“Bartender?”
“Bartender.”
She swayed, a minute from fainting. “Lord, where did I go wrong?”
I inhaled until my chest hurt, then released my breath to the count of five. “He’s a bartender, not a drug dealer. He’s Greek and grew up in Napa Valley, but no, he doesn’t have a fancy car or dress like Mitch and his friends. Jimmy’s smart and sweet, and he makes me happy. If you give him a chance, you’ll see that.”
“Greek,” she mumbled, as though unfamiliar with the term. Like our family trip to Greece had never happened. Like we didn’t eat at Andros regularly.
“Yeah, Greek. You love Greek food. You order souvlaki all the time.” And her not-a-Greek salad.
But I wanted to grab the nearest fork and stick it in my eye. This conversation was nearing the ridiculous, talking about Jimmy as though he were defined by his culture’s food. My father had been Jewish, my mother was Catholic, my grandparents from Europe and the United States. We had family dinners on certain holidays, and I was told stories of my heritage, but neither background drove my choices. Apparently my urge to please those around me did. As did my need to prove myself successful. Unlike Jimmy, who owned who he was, regardless of what others thought.
Pride surged at the strong man he was.
My mother straightened, the soft drape of her cashmere sweater a contrast to her stiff posture. “Have you sampled his souvlaki? Is that what this is about?”
Oh my God. “Ma, keep your voice down.” My cackle almost escaped, nervous energy and frustration bubbling up.
Her loud-nasal tone didn’t abate. “It’s like Gabe all over again—you rebelling, wanting to have fun with the boy from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“You are impossible,” I whisper-yelled. “He’s from Napa Valley, and I wouldn’t even care if he’d grown up in a trailer park. And he’s nothing like Gabe. I fought my feelings for Jimmy at first, for the same stupid reasons you’re judging him now, and I won’t make that mistake again. He’s the real thing. And yes, I’ve sampled his souvlaki.” I rolled my shoulders back. “It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Honestly, Rachel.” My mother fanned her face, unsure what to make of my outburst.
We’d rarely fought since Dad died. We quipped at each other, pecking like hens, but there had been no drawn out arguments, and we’d certainly never dissected my sex life. She’d gone too far, though, her inappropriate comments proving what I’d come to know.
I was in love with Jimmy Giannopoulos.
There was no maybe about it. No hesitation in my pounding heart. I wanted to fling my body over his, protect him from her negativity. This was not a fight she would win.
Her brown eyes welled, a look I’d come to dread. She was about to unleash the Maternal Guilt. “It’s all my fault. The piano lessons I forced on you. The job for Uncle Charlie. The men I set you up with. You’re rebelling because of me.”
She was impossible. “It’s not you. It’s not the fact that I was bottle-fed or that you told me the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real. I’m with him. That’s the end of it, and I hope you find it in your heart to support me.”
A vein in her left temple throbbed, her heated face nearly matching her pink lipstick, but she didn’t speak.
I shook off my irritation and searched for my Zen. “Remember the day Dad was out of town and you rear-ended his car in our driveway?” Frowning, she nodded, and I went on. “I waited in the living room with you, and I’ll never forget how foolish you felt. How terrified you were to tell him. Do you remember what he said?”
Chin trembling, she sighed. “As long as I get to spend the rest of my days with you, you can smash my car to pieces.”
It was the day I understood what it meant to be in love.
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, suppressing the urge to cry. “I always admired your marriage. Dad supported everything you did. You made each other better. That’s how I feel about Jimmy. What else matters?”
She flattened her lips. Whether to tame her emotions, like me, or in defiance, I couldn’t be sure. But I’d said my piece. I swiveled and pulled the sliding door open, praying Mitch and Cora had more tact. If they were asking Jimmy about his freaking souvlaki, I’d claim adoption.
Twenty
Jimmy
Rachel walked into the living room—cheeks flushed, head bent—like her butt shot had just gone viral. Mitch was sharing a priceless story about the time twelve-year-old Rachel had peed her pants on a family trip to Mexico. Their father’s weak Spanish had led to him asking a waiter for polla, thinking he’d ordered chicken. Turned out, he’d asked for a “woman.” The conversation that followed had Rachel laughing until she’d wet herself.
As much as I wanted to hear more embarrassing stories, her look of mortification deepened as the gist of our conversation sunk in. She gawked at her brother. “Seriously? The polla story? Can I still file for emancipation and sever ties with this family?”
Cora giggled, the airy sound matching her appearance. She had boy-cut blond hair and big blue eyes. Her pink dress hung loose over her sprite-like frame. She placed a dainty hand on Mitchell’s knee. “You should stop. It’s not fair to Rachel.”
“Was it fair when Rachel told you about the pot brownies and my bathing session in Huntington Park fountain?” He quirked an eyebrow. When no one answered, he said, “Consider us even.”
But the evil look in Rachel’s eye as she sat next to me and glared at her brother said otherwise. She settled into my side, hand on my thigh. I shifted, stretching my arm behind her on the couch. Stanley took advantage of the move and tried to shove her nose between my legs, again. The damn dog was relentless. I held her off with a calculated knee shift.
“She must have a thing for souvlaki,” Rachel murmured. Her maniacal laugh erupted, and she slapped her hand over her mouth.
Lydia entered then, a tray of dip in hand. Her face was an emotionless mask. “Contain yourself, Rachel.”
Her reproach sent her daughter cackling harder, a sound that had me wanting to pin Rachel down until I kissed her raw. Lydia, however, was unimpressed—with her daughter and her daughter’s choice of boyfriend. A situation I’d have to resolve. Winning Lydia over was important to Rachel, so it was important to me.
Rachel leaned into my ear. “My mother might take a while to warm up, and I don’t recommend the dip.”
I eyed the thick, white mixture warily and heeded her advice. Where her mother was concerned, I wasn’t about to back down easily. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Kates.”
She sat opposite us, straight backed, her answering smile nowhere near pleased. “Thank you. Rachel tells me you’re a”—she cleared her throat—“bartender.”
A chuckle came from Mitchell, and my shoulders bunched. When I first met him, he’d seemed more genuine than his pressed shirt and gold cufflinks. He’d shaken my hand warmly and hadn’t flinched at my ink. It didn’t mean Rachel’s brother wasn’t judging me. I glanced his way now, braced for his disdain, but he was shaking his head at his mother, not me, like Lydia was a petulant child.
“Come on, Ma.” Amusement laced his voice. “The Healing Hearts luncheon isn’t far, and you mentioned something about a bartending issue. You should hire Jimmy.”
Lydia’s eyes widened in fear, and I nearly laughed. Instead of watching her squirm, I jumped in to save her. “Not sure I’m the right man for the job, but I know the event. It’s an impressive fundraiser, and a great cause. Must take a ton of work.”
That won me a head tilt and closer inspection. “It does,” Lydia said. “I’ve helped organize the event since David passed. Or, more to the point, Rachel forced me into it.” She winked at her daughter, nothing but love in her eyes. “She was worried I’d lock myself indoors, which might have happened if it weren’t for my kids. They were here daily for those first couple of years.”
They all shared a sad smile, and I cupped Rachel’s shoulder.
During some of our quiet mome
nts, she would whisper stories, her voice melancholy as memories spilled out: her and her father snorkeling in Mexico, their father/daughter school dance, how his hearty laugh had filled a room. She’d been Daddy’s little girl, and he’d likely been wrapped around her finger. His passing must have crushed her, but she’d held it together for her mother, had made sure Lydia pulled through. When things got tough, they’d banded together. As a family should. My father’s property had been threatened, not his life, and all he’d done was lash out.
Rachel’s phone buzzed, breaking the moment. Lydia turned her focus to Cora, asking about her teaching job. Rachel fished her cell from her purse and checked a text. Her face fell.
“You okay?” I asked.
She stuffed her phone away. “Yeah. Fine.”
Except her left cheek hollowed. She was stressed. “Who was it?”
She slumped into me and lowered her voice. “Alonzo. I was eliminated from the contest. But I’m fine,” she added before I could speak. “I was expecting it.”
Didn’t mean it hurt any less. Rachel didn’t like to fail. No one liked to fail. Every soccer match lost as a kid had me cursing and pouting, until my grandfather had sat me down and told me real men used their frustration to improve. Turn that anger into success, he’d say.
I angled toward her and dipped my head to catch her eye. “You might not have passed that round, but you proved yourself in that contest. You have more passion for wine than anyone in there, me included. Please don’t let it slip away.”
The corner of her mouth curved up. “I have passion for someone in that group, and his jewelry, if that’s what you mean.”
One teasing word from her and my lust awakened, the jewelry in question ready for a tug. My dirty princess. “You’re damn right you do, and the feeling is mutual. But don’t brush this off. You’re smart and your palate is amazing. We’ll figure this out together.”
She touched my cheek and said a quiet, “Thank you.”
Guilt, familiar in its discomfort, coated my chest. And the way she looked at me? There was something deeper in her eyes, something I wanted to dive into. Bask in.
If I didn’t need to end my family’s lies, I’d bow out of the contest and give her my spot. Even if I won, I’d pass on the job. But it was more than putting things right. My parents had come between Rachel and me once, with nothing but a phone call. I wouldn’t let it happen again.
The past week, Rachel and I had fucked and tasted every inch of each other, filling in the gaps with laughs and stories, sharing the details of our lives. The extent of my feelings, my love for her, floored me. And scared the hell out of me. I never thought I’d let myself feel this again, give someone the power to hurt me. But here I was, in love with this amazing woman. No way would I lose that. Not this time. Not her. She meant more to me than Sophia ever had.
I kissed Rachel’s forehead, swallowing down my rising mix of emotions. I worried about where she’d go from here, hoping she wouldn’t shy away from a career in viticulture like I’d ditched my Master Sommelier status. Something I needed to rectify. If I wanted her to chase her dreams, I couldn’t keep avoiding mine.
I’d thought more about organizing events for boutique wineries, using my education and whatever contacts I still had to build a festival. Events highlighting smaller producers. Soon, I’d make plans, but Rachel and the contest came first.
I glanced up to find Lydia watching us…with longing? Her brown eyes were glazed, her pinched mouth softer. Her pearls rose and fell on a deep breath.
She scrutinized her daughter. “Everything all right?”
Rachel squeezed closer to my side. “Just some bad news. But Jimmy’s helping me figure it out. Nothing to worry about.”
Lydia studied us, long enough I actually ventured toward the onion dip. Bad idea. It burned the roof of my mouth, the thick mixture nothing but mayonnaise and raw onion. Eyes watering, I forced it down, preferring Lydia’s withering glance to that horror show.
She nodded once, as though coming to a decision. “I’m glad you’ve found someone supportive, Rachel. It’s lovely to see.”
Rachel pressed her hand over her heart. “Thanks, Ma. That means the world.”
Warmth crept over me, uncomfortable in its intensity. Lydia’s acceptance shouldn’t have mattered. I’d stopped caring what others thought two years ago. Still, heat flooded my cheeks like I was a kid again, glowing from parental praise. It felt nice. Better than nice. It was a reminder my family had stolen more than my future. They’d cheated me out of basic affection, but Lydia sent it rushing back. Even at thirty, I soaked it in…and an idea caught, a way to run with her approval and pull the shards of my life together.
I leaned my elbows on my knees, nudging Stanley away from my crotch. “If you’re in a bind for bartenders, I might be able to help.”
Lydia’s response came slowly. “The company we hired went out of business. We have a few others in mind, but the timeline is tight. Was there someone specific you’d recommend?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been wanting to promote smaller vineyards in the area. This type of event could be great exposure. You could market it as a ‘diamond in the rough’ thing. Let guests know they’ll be sampling from the best boutique wineries. We’d have to spin it, maybe have them pouring from private collections at set stations, something to wow the crowd. Even do the wine tasting blind and have guests guess the grape, with prizes for the winners.” I pushed my hand through my hair. “Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”
Lydia didn’t seem to mind. “Supportive and smart. I should have known better than to question my Rachel.” She leaned back and clasped her hands. “I’d like to discuss this further, but I bet the girls would love the idea.”
Pride rushed through me again, along with a sting of longing. If mending fences with my mother were as simple as proving I wasn’t a selfish meathead, maybe I could suck up my anger and return her endless calls. Unfortunately, ours wasn’t a trivial misunderstanding. You were a mistake, my father had claimed. A disappointment. She hadn’t once stood up for me. No point wishing for the impossible.
But this, right now—my first taste of belonging in too long—was because of Rachel. Because she’d screamed pussy and had walked into The Blue Door and entertained my advances. Because she trusted herself with me. I’d have to do the same with her. Tell her about my plan and why I’d really joined the contest, but my excuses kept piling up. Delay tactics.
She would be pissed. No avoiding that. If hanging up on my mother had shoved a wedge between us, this stunt of mine had the power to ruin what we had. It all felt more fragile now. With my heart in the mix, it felt downright brittle. Like everything we had could shatter at any moment.
I’d still have to come clean, about the contest and the extent of my feelings. I should do it tonight. Get it over with and hope for the best. Neck tense, I sipped my wine.
Mitch whistled a low note. “If Mom came around that quickly to your biker boyfriend, it might be a good time to tell her Cora’s pregnant.”
That was unexpected.
Rachel squealed, the sound so jarring, I nearly spat out my wine.
“Mitch!” Cora buried her face in her hands.
Lydia frowned at her son. “Stop being a pot stirrer, Mitchell. That’s nothing to joke about.”
Mitchell didn’t take it back, and Cora’s hands dropped to her belly.
“Oh my God. How could you not tell me?” Rachel didn’t wait for a reply. She was up in seconds, pulling Cora into a hug.
Lydia fanned her face. “A baby? But when? How? You’re not even married.”
Mitchell beamed at Cora as Rachel pressed her hands to Cora’s stomach. He shrugged at his mother. “Yes, a baby. When—she’s six weeks along. How—I could get into it, but Rachel might stick her fingers in her ears and sing songs like when she was a kid. As for the married part, we’re not in a rush. We weren’t expecting this surprise, but we’re thrilled. The rest will come later.”
Rache
l jumped, chanting, “I’m going to be an aunt,” while Lydia tossed more questions at the couple, shocked Mitchell hadn’t proposed, wondering if they’d planned to move to a bigger place and where and when and listing all the ways she’d help.
Rachel may have been scared of her mother’s reaction to us, but I’d bet Cora and Mitchell had been shitting bricks, terrified to break their news. Unnecessarily. Lydia proved she was a woman whose sun rose and set by her kids. She’d already started coming around to me, and she’d no doubt spoil her grandchild rotten, whether or not her son followed a traditional path.
I stood and shook Mitchell’s hand, thrust into this nutty family. Everything with Rachel was a wild ride, but this was special. And tough. Some sadness would follow; her father wasn’t here. He’d miss this important milestone, which meant tonight wasn’t the best time to confess about the contest, or my love. Saying the latter wouldn’t feel right with lies between us. It would all have to wait.
Twenty-one
Rachel
“Are you sure this looks good?” Nothing about the leopard-print skirt hugging my legs would mix and match with my wardrobe. The black stilettos were dangerously high, the halter top flashier than I usually purchased, its greens and blues bright against my freckled skin. I still grinned, knowing I’d buy it all.
A hint of reckless just for me.
“If you don’t buy it, I will burn your wardrobe and send you through the streets in a potato sack.” Ainsley wasn’t one for subtlety, but she was indeed the Style Whisperer.
The instant we’d walked into the all-white space, sparse décor adding to the posh vibe, she’d sifted through racks and had chosen two outfits for me. The second was a homerun. The woman was like a hound dog, sniffing out perfect ensembles. She’d already found a purse to match her pink pumps and had Gwen buying a jade scarf to highlight her eyes.
Gwen came up behind me and hung a silver chain around my neck. “This would work, too.” The attached sphere dipped into my minimal cleavage.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 19