Thirty minutes later, my cell buzzed. Rachel’s text read: You’re coming over tomorrow.
I nearly fist-pumped. Sure thing, Sunshine.
My phone buzzed again, my grin widening as I checked it, but the name that popped up had me scratching my head. Owen Phillips? I hadn’t seen Owen since we’d played soccer in high school, the fucker always one move ahead of me—his passing slightly stronger, his ball handling a notch better. Last I heard, he was working at some Washington D.C. finance firm, married and living the life. I hadn’t seen him in twelve years.
Got your number from your folks, he texted. Just moved back to San Fran. Wanna grab a beer sometime?
After Rachel’s quick turnaround, Owen’s message brightened my mood further. It was nice to smile again, to think about a future that didn’t involve me alone in my shell of an apartment. Moving around Rachel in a kitchen, flour on my hands, her hips brushing mine, sounded pretty fucking good. Having a drink with an old buddy was appealing, too.
Name the time, I replied.
Fourteen
Rachel
Jimmy had been a relentless flirt all week. We’d spent three nights at his place and three at mine, always naked, always with him asking for a sleepover, always with me saying no. He’d then ask for dinner, and I’d say no. He’d ask for a movie night, a walk, an ice cream date…and I’d decline. I’d remind myself he was just a fling, a portal to my other dimensions. I’d also given us a time limit.
At the end of the sommelier contest, we’d be done.
My insistence on keeping us casual didn’t stop his flirtatiousness. Our contest group had thinned after recent eliminations, so our corner had become even more remote. The man took advantage. Today’s service component involved us decanting wines in pairs. As I poured his glass (expertly), he said, “I can see down your top.”
He was one move shy from getting voted off the island.
Still, I didn’t botch the decanting, and the Chardonnay tasting went smoothly. I swished the wines around my mouth, taking time to note the layers. Pineapple. Banana. Buttered toast. If I did as well as I thought, I’d be one step closer to the finals, winning the contest, and never seeing Jimmy again.
My stomach curdled, but I wasn’t sure if it was the prospect of securing the job or losing Jimmy that soured my insides.
As we waited for the last few contestants to finish, Bad Boy’s hands roamed freely, copping feels at random, like he was my boyfriend.
“Touch my thigh again,” I said, “and I’ll purple nurple you.”
“Touch your thigh like this?” He pressed his leg to mine, even that bit of contact echoing along my skin. “Or like this?” His fingers traced a path up my pants’ inner seam, stopping a millimeter short of his goal.
I slapped his hand away. “I told you. Save it for the bedroom.”
Or the bathroom. The floor. The couch. Any available surface.
After another triple-O (Olympic Oral Orgasm), we’d had sex twice last night—once against my wall, then with me sitting on my stove. I sent him packing afterward with a smile and a thanks, like he’d stopped by to fix a leaky faucet. It was a game. One he allowed me to play.
He’d caught me staring at him enough to know more than lust turned my eyes into swoony pools of mush. I was falling for him. I wanted to open up, eat ice cream with him and walk hand-in-hand. I wished I wasn’t so afraid of his past and my mother’s reaction to him. Wished my father were here to meet Jimmy and predict if he would hurt me or love me, like he had with Gabe.
But I was on my own.
“That puts a wrench in my plans,” he said.
“What plans?” A hint at something alluring, and I was putty in his hands.
“I bought some cheese and pâté and was planning a ride to Napa on Friday. Find a secluded spot to enjoy the day. Guess I’ll have to ask someone else.” He focused on April across the room, and I tried to burst her head with my mind.
She was blond, like his ex. She was curvy, too. Pink lips, sexy wrap dress, high heels. She was sweet, but often glanced at Jimmy, probably fantasizing about slumming it. I frowned, hating that I’d been doing the same. Using him.
But dammit, his jealousy plan worked. “If you ask someone else, I will pull out your piercings with my teeth.”
“Go with me, Ray.” His deep voice melted into honey. “Let me take you on a date. Tour the valley together. Have some fun. I make a killer picnic.”
He also made a killer sales pitch. The idea of lounging in the grass, wine sipped, the sun on our skin was too tempting to decline. “I will go, but I haven’t decided if it’s a date yet.”
He slid his hand back between my legs. “Anything I can do to convince you?” I was too turned on to reply, so he added, “In case you were wondering, I changed my name in your phone again.”
If my calculations were correct, he’d be listed as Twenty-seven. My mouth dried like I’d sucked a bushel of grape skins. “If you don’t move your hand, I’ll have to switch seats.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to move it away or move it…around. My ability to concentrate was nose-diving.
“Where will you sit? Next to the Schnozinator? Who, by the way, is killing it. If he keeps acing the exercises, you won’t be in the finals.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“What makes you think you’ll beat me?”
He released my thigh and raked his hand through his hair, the dark strands falling across his forehead. “I’m a Master Sommelier, Ray.”
Come a-fucking-gain? My jaw nearly hit the floor, any hope for winning the contest out the window. Becoming a Sommelier was a hard-earned title. Becoming a Master Sommelier was as likely as sprouting wings. People invested years studying viticulture, perfecting their palates, and considered passing akin to being knighted. Less than three hundred people in the world could list that credential on their résumé. And Jimmy was one of them?
The cool, damp air thickened in my throat, the wines lining the walls taunting me, telling me I was an imposter. Becoming a sommelier for three restaurants, without experience, was a joke. A recent article had said as much. It blasted the Adriano brothers for turning this contest into a circus. Consider me the acrobat swinging without a net. The Nose would for sure make it to the end and, apparently, so would Jimmy.
My landing wouldn’t be pretty.
“Hey.” Jimmy leaned in front of me and ran his hand along my back. “You okay?”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. And why are you even in this contest? Why the hell would a Master Somm take part in such a farce?”
The knowledge still floored me. We’d explored each other’s bodies, had been sweaty and vulnerable in each other’s arms, but he’d neglected to mention he’d earned his title.
Resentment surfaced. Not that I had the right to be mad. I was the one who’d forced our relationship into the casual zone. A classification up for reassessment. I wanted to learn where he’d gone to school or if he preferred mustard or mayonnaise, reading or watching movies. I’d kept him at arm’s length, a self-imposed distance, but denying my curiosity was getting harder.
The gray-blue lines of his plaid shirt reflected his eyes. He blinked repeatedly, worry crinkling his forehead. “Because I knew you’d be here?”
I laughed, but he’d have to do better than that. “Seriously. I don’t get it.”
His hand was still on my back, his thumb rubbing the same spot. Like he was stuck in a thought pattern. His focus dropped to the floor, seconds dragging into minutes. Then, “The past two years have been about starting fresh. I didn’t want to do anything related to the old me and my family. I’d avoided wine until now, but when I read about the contest, I realized I missed it. It sounded fun. Just like being around you made me realize I missed having someone in my life.”
His honesty struck a match behind my breastbone, ribbons of heat tickling my ribs. He wants me to be his someone. If I gave in, he could
answer all my unasked questions. I could stop lying awake, pretending he was at my side, holding me. Nights had never been so long, the days leading to our sexcapades tortuous. I kept thinking I’d kick my infatuation, sure this wasn’t the man I should date. I was existing on slice after slice of denial pie.
Unable to address my flurry of emotion, I focused on his absurd claim. “You probably studied countless hours to pass the Master’s exam, and you’re doing this because it’s fun?”
He shrugged. Shrugged, like it was nothing.
Unlike him, I didn’t have choices. If I lost, I didn’t have a fancy title that would allow me to write my own ticket at top restaurants and wineries. All I had was a drawer full of diplomas I’d like to burn, and a future job talking to dead people. I was destined to fail.
He nudged my knee with his. “I’d like to make it to the final round, but we could always break into a lab and spike the Schnozinator’s water with a flu strain. If we clog that nose before the last week, you’ll be golden.” When I didn’t smile, he dropped his voice. “You’re good at this, Ray. Great. Wine is in your blood. If you don’t win, we can figure something out.”
My heart skipped. We. He’d called us we. I wanted to wrap that word around my shoulders and nuzzle into its comfort. I wanted him, and us, and I was getting tired of my fear. Tired of floundering, my choices too often a reflection of those around me.
I faced him, our lips too close to be decent. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to Napa.”
He leaned back, taking in my face as though I’d offered him my kidney. “Glad to hear it. And that piercing threat? You can tug on them all you want.”
Such a bad boy.
* * *
Although I’d worked the morning at the gym, I hadn’t had a chance to exercise, so I left Jimmy and his dirty mouth to meet the girls. We’d been working out together for years. Or more specifically, I’d do basic exercises while Gwen would lift weights heavier than my body, and Ainsley would do eyelash reps, batting her mascara-laden lashes.
Grunting, Gwen dropped her barbell. “Ainsley, will you pass my water?”
“I could use my towel, too.” I placed my eight-pound weights next to Gwen’s bar, like a pea beside a pumpkin.
Ainsley fixed her ponytail. “When did I become the errand girl?”
Gwen blinked at Ainsley’s sports bra and leggings, not a drop of sweat marring the hot pink ensemble. “If you actually worked out, we wouldn’t use you as our gofer.”
Ainsley gawked and flung her arm toward the back wall. “I did the leg machine. I could crack a walnut with my thighs. And anyway, someone has to keep watch. There are dodgy guys here.”
The weight room was usually bustling with meatheads flexing for the mirrors. Not tonight. More women than men were working up a sweat, the few guys ignoring us. One of them dropped a weight, and the clang vibrated through the room. “I think you’re waiting for yoga boy,” I said.
She tossed my towel at my face. “Emmett isn’t a boy. He’s a specimen of manly perfection.”
Gwen sucked back water. “Who doesn’t know you exist.”
Ainsley swatted the air. “He’s playing hard to get.”
“More like you’re dying to get him hard,” I replied.
She fanned her face. “You have no idea. Have you seen him with his shirt off? The guy makes Chris Evans look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”
I rubbed my towel over my forehead, then used it to flick Gwen’s butt. We were both in capri leggings and fitted tanks—mine black, hers splashed with a CrossFit logo. We’d both worked out for an hour. Somehow her loose hair had that sexy, disheveled look, while my lifeless ponytail was plastered to my sweaty neck.
“It’s smoothie time,” I said. “Let’s call it a night.”
Gwen checked her watch. The thing was some minicomputer that calculated her heartrate and steps taken…and probably the number of times she blinked. “I’d like to do another round of cardio. I’ll meet you after.”
I put away my weights, then Ainsley and I ordered smoothies and sat in our usual spot—one of three tables facing the cardio room. Towels were strewn by the treadmills, the disinfectant spray bottles half empty. There would be lots of work tomorrow.
Good thing I had those college degrees!
“I read an article about your contest,” Ainsley said, “by some restaurant critic blasting the thing, saying it’s nothing more than a lame attempt to increase business.”
I sucked my straw, blueberry and banana swirling on my tongue. “I read it, and it totally is. I’m not even sure what I’m doing there. Actually”—I pressed my wrists to my cup, hoping to cool down—“I know exactly why I’m there. It’s a delay tactic.”
She adjusted her sports bra. “I don’t follow.”
Since Jimmy’s Master Sommelier revelation, I’d been stewing over the contest and my place in it. Realizing I wouldn’t win didn’t upset me as much as I’d imagined. Frustration weighed me down, but not the way it had on impact. I’d jumped on this opportunity because I’d quit yet another job and had no clue where to turn my focus. With the birthday wish taunting me, wine seemed like the right move.
But the thought of winning, as hopeless as it was, had me breaking out in hives. It wasn’t what I wanted, but that left me at ground zero, sifting through the internet for inspiration, again.
“I’m in a holding pattern,” I said. “My mother has pushed me forever to work for my uncle’s funeral home, and I’m running out of options. I’m not sure this sommelier position is for me, but if I hang on until the end, she’ll back off. That gives me a month to figure something out.”
“And to flirt with Jimmy?”
The heat flushing my chest had me placing my smoothie against my neck. “I’ve fallen hard for him. I still question things, thinking I’m nuts to pursue him, but my excuses are drying up.”
Ainsley pushed her straw around. “Is he a player?”
“I don’t think so.” A player wouldn’t own his discomfort when confronting an ex. He’d shared bits about his family, had admitted the contest was a way for him to ease back into the land of the living. As was dating me. He’d never been anything but honest.
“Are you attracted to him?” she asked.
“Is that a real question?”
She smirked. “Do you have fun with him? Does he make you laugh? Do you think about him when he’s not around?”
I bit my lip, and the truth spilled out. “Yes. Yes. And all the time.”
“Then stop worrying about the rest. Enjoy him. Open up. I bet your mother will surprise you. She might love him.”
I stared at her, wide eyed.
“You’re right,” she said. “She’ll hate him. But it doesn’t matter. The only one who has to live with him is you.”
That sent my mind to Jimmy and me sharing an apartment—something small and tasteful, warmer than his, with new quotes on the wall. Sayings about love conquering all and opposites attracting. I’d hang my pencil skirts next to his ripped jeans, and we’d cuddle on the couch, wine in hand, talking about our days. Days that hopefully wouldn’t include discussing the benefits of open versus closed caskets. I blinked the vignette away.
Unless I got over myself, that daydream would never happen.
Ainsley fiddled with her straw, a stirring motion that sloshed her kale smoothie. “Do you ever think about our birthday? About the blackout after our wish?”
More than I cared to admit. “Sometimes. It was pretty nuts.”
Her stirring sped up. “It’s just, I’ve thought about it lots. My wish was a big one, something that’s been on my mind. I don’t believe in ghosts or mind reading or fortune tellers, but I felt”—she sighed—“something when it happened. Was it just me?”
The air had swelled that night, all right. My arms had prickled, too. I’d dredged up the memory countless times but hadn’t voiced my whacky belief that bigger things were at play. The possibility that my father had somehow orchestrated the encounter
. Just thinking it made my heart hammer faster than when on the stepmill. “No. It wasn’t just you. I don’t want to say my wish out loud, and I don’t want to hear yours, but part of me thinks if we fulfill our resolutions, the rest of our lives will fall into place. Like a domino effect.”
My pulse didn’t slow, but calm descended. Hearing I wasn’t alone reinforced my resolve. I had to find the right career. Had to move heaven and earth to make it happen. Fighting for something better could give me the confidence to figure out this Jimmy situation. It would help me escape my mother’s shadow. If I found The Job.
As I sipped the last of my smoothie, both of us lost in our thoughts, an old man stepped onto a treadmill and stood there, stabbing at the buttons. Even from behind, I could tell it was my favorite grumpy gym member, and I grinned. At least he hadn’t given up.
“I have to help a guest,” I told Ainsley. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
She barely acknowledged me, and I paused. Ainsley didn’t get down and moody; she got angry and sarcastic. I hesitated, but letting 911 drown in his frustrations could cause him to quit exercising. Next time we were out, I’d ask Ainsley what was up.
After giving her shoulder a squeeze, I approached the old man slowly, worried I’d scare him off. His grumbling had other guests casting frowns his way. I tipped my head into his view. “Looks like the machine is acting up again.”
He stabbed his index finger some more, hitting every button on the screen. “It is broken.”
I could have run through the same routine, unplugging and plugging in the treadmill, but that wouldn’t help him the next time he showed up. I did the next best thing. I hopped on the machine beside his and hovered my finger over the program key. “It could be broken, or maybe it’s jammed. I just did a workout with my friends, and I was planning on finishing with a cooldown. So I’ll just hit the Start button here”—I made a show of pressing the middle button—“and walk for a bit, until my heartrate slows.”
He side-eyed me, scrunching his large nose as my walk began. “I am not an idiot,” he said abruptly. “I was waiting.”
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 13