What a goddamn week. First the blind Pinot Noir tasting, a sip of my family’s wine secreted onto my tongue. Now Sophia.
Rachel appeared in front of me and placed her hand on the center my chest. My heart nearly leapt into her palm. “You okay?” she asked.
Our first round in the cellar, the same sympathy had softened her face. Right before she’d marched over and sat beside me. Her position now blocked Sophia from my view, and bitterness redirected my shock. “My ex is here, and I haven’t seen her in a couple years.”
Instead of removing her hand, she flattened her palm. “I’m guessing the relationship didn’t end well?”
Understatement of the century. “If her turning down my proposal constitutes not well, then yes, I’d agree.”
She glanced over her shoulder, still touching me. “The blond?”
I grunted, pulled between preserving Rachel’s closeness and getting the hell out of Dodge. I chose immobility.
And maybe Sophia’s appearance was a gift. A way to bury our past and, more important, a way to get Rachel alone. Convince her to hear me out. Plus, she could use my help. I placed my hand over hers, locking her palm against my chest. “I need a favor.”
She flexed her fingers, and her nails bit through my shirt. “A favor because you spent an hour flirting with me, then blew me off?”
That hurt almost as much as seeing Sophia. “I want to explain that, and I’d like to show my ex, Sophia, I’ve moved on. If you play along, I’ll come clean about my shitty behavior and help you with the Cab tasting.”
She stiffened, frustration in the set of her jaw. Unsure if I’d made headway, I added, “Were you planning on tossing a green pepper in your basket? You can’t study Cabernet Sauvignon without it.”
Her gaze darted from the green pepper display to her basket, then back to my face. Her hand relaxed under mine. “You have a deal. But only because I need to nail that tasting.”
“Of course,” I said. Except she wanted to nail me, too. She’d admitted as much last session.
Not wanting to give her a moment to rethink, I placed her basket by our feet and wrapped my other arm around her waist, pulling her against me. “This okay?”
She pressed her breasts to my chest, a soft sigh puffing against my cheek. “Yeah, okay.”
I was more than okay. I should have been a mess, the acid left in Sophia’s wake still eating at me, but Rachel dulled the ache. She also revved my libido, my cock thickening at the contact. Sophia was examining broccoli, filling her cart, working our way. I focused on Rachel, the freckles dotting her cheek, the silkiness of her blouse under my grip. I brushed my lips over her jaw. Then I stole a taste, just below her ear, savoring the feel of her. She all but melted.
The woman wanted to nail me, all right, and the feeling was mutual.
A thousand emotions should have been warring, Sophia’s reappearance something I’d dreaded, but I could only focus on one: craving. Desire for Rachel. We were in a public place, kids hanging off grocery carts, men and women ticking through their shopping lists, but Rachel’s hips were pressed to mine. Her hair tangled with the scruff on my cheek, need in her breathy sounds. My resentment toward Sophia was still palpable, but holding Rachel close dimmed my turmoil.
Unwilling to let the moment pass, I whispered, “Your place or mine.”
Her hips pulled back. “Mine. But only for the tasting.”
She was full of it, intent on denying our attraction. Not that I blamed her. After the stunt I pulled, I was lucky she hadn’t kneed me in the balls. I opened my mouth to say as much, when Sophia passed my field of vision. It was now or never.
I gripped Rachel tighter, pulling her into my side. “Sophia?”
Sophia went rigid at my voice. She glanced at me, then away, then back again. Her mouth opened in shock. “Jimmy? Is that you?”
My transformation the past two years had been gradual. For me, at least. My hair growing longer, the first tattoo, the second, the nipple piercings—parts of myself I hadn’t realized I’d denied. Growing up, all I’d ever wanted was my father’s approval. I’d spend extra hours picking grapes, wave my report card in his face, date the right girls.
Until Sophia. I gave up everything for her, and she threw it in my face.
Here I was, a stronger version of myself in some ways. An asshole, maybe, something I needed to fix, but my confidence had grown. I may not have looked the part of the former heir to one of Napa’s most successful wineries, but I was finally me. I liked sex a little rough. I dug the burn of a tattoo gun digging into my skin, the sharp stab of a piercing needle. Sticking a tight turn on my Harley was a thrill. All these things I’d kept in the shadows were visible to the world, and Sophia barely recognized me.
“It’s been a while,” I said. “Thought you’d moved to New York.”
Her mouth still hung open, until she shook her head. “Jesus, Jimmy. What happened to you?”
There. Right there. That was when the hurt and betrayal resurfaced. Like she thought losing her had pushed me into a downward spiral. It had, for a while. No use denying that. As had my family’s actions. Until I stopped running on that hamster wheel. What she saw in front of her was the man I was supposed to be.
Dangerous? Maybe.
Pissed off at the world? Probably.
Someone who only relied on himself? Definitely.
Neither of us knew the other all that well in the end.
Rachel slid one hand into my back pocket, the other brushing my abs, just above my belt. “You must be Sophia. Jimmy’s told me a lot about you, and honestly, I’m so thankful you were brave enough to do what Jimmy couldn’t.”
“Excuse me?” Sophia curled her lip, a tic of hers I’d always hated.
“The proposal? Turning him down when neither of you wanted to take that step? We’re both grateful.” Rachel tilted her head and gazed up at me, locking me in her orbit. Her eyes were often expressive, indignation or excitement played out in shades of brown. Right now all I could see was love. My heart was pounding again, a syncopated rhythm, unfamiliar in its urgency, and I nearly crushed my mouth to hers.
Damn, was she good.
“Well, glad to see you’re happy.” The distaste as Sophia sneered at my new style said otherwise. She held up her left hand. “I got married six months ago. Rocco and I moved back to the area.”
Rocco put quite the rock on Sophia’s finger, but the jealousy I expected wasn’t there. No sting of longing. No urge to claim her, like when that guy had leaned into Rachel. Sophia had only ever wanted one thing from me, and when I’d lost that, she went digging for gold elsewhere. I was still pissed. Still wanted to scream and tell her she was nothing but a conniving bitch. That what she did had twisted my heart. But creating a scene wouldn’t be cool with our audience, and Rachel’s arms made the whole fiasco easier to bear.
“Congratulations,” I offered instead. “Like Rachel said, thanks for what you did. Everything worked out for the best.”
An insincere smile flitted across her face, then she moved on, a sway to her hips I used to love. Time healed some wounds.
Rachel pushed away from me, all looks of love gone. “Let’s get shopping.”
We grabbed spices, fruits, vegetables, and a few bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, no physical contact between us, my mind spinning the whole while. Each time it returned to Sophia, I clamped my jaw and switched tracks. Without Rachel pressed against me, my spite resurfaced.
I never let myself think about Sophia. She’d used me, fucked me over, and I’d fallen for her crap. Suppressing my thoughts was survival, pure and simple.
Then there was Rachel. The adoration on her face before, although an act, buffed the hard edges I’d sharpened the past two years. I was happy on my own, had promised myself I’d never fall in love again. Leave no one to derail my life but me. Still, that look. I could live without my family, get along without the winery, but around her, my heart suddenly craved more.
Eight
Rachel
I must have been a glutton for punishment. The whole hour at Crush had been an Olympic effort to avoid Jimmy’s persistent gaze. My attention would slide over, and I’d force it away. I’d catch sight of his hand dragging through his disheveled hair, and my mouth would water. I’d recall his descriptions of orgasms one through six, and I’d cross my legs. Tightly. As soon as our time had been up, I’d lurched out of my seat, only to be leading him into my apartment now.
The space had never felt so small.
Or smelled so good. The air around him was rich with scents of leather and musk, his hair tousled from his motorcycle helmet. His attention was everywhere. On the walls, lingering on the motivational sayings I’d hung, examining my tidy recycling bin, the books organized by color above my desk. Probably judging the pillow at the head of my bed embroidered with the quote, “All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.” ~ Walt Disney.
Even under his scrutiny, dealing with him in my place was preferable to returning to where my supposed orgasms occurred.
I unpacked our groceries—wine, fruits, vegetables, spices—my hands busy, my heartbeat erratic, my eyes unable to meet his. That’s how it had been since our little acting scene.
I’d never been a drama geek. Standing on stage in front of people resulted in hot flashes, cold sweats, and more words forgotten than remembered. Even earlier, popping a champagne cork, something I’d done numerous times (Ainsley liked her mimosas), had me all thumbs. Because I’d had an audience. Not so with Sophia. For a spell, when Jimmy first spotted her, he’d turned ashen, devastation in the hollow below his eyes. A need to ease his pain had possessed me, and I deserved an Academy Award for my performance: Best Actress in an Awkward Grocery Store Scene.
Problem was, I was having trouble shaking the role.
He tossed his jacket on a stool and whistled at my wine fridge, appreciation in the extended note. “Nice collection.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t glance up, didn’t know what to do with the sight of him in my ordered apartment, all that danger and chaos tied into a delicious package. One I hungered to consume. I washed the fruit and put the blackberries in a bowl, the green pepper on a plate. I lined up the black peppercorns and star anise and chocolate, keeping occupied.
When I wiped the counter for a third time, he gripped my wrist. “Rachel.”
God, his touch. I closed my eyes and exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Last time, at the end of the Pinot Noir tasting, I was a dick.”
“You were.” The apology diluted the tension between us, an acknowledgment I needed to hear. Still, I kept my focus on a small bruise on the green pepper. “Do I get an explanation?”
“When you look at me, you will.”
So darn bossy.
He was on the opposite side of the island, his strong fingers circling my wrist, and I allowed myself a glance. A closer perusal of his ink. Tattoos began above his leather cuff, a swirling mass of ivy and swooping shapes in black and gray. The lines curled around a goblet on his forearm, a horned goat bleating on the inside of his bicep, a prowling panther clawing up from the outside of his elbow. Its head was hidden by the frayed edge of his gray T-shirt, the same one he’d worn the first day of the contest. It read Dare Me.
Boy, did I want to dare him. Beg him to leap over the counter and rip open my blouse. To prove he could undo me with nothing but his tongue. Dare him to make me scream.
Instead I said, “I’m looking.”
His thumb moved to my pulse point, pressing gently. “That you are.” He held us together like that, our eyes searching, his thumb eavesdropping on my restless heart.
Then he released me and slung his leg over the counter stool. “My family owns a winery in the valley, and my father decided to retire—travel and spend time with my mom—which meant passing the business to me and my younger brother, Dimitri.” He scrubbed his hands down his unshaven cheeks. “Except my father and I had a falling out, and I was cut off. Everything went to Dimitri. I haven’t spoken to my family in almost two years, haven’t sipped a drop of our—their wine since then.”
He spoke evenly, but the usual gravel in his voice roughened. The gray in his blue eyes darkened.
“Until the blind tasting?” I asked. “The fifth glass of Pinot Noir?”
“It was the first time I’d tasted the wine in two years.”
I thought back to the exercise. Offshoot Winery. It was an impressive operation, large scale. If I had the chance to run a place like that, I’d plaster myself to the helm and never let go. The revelation also meant Gwen’s intel the night the girls had coaxed me into The Blue Door was accurate. Her sales pitch had involved the bartender’s approval—the fact that he’d vouched for Jimmy and said Bad Boy came from a good family who owned a winery or something. When flirting around our bet that night, I first asked Jimmy to wager a vineyard. He’d laughed off my joke, and I’d assumed Cameron’s information was more “or something” than fact. Apparently I was wrong.
“That’s why you shut down,” I said, more pieces of Jimmy fitting into place. “I’m sorry. It must have been a shock.”
“It was, and that makes two unwelcome surprises in a week, one of which you helped me face, so don’t apologize. My only regret is how I treated you.” He picked up my corkscrew and flipped it between his fingers.
“Inhaling your bike exhaust as you peeled off was unpleasant.” As was the hurt that lingered.
The corkscrew froze mid-flip. He frowned. “I was an asshole and it won’t happen again. I’d like to pick up where we left off.”
Fifty percent bad boy, fifty percent smooth talker. “The part where I outperform you in the contest?”
A smirk eclipsed his scowl. He placed the corkscrew down, pushed to his feet, and prowled around the counter. My apartment was nothing but a uniform square. Kitchen, countertop, and stools in one corner, a king bed with my Ikea closet behind the headboard opposite; across were a couch, coffee table, and TV, my desk and book shelves finishing off the geometric shape. It was ordered. Precise. It was everything I tried to emulate, the details never quite in my grasp.
Jimmy threw it all askew.
Each thunk of his boots echoed in my belly. I gripped the edge of the sink, the cool stainless steel a contrast to the heat building below my ribs. He stopped at my back, a whisper of his body brushing mine. “I prefer the part where you wanted to perform a scientific study with my head between your legs.”
His voice deepened, more gravel invading his tone, and my knuckles whitened on the counter. Need pulsed through me. I could have leaned back, just a millimeter, until the hard planes of his body pressed to mine, but I had a sneaking suspicion a simple touch wouldn’t be enough.
Our one wild night wasn’t my modus operandi. I was a relationship girl, mornings cuddling in bed and dinners out what I craved. Jimmy was trouble, and I was desperately attracted to him, in an unfamiliar way. Animalistic, almost. Every time he raked his hair—untidy waves that hung shaggy over his forehead, cresting the tips of his ears, brushing the base of his neck—I wanted to grip the dark strands and pull his head between my thighs, find out if he was all talk, once and for all. Or sit on his face. Either would work.
But playing girlfriend to make his ex jealous had changed things. As did learning about his past. A woman he loved enough to marry, gone. A family lost. His future career pulled from him. Ferment those ingredients together and you’d get vinegar, not wine. Something told me he was more fruit than acid, and one sip would lead to two, until tasting wouldn’t be enough. I would end up wanting more. Relationship more. Nothing about him fit into my world.
“I’m not sure about that particular study,” I said. “I’ve heard the side effects can be hazardous. Let’s stick to our deal. I helped with Sophia, now you help with my tasting.”
He hovered at my back, his hot breath caressing my hair. Then he stepped away. “Tasting it is.”
We set up on my couch, and I stuffed a pillow
between us, the lilac silk comical next to his roughness. But I needed space. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to help me pass our next test. Since I’d botched most of the service exercises, the tastings were my clincher. If I messed those up, I’d be back at my computer, searching for jobs, having to explain my umpteenth failure to my family. Thanks, but no thanks.
I sat with my back straight and legs crossed. Jimmy draped himself over my gray couch, his long legs sprawled apart. He tossed his arm behind me, resting his hand precariously close to my neck. It reminded me of The Blue Door, how he’d distracted me from my tasting. Come to think of it, maybe he was undermining me again. Using his manly wiles to mess with my game. “Is this a ploy?”
“Yes.” He didn’t miss a beat.
“Seriously?”
“Did you want me to lie?”
“But we have a deal.”
“I’m holding up my end, Sunshine.”
That nickname vacillated between sweet and claw-his-eyes-out, this particular rendition landing on vexing. “So you expect me to do a tasting with you when you’ve admitted you plan to feed me false information.”
“I have planned no such thing.”
“You just said it’s a ploy.”
“Because it is. To make you reconsider joining me for your scientific study.” The Pot Stirrer ran a finger through my hair, the edge of his nail dragging behind my ear. Goose bumps erupted in its wake.
I smacked his hand away. “Fat chance.” But one more second of his fingers stroking my hair could work in his favor. The bastard knew it. “Can you stop with the games for a moment and answer something for me?”
“Anything.”
That was quite the window of opportunity. Instead of asking my intended question—why help me when we were competing against each other—I opted for one of more value. “What happened with Sophia? I barely know you, but she doesn’t seem like your type.”
Not that I did, either. Sophia reminded me of Ainsley, primped and polished to perfection, curves for miles. A hint of jealousy had burned at the sight of her, but I’d squashed that nonsense. Jimmy wasn’t mine. But Sophia was one step from posing for Vogue, and I was a J. Crew catalogue in the making. Then there was Jimmy and his bad, bad self. None of it fit.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 8