“Your blush says you’d like to find out if I’m lying.” He had no qualms calling me on the heat his presence stirred. Or goading me. “Don’t fuck up the Pinot tasting. Flustering you is too much fun.”
Such a jokester. “Pinot is my grape.”
“I thought you were a Cabernet Sauvignon lover. You nearly fainted when I poured you the Screaming Eagle. Even plastered yourself against the bottle.”
I flipped toward him and gripped his thigh. “Are you serious? You opened a Screaming Eagle? And I drank it?”
He chuckled, something different in his steely gaze. Not the sexy droop of his eyelids that had me wanting to nibble his neck, or the glazed sadness I’d seen. This was a sparkle, adoration behind the subtle glow. “You did. And unless you want the room to see how much you turn me on, I’d suggest releasing my leg.”
We were sequestered, no one beside me or across the table to eavesdrop, but I snatched my hand back. “I can’t believe I tasted a Screaming Eagle and don’t remember. That’s criminal.”
“You loved it, if that helps.” He lowered his voice, a quiet rumble just for me. “I think you liked it best when I poured a drop on your pussy before I ate you out.”
What? Whatwhatwhat? It was all too much. Missing that wine, my possible orgasm with those full lips between my thighs. That wine. The knowledge of what I’d missed was worse than the Butt Crack Incident.
I turned toward him and hissed, “This conversation ends now. We’re in a room with other people, and I need to focus. Keep the P-word to yourself.”
He mumbled something about me having no issues shouting pussy in Vesper, and I cursed Reckless Rachel for the thousandth time.
I forced my attention to our tasting. Five glasses of Pinot Noir faced me, my pens neatly lined up. A paper with five numbers listed in rows awaited my answers. My phone buzzed, stopped, then buzzed again. For sure my mother. I ignored the noise, but Jimmy frowned at my purse, then he snatched one of my pens.
I gawked at him. “That’s mine.”
“You have two.”
“In case one runs out of ink.”
“You need to write down five names. What kind of crappy pens run out of ink after five names?”
I gritted my teeth. My phone buzzed again, him and that noise equally as grating. He also didn’t return the pen. Not only did he not return it, but he placed his index finger at the base of my other one and tapped it out of position. I moved it back perpendicular. He tapped it again.
Motherfucker.
I dug my fingers into his side and pinched. “Next time I go for the nipple. Don’t mess with me.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
Probably both. My phone vibrated again, my mother never one to trust voicemail. (What if you’re abducted and can’t get to the phone? What if you’ve had a seizure?) Unable to add her to my stress, I reached in and silenced my cell. To afford participating in this contest, I’d taken a receptionist job at my gym. So unless I wanted to fold towels for a living, it was time to get my head in the game.
I plucked my remaining pen from the table, took a deep breath, and swirled the first glass. From nothing but a sniff and sip we had to name the region, extra points awarded for the winery and year.
My father had belonged to a wine club. Once I’d shown interest, he brought me along to tastings. Some were lateral, where we’d compare one wine across vintages. Others compared grape varieties. When I got them right, he’d hold up my sheet and boast about it to the room, then we’d talk wine the whole drive home. Hopefully those nights had left their mark.
The Nose already had his schnozinator in his glass, no doubt picking up every nuance. Jimmy was in no rush, swirling and sniffing. I steadied my hand, lifted my glass, and inhaled.
Black cherry. That was a given for most Pinots. I mentally reviewed the classes I’d taken, searching for the characteristics that defined each region. Dark plum for New Zealand, cranberry and earth for Oregon, and the subtle barnyard aroma from France. I sipped and swirled and inhaled, narrowing the possibilities. Guessing the years would be harder, the wineries a shot in the dark. Good thing I’d pored over Crush’s wine list the past week.
As I lifted my second glass again, Jimmy whispered, “Number three happened on my living room floor. After the butt shot.”
My wine nearly sloshed on the table.
Us. Naked. On his floor. After the butt shot he wasn’t supposed to mention. But I didn’t even care. That must have been the memory that resurfaced, and I wanted to disappear in those sensations again—us rocking together, skin against skin.
If we’d been alone, no test or audience around, I’d have given up my charade. I’d have straddled him on that chair, ground against him and eased the ache building under my skirt. Passion. Lust. Cravings. Things I’d never experienced lit under my skin in a tantalizing cocktail. But we had an audience, and I had a test to ace.
The rest went relatively smoothly. Except for the moments Jimmy leaned over to list how orgasms four, five, and six had gone down—in his kitchen, the last two between his sheets. God have mercy. Wines four and five gave me trouble, but by the time my final answers were on the page, I was pleased.
The Nose folded his arms, smug as hell. Jimmy took his time.
He tapped my pen on the table, his bedroom eyes back on me, my skirt ready to combust. “You think you did well?” he asked.
I sat straighter, hiding my answers. “Do you doubt my ability?”
“I don’t doubt you. The real question is, do you still doubt me? Do I need to prove I can make you scream my name with a lick of my tongue?”
Bad Boy didn’t mince words, and I liked it—his dangerous air, his confidence. He had me rethinking my stance on one-night stands. Or two-night stands. My awkwardness with him had receded, jokes and flirtations in its place. He had me at ease. Yes, I wanted a relationship and he wouldn’t be that man, but for the first time ever, I felt as though I could pull off a fling.
May as well strike while the iron was hot. “If you pass this session,” I said, my determination building, “I might consider testing your claim. For scientific reasons.”
His tongue stroked his bottom lip, leaving it wet and red and kissable. “Then I better get this last wine right.”
He’d better.
Unlike me, who’d moved back and forth between my five wines, comparing and questioning and driving myself nuts, he’d sipped each in turn, leisurely. He was as contemplative with his final Pinot. The contrast of his strong hands, the chunky ring on his middle finger, and the leather cuff as he swirled his glass was strangely sensual. Those hands would look downright brutish on my freckled skin.
He observed the alcohol clinging to the crystal, assessing the legs that dripped downward. His focus was absolute. Then he brought the rim to his nose, inhaled…
And something changed.
His brows pulled tight, a deep crease sinking between them. The sip that followed sent a symphony of expressions across his face—jaw flexing, cheeks reddening, lips flattening into a grim line. His blue-gray eyes glazed. He plunked his glass down and pushed it aside, as though it were tainted, corked. Gone was the relaxed toss of his posture. Now he was all straight spine and crossed arms. His flirty glances ceased, too.
Nothing about wine five struck me as odd. It was a local California Pinot Noir, of that I was sure, but I couldn’t peg the winery. Unsure what soured him, I didn’t intrude. Aside from a hot night I barely recalled, and some flirting, we hardly knew each other. His scowl didn’t invite questions, his sudden chill frosting my mood further.
Alonzo returned, but I barely listened as he explained the day’s results would be emailed. Bitterness pulsed off Jimmy. He wouldn’t glance my way and didn’t make a joke when the Nose sneezed. I’d gone from unable to shake him to invisible. It shouldn’t have hurt; he didn’t owe me anything. But the emotional whiplash was jarring.
The second we were dismissed, he was up and out of his chair, his boots thunking
toward the stairs, not a word to me. Like the flirting had never happened. Like he hadn’t teased me all session with sensual promises, only to leave me wanting. I snatched my purse and pens and hurried after him. If nothing else, I wanted to grab his shirt and yank him around and ask what his problem was, but he was too quick. I made it outside as he straddled the motorcycle, of course, revved the engine, and tore off. Bad Boy with an attitude.
Seven
Jimmy
I’m not sure when I became such a dick. Maybe when my family ripped the ground out from under my feet. It could have been when Sophia left me. All I knew was a sweet woman, who’d been honest about her sexual desires and awkwardness, had gotten caught in the crossfire. And it wasn’t cool.
I’d clocked a lot of miles on my bike since our last session at Crush, pounded a punching bag within an inch of its life. My family’s Pinot Noir still lingered on my tongue. It tasted of nights watching my grandfather bottle wine and days helping pick grapes. It tasted of deception.
One sip had sent me for a spin.
The other thing that had my knuckles raw from rounds of pummeling a speed ball was the hurt on Rachel’s face when I blew her off. The woman who’d made me laugh, who matched my sarcasm blow for blow, didn’t deserve to be toyed with. She didn’t warrant my attitude. She was all long lines and soft skin, a little innocent and a lot of fun. All either of us wanted was another night, and I couldn’t even manage that.
But I could muster an apology.
I got to our next session early and waited, knee bouncing, fists clenching, hoping to see her. If she’d been eliminated, I’d have no way to get in touch. I’d have to live with the tightness in my chest. With a second to spare, she waltzed in, and I relaxed. She sat on the far side of the room, stoic. She didn’t spare me a glance. I deserved as much, and worse. All I could do was stare, guilt and frustration coiling.
We had to uncork Champagne, a tough feat for the uninitiated, and she struggled. If I were beside her, I’d have whispered some tricks. Angle the bottle at forty-five degrees. Rotate the bottle, not the cork. The blind tasting afterward was a sampling of Merlot, easy for me, but I watched her, apprehensive, worried she’d get cut. That I’d lose my chance to explain.
It was over too soon.
As Alonzo thanked us for coming, the man beside Rachel—his forehead as shiny as his dark hair—leaned into her side. He whispered to her and touched her elbow. He got as close as I had last week. She smiled at him, her nose crinkling in amusement.
Jealousy flashed behind my eyes. I wanted to capture that sunny smile. Bask in it. Hear her silly laugh, because it was real. As were her orgasms when I’d gone down on her. Knowing I’d been the only man to make her buck and moan with my tongue was a thrill. It made me want to pound my chest and growl, prove only I could reduce her to incoherent sounds.
The whole thing was a mess. I wanted her. For more than one night, maybe, but I’d already proven I wasn’t ready for a girl like Rachel. Where did that leave us?
Alonzo scrubbed his goatee as he addressed the room, his blue suit more mobster than restauranteur. “Like last time, emails will be sent with results, and two of you will be cut. Next session will be Cabernet Sauvignon. Since our numbers are still high, four will be eliminated.” He nodded. “Until next week.”
My gaze cut to Rachel, who went white as a sheet. The night we’d hooked up, and I uncorked the Screaming Eagle, she’d lamented her challenge with Cabs, complaining that she’d always struggled tasting the grape. She wouldn’t remember that confession, but there was no denying the worry in her pinched brow. Another four lost would take us down to twenty-two. She wasn’t sure she’d last.
Which meant my time with her could be limited.
She was up and at the stairs as I reached for my jacket, but a tap on my shoulder stopped me from following her. “Have we met before?”
I turned and searched the woman’s face. She had blond hair and narrow features, excessive makeup highlighting her blue eyes. Nothing about her was familiar. “Don’t think so.”
She studied me. “I just thought we’d met—at an event or something. I’m April. I pour wines for functions in Napa.”
The odds of her remembering me from an Offshoot Winery tasting were slim. Back then my hair was clipped short, my face clean shaven. I had no tattoos, not a thread loose on my jeans. The prospect of being recognized wasn’t pleasant. If Alonzo found out who I was, he’d plaster my name through the papers to up his publicity, and my plan would fall apart.
“Don’t think we’ve met,” I repeated. “I just moved to town. Must have a twin around.”
Her pink lips turned down, but she didn’t push.
I grabbed my jacket and spun for the exit, but my sights snagged on an Offshoot wine bottle. Our Cabernet, of course. Nothing but lies in sleek packaging.
My mind tripped back to the day my younger brother Dimitri and I caught our winemaker playing with our flagship Cabernet Sauvignon, blending in more than the twenty-five percent of other varietals allowed. We’d been on him to trim costs. His brilliant solution: pass off inferior—cheaper—grapes as Cabernet.
Dimitri had always been lazy, more corners cut than followed, and he didn’t bat an eye. I, on the other hand, was furious, could never have my name linked to such deceit. My father’s reaction was to list wine’s illustrious history, telling us of Pliny the Elder’s claims that most wines were adulterated, falsehoods wrapped in scents of black cherry and spice.
Neither of them gave a damn.
I’d sure as shit cared, but I lost the winery before I could make things right.
Now it was time. I was stuck in a rut, that lie tethering me to my past, and this contest was my best shot. Placing an anonymous call wouldn’t work. Laws weren’t as strict in Napa Valley as they were in Europe, and Dimitri had too many wine critics in his pocket. With the top experts in the field present at the final round, I’d work the tables, plant seeds and watch the gossip spark. The fire would catch before Dimitri could control it. They’d be forced to recall all mislabeled wines, and their reputation would nose-dive. It was unavoidable.
It was also tragic.
The winery my grandfather and I had poured our lives into would crumble, his legacy forever tarnished. My gut hollowed at the thought.
Ignoring the queasiness, I made for the door, hoping to find Rachel and clear my head. Luck was on my side. She’d stopped a few blocks down to rummage through her purse. Probably for her cell. Last session it had vibrated incessantly until she’d shut it off. A guy calling her, maybe. Someone in her life who didn’t spin hot and cold. That didn’t seem like her style, to flirt with me and go home to someone else, but if my ex Sophia taught me anything, it was people weren’t always who they seemed.
I glanced at my bike and debated leaving, not pursuing her pull. Not offering some weak explanation for my behavior. That would mean sitting through another session, waiting for a glance from Rachel. A twitch of her lips. Any reaction to me.
Fuck it all to hell.
She was on the move and turned into a grocery store. I jogged after her, unsure what I was after, unable to stop.
I found her in the produce section. A bag of cherries was in the basket on her arm. Her hips swayed in her black skirt, the folds of her white blouse whispering across her skin as she moved. She always wore conservative clothes, always black, white, or gray. I couldn’t be sure who the real Rachel was—the woman with the witty humor, sexual appetite, and wild laugh, or the woman who wore prim outfits, straightened her pens, and couldn’t come with any other man’s head between her thighs. If I had to guess, I’d say she didn’t know her true self, either.
Her back was to me as I approached, her attention fixed on an employee. “Do you have black currants?”
He scratched his pock-marked cheek. “Only dried, I think. Aisle three, with the bulk foods.”
“And licorice? The real kind, black. Not the strawberry Twizzlers.”
“Aisle two, with th
e candy. Should be there.”
Cherries in her basket, currants and licorice—she either had some odd eating habits, or she was training her nose for the Cabernet Sauvignon tasting.
“You don’t want licorice,” I said.
Her shoulders jumped. She swiveled, surprise in her wide brown eyes. Her attention lingered on my leather jacket and dipped down the front of my T-shirt, landing on my belt buckle. Her eyes flicked up to my face, irritation replacing her desire. I saw it, though—the quickening of her breath, the parting of her lips. All wasn’t lost.
“If I asked for licorice,” she said, “then I want licorice.”
“Not if you’re using it to prepare for next class. For that, you need star anise and these.” I grabbed a pint of blackberries and tossed them in her basket.
Her scowl was adorable. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping you.”
The pink tinge on her chest rushed to her cheeks, indignation in her hitched shoulders. “I don’t want your help, Jimmy. Since you need it spelled out, I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but this cat-and-mouse game doesn’t do it for me.” She grabbed the blackberries and shoved them at my chest. “Keep your hands out of my basket.”
Except I wanted my hands in her basket, my fingers smudging her refined edges. I returned the blackberries to her bin and smirked.
She huffed. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m determined. I need to explain about last session.”
She stepped to the side, hand on the berries to return them herself, and my heart stopped. No, not stopped. It lurched against my ribs, the muscle nothing but a giant bruise.
Sophia.
She was a few feet away—the woman who’d used me, chewed me up, and spat me out. The woman I hadn’t seen in two fucking years. Her blond hair was shorter, no longer to her waist, but her lips still shone red, her ample curves emphasized in a tight red dress. The dress we’d bought together in Greece. That was also where I’d purchased the engagement ring she’d refused. I stumbled back, history and memories slamming into my chest.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 7