the same time. “Hello?” He listened for just a second. “Yeah, hi. Great to hear from you. Why are you—” All hope drained from his face, leaving a bleak disbelief. “But I thought we had an arrangement. We shook hands. We’re reviewing the contracts now and should have them back tomorrow. If it’s a question of price, I’m sure we can discuss—”
A flash of anger seared across his face. “There’s nothing he can do for you I can’t match. Do you realize what he’s trying to do? You’re going to find yourself with no suppliers and—” He listened, and anger resolved into despair. “I understand. Yes, I’m sorry too.” He clicked off and stared at the phone.
The sick feeling in Bo’s stomach threatened to push up his throat. “Bad news.”
“God damn him to hell!” Jeremy raised his phone, looked at it, dropped it on the bar, and picked up his glass. With one Major League hurl, he sent it smashing against the wall in a gazillion shards.
“Ottersen?” Damn the man.
He nodded. “I had one good bulk contract for zin that was going to help keep us afloat until I could develop some new blends.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone.” He dropped his forehead to his hands, then lifted his head again. “That’s two this week. They didn’t confirm it was Ottersen. When I said “he,” my customer—my former customer—pretended he had no idea who I was talking about. They decided to go another way. Blah, blah, blah.” He sighed so loudly, the pile of paper cocktail napkins rustled.
Bo walked to Jeremy like a moth to a flame, or maybe the flame to the moth. He put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy.”
In one move Jeremy stood straight, turned, and threw himself into Bo’s arms. “Oh God, why? Why is he doing this to me? I’m the new kid. I’ve never done anything to him. Why does he hate me so much he wants to put me out of business?”
Breathlessly, Bo patted Jeremy’s back like he was on fire and Bo was about to be burned to ash. Great truth there. “I-I don’t think it’s personal, Jeremy. You’re low-hanging fruit to him. You don’t have as many long-established customers that won’t leave you.”
Jeremy burrowed his head into Bo’s shoulder, and his back convulsed. “It feels personal. And he’s winning. He’s going to put me under, and I’ve worked so hard. Given up so-so much. I d-don’t know what to do.”
Well, shit. Bo quit battling his desires and tightened his arms around Jeremy’s slim, hard-as-iron body. God, even swamped by the heat and scent of Jeremy, Bo marveled at the whipcord strength of the man, like some martial artist or ultimate fighter. “I think we keep doing what we’re doing. We’ll try to find out how he’s getting his information, and meanwhile we’ll make our brands as unique as we can. If you need a loan, I’m here.”
Jeremy’s strained face popped up. “My God, why are you so nice?”
Words pushed against Bo’s lips about caring and sharing, but he just smiled and said, “Must be all that Southern hospitality.”
“Well, thank heaven for you. I can’t tell you how much I value your friendship. It feels like my only port in a storm.” He leaned up and kissed Bo’s cheek.
Every fiber in Bo’s chest felt ripped apart. Yes, he loved being Jeremy’s port, but that word “friendship” hung like a sword above Bo’s head. Did you lust after your friends? And if you did, did your friend think you had ulterior motives for helping him? Damn, what a tangled web and all that deception crap. “My pleasure.”
Jeremy’s gaze connected with Bo’s like he’d touched the third rail, and just as fast was gone. Jeremy took a breath and blew it out as if practicing yoga. “I’m going to choose to be optimistic because you told me to.”
He wasn’t sure that’s what he’d said, but Bo nodded. “Good. So let’s make a list of all the things we need to do for the Dionysian Festival.”
“There’s an awful lot to do in such a short time.”
“Yes, but truthfully, I’ve thought about having our own local wine tasting for a while, so I’ve done some of the legwork. I’ll just put it into action sooner than expected, plus I’ll tell my friends to get ready to snoop.”
“I can’t wait to meet them.”
“You’re going to love them. They say they already love your wine, so you might have met them and not known it.”
“Even more reason to be anxious.”
Bo slid into friend mode, Jeremy cleaned up the glass, and they settled in for an hour of steady, fully clothed planning. Dammit.
Chapter Six
JEREMY WAVED out the door at Bo as he drove away. The driving away part was a bitch. There for a few minutes, with Bo’s fingers skimming his skin, Jeremy had thought maybe, maybe he’d been wrong about the guy. Oh please, let me be wrong. But then Bo had been so strong and supportive. No way Jeremy could compromise that kind of help by coming on to the guy when he almost certainly didn’t welcome it. Shit.
He stepped back in the door, closed it, and leaned against it, head hanging. In all the years he’d been planning his escape and finally getting away, there hadn’t been anyone who’d interested him enough to get his brain, cock, and heart involved. Hell, even two out of three wouldn’t have been bad. But nada. Then he came to Paso and took one look at Bo Marchand. Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner!
“Jeremy?”
“Holy shit!” Jeremy jumped a foot and whirled, then slapped a hand against his chest. “Jesus, Christian, you about scared me out of my jeans.”
Christian grinned and waggled his brows. “Ooh, I’d like to see that.”
Jeremy frowned slightly. Unlike Bo, the one downside of Christian was that he did try to step across the “colleagues” line from time to time. Not gonna happen. But the kid was a big asset. Of course, kid was a misleading term, since Christian was only a couple of years younger than Jeremy. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Sorry. I would have told you, but you were entertaining the hunky one, and I didn’t want to butt in or make him uncomfortable.”
How much did Christian see? “So did you hear my phone call?”
“Uh, no. I was working in the office the whole time. I heard his car pull away through the window. Who called?”
Jeremy sighed, crossed the tasting room, and picked up Bo’s glass.
Christian said, “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Sheffield withdrew their contract.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah.” He
swallowed the last mouthful of chard—from right where Bo had put his lips. “Look, I don’t want you worrying. I’ve got some plans that will help make up this loss.”
“You do? Tell me.” Christian leaned on the bar top and stared avidly at Jeremy. He really was involved in the success of the company, which impressed the hell out of Jeremy.
Jeremy took a breath and stopped. He didn’t have permission from Bo to share this with anyone. Bo might not want other people like Christian aware that his friends were going to be snooping. “I better see how things develop before I talk about it, okay? I will tell you that Bo Marchand and I are going to host a Dionysian Festival coming up, so I’m going to need your help.”
“A Dio-what?” Christian cocked his head.
“Dionysian Festival. You know, the Greek god of wine?”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Apparently the Greeks had this big festival where they put on plays and drank a lot of wine. Bo and I were looking for an excuse to put on a festival locally and thought the Dionysian Festival would be an appropriate reason for a wine tasting. It’s a lot to do in a short time, so we need to put together an invitation list fast. I think it’s going to be at Marchand, but we didn’t exactly decide. Will you get our names together tomorrow?”
“Sure. Sounds like fun. We won’t let ’em see us sweat, right, boss?”
“That’s exactly right. To quote another cliché, nothing succeeds like success—or the appearance of it, anyway.”
“I’ll get on it first thing.” He’d draped a coat over one of the barstools, and he picked it up and put it on.
“By the way, what were you working on tonight?”
Christian screwed up his face. “The Sheffield contract.”
Jeremy slowly released his breath. “We’ll get past this. At least we still have Frenfield.”
“Yeah.” Christian ran a hand through his spiky hair. “Look, I’m so sorry this happened, but I believe. We’ll have the best damned Dio-whatever party the world has ever seen.” He raised an arm heroically. “See you tomorrow.” He walked to the front and out the door—although the employee parking lot was in back. Someone must be picking him up. Maybe Christian has a boyfriend.
Jeremy carried the dirty glass to the sink and gently ran a finger around the rim. Christian believes, but do I? Bo might not think the attacks on Jeremy by Ottersen were personal, but that was hard to accept. Ottersen was a big-time thinker. He was after some of the plum contracts available from the big Napa winemakers. Why would he single out little Hill Top Winery for destruction? Just because he can? The Sheffield contract would be petty cash to Ottersen. More of a nuisance than a profit, but to Jeremy it had meant a way to pay his employees for a few more months.
Trying to square his shoulders, he washed the glass in the hot water, rinsed, and set it to drain. Like Christian said, nobody was going to see him sweat. At least not until he went fully down in flames. For whatever reason, Bo seemed determined not to let that happen. Just as long as I don’t take him down with me.
The weight of it all pressed against his neck, and he hung his head over the sink. Damn, he’d dreamed of owning his own winery since he was little and spent those wonderful summers with his grandfather. Those weeks were like a light in a deep well of darkness and pain. He’d worked so hard to make that light his life, and now—Fuck! No way I’m giving up without a fight. Bo Marchand was willing to throw his weight combined with Jeremy’s against Ottersen. Jeremy wouldn’t look that amazing gift horse in the mouth—he let himself grin. Or the gorgeous ass either.
Jeremy walked to his racks of wines and began mentally sorting the vintages and blends he wanted to include in the tasting. Maybe they could even get a couple of the local wine judges to come and give a prize or two. Yeah, the vintners would love that. Anything for another award they could brag about.
He cocked his head. Hey, that’s a damned good idea.
He’d call Bo in the morning and suggest it. The thought of having a reason to talk to Bo so soon made his chest warm and his cock peppy.
Okay Dio-whatever party. Let’s get the planning on.
BO FLOPPED back on his still unmade bed, a smile on his face and phone to his ear. “That’s a great idea, Jeremy.” He ran a hand over his skin from the waistband of his sleep pants to his chest and back, enjoying the bounce of his dick every time Jeremy said something in his silky voice. “Who do you think should approach the judges?”
“I can ask Christian to do it. He’s putting together our guest list.”
Bo sat up. “No.”
Pause. “Sorry?”
“Uh, I mean judges should only be approached by the most senior people. It should be you or me.”
“Based on those parameters, it should be you, then.” He sounded a little gun-shy.
“Yes, sure. I’m happy to do it.” Bo ran a hand over his face. “Look, I didn’t mean to be so emphatic. I just think it’s better if we keep a lot of the details of this party and our other plans to ourselves. We don’t know who’s going to say what to whom. I don’t want any more of your secrets being leaked.”
Jeremy made a little snuffling noise. “God, man, you’re so right. I’m sorry. Christian does so much for me, I just assume he needs access to everything, but I should be more careful. Me of all people.”
Bo smiled against the phone. “It’s not your nature to be sneaky.”
There was a little sound like a hard swallow from Jeremy. “I’ll be more careful. No point in undoing all the wonderful help you’re giving me.” He paused. “And by the way, I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you or repay you.”
The myriad of images that flashed through Bo’s mind made him blush from both embarrassment and shame. That’s not what Jeremy means, you pervert. “I’ll call some possible judges right away. I really think that’s a great idea. We can start small and, if it goes over well, make it an annual event.”
Jeremy sounded cynical. “If I stay in business.”
“Don’t worry, you will.” Damn, I hope I can make that come true. “As soon as the festival’s over, we’ll head out to speak to the Northern California vintners.”
“How about inviting some of them to the party? They probably won’t come, but at least it’s exposure.”
“Another great idea. Hell, we can even head for the New York wineries too. They often buy California bulk to enrich their own blends. Maybe Ottersen hasn’t hit them yet.” There was dead silence on the line, just for a second, but enough to give Bo a little shiver. “Jeremy?”
“Sorry. Someone came in. Yes, but let’s walk before we run. One question. Since we’re inviting judges and giving prizes, do we still want to invite Ottersen?”
“I thought about that, and I vote yes. It’s a level playing field. If we by some chance beat him, it’s a clear indication that he’s winning these contracts through financial manipulation or something else, like espionage. If none of us win, nothing’s lost.”
“And if he wins?”
“I guess those are the chances we take.”
“I guess so.” He sounded uncertain.
“Hey, speaking of walking and running, we don’t even have the judges lined up yet. Let’s not get our hounds ahead of our foxes.”
Jeremy snorted. “You did not just say that.”
“Sorry. You can take the boy out of the country, et cetera.”
“Do you really hunt?”
“No, sir. Foxes are way too cute.”
Jeremy laughed. “So are you. I’ll get to work and report back soon. Let me know about the judges.”
Bo’s brain was still back on the “so are you” part. “I will. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll try.”
He hung up and flopped back on the bed again. He’d happily spend another hour lying there jerking off to dreams of Jeremy. That would be plain foolish, plus the noises from the house suggested that others were already thrashing about. Time to get up and at ’em.
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An hour later, he’d showered, dressed, and talked to two potential judges who had enthusiastically agreed to participate. A third had refused, but from scheduling conflicts, not disagreement with the concept. That was a damned good idea Jeremy had. Now Bo just needed to secure a third judge and they could move ahead with the contest.
Hunger drove him out of his office to the dining room, where breakfast had been set on the sideboard in old Southern style. He loaded his plate with some scrambled eggs, bacon, and grits, poured black coffee into a cup, and gathered it all for a return to his office.
Just as he was picking it all up, his mother walked in, still dressed in her housecoat. “Oh, you’re not leaving, are you? Stay and keep me company.”
Sigh. “Yes, ma’am.” He sat at the table as she selected items on her plate. Mama was a grazer. She plopped down in a chair beside him. He smiled. “Are you going somewhere fun?”
“I get my nails done every week at this time. You should know that.”
He gave her a half grin. “Why? Are you likely to forget and need reminding?”
“Oh, Bo.” She swished a hand at him. “You seem quite busy today. What’s going on?”
“I’m planning a wine tasting event with another vintner. There are a lot of details.”
“Ooh, I like wine tasting. Am I invited?”
“Of course you are, if you want to be. But you only like white zinfandel, Mama, and I don’t make that. Neither do any of the other vintners on the central coast.”
She frowned. “Yes, why is that?”
“I’ve explained to you, but you don’t like the explanation.”
“I forget.” She gave him a challenging look.
He grinned. “Because the central coast is known for red zin, and there aren’t enough high-quality grapes available for both. White zin requires lesser-quality fruit, and many winemakers don’t consider white zinfandel to be real wine. It’s thought to be one step above wine coolers.”
She stuck out her lip. “But I like—”