Eat, Drink and Be . . . Married

by Faith Andrews

  My blood boils underneath my skin, my pulse threatening to pop from the pressure points where it throbs. “Did anyone know I was missing? Did they even care?”

  He shrugs, clearly wishing I wasn’t bombarding him with this onslaught of questions. I should calm down. I’m directing my anger at the wrong person, but I’m irate. How could they desert me? “Jude! Are you telling me they just . . . left me behind?”

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple vibrating. Stepping closer, he extends a hand and I take it because I’ll take all the comfort I can get in a moment of humiliation such as this. “The bus driver assumed you ran off after the fight with Melissa. He was a jerk, but I—I’ve been looking all over for you. I started by our . . . I mean the willow tree, then I went out by the vineyards. I went up in the cellars and searched nooks and crannies as if you were a child playing hide and seek. When you still didn’t turn up, I went back outside by the tree again. Once an hour passed I figured the driver was right. That you just left. I was actually kind of pissed you didn’t say goodbye, and then—then I heard you calling from the bathroom. The one place I forgot to look.” He winces again, remorse washing over his handsome face.

  I peer through tear-blurred eyes at the chiseled line of his jaw, the slight sprinkling of stubble on his cheeks and chin, the tiniest white scar at the bridge of his nose, his steel blue eyes. I want to be mad. At him. At Melissa. At my father and the world, but the concerned stranger who eased my mind and warmed my heart beneath the willow tree is staring back at me, willing me to understand. He’s the only one who cared. A stranger.

  “Oh, my God,” I cry, letting the tears fall. I sink into his chest, feeling sorry for myself and allowing his strong arms to soothe the pain of abandonment and insignificance. “How could she leave me? What kind of monster does that? What if something had happened to me? What if I’d been hurt or abducted or—oh, my God, Jude. I feel so—so stupid!” Emotions overcharge my weary mind, making me reel with too much at once. I’m unraveling in front of him and I don’t like it, but I can’t control it even if I tried. I’m hurt, disappointed, embarrassed.

  “Shh, Leila, shh. It’s okay. I got you.” His soft hum fills my ears and floats through the strands of my hair that are matted to his chin. I hold on to him longer than I should, harder than I should, for fear that he, too, will leave once the dust settles and he realizes I’m not worth sticking around for.

  7

  Jude

  I’m not sure how it’s even possible to feel inadequate after just busting down a door Hulk-style, but the way Leila’s crying in my arms makes me wish I could have prevented this whole incident from happening. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Aren’t superheroes supposed to have super powers? Where was my hindsight an hour ago? Uh, you’re not a superhero, bro. I thank myself for the ego check and wrap my arms tighter around Leila.

  “What a bitch!” She wrenches away, sweeping the tears from her dampened face with a scowl. Her brows angle in a V over her amber-lined cocoa eyes, anger rearing its head in place of sadness. “I am so mad right now. Like so, so mad. I don’t think you even understand how mad I am, Jude.” She paces the length of the tasting bar, her tiny feet clip-clopping against the refurbished barn wood planks.

  Sad Leila is calmly beautiful, but Pissed Off Leila is fiercely adorable. A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips, but I hide my face by studying the floor so she won’t spot my amusement. Scratching my head, I dig my other hand into my pocket and let her do her thing.

  “She hasn’t even tried to call me,” she says, staring down at her phone. “Not a call, not even a text. What a . . . I didn’t think she was this self-centered. I mean . . .okay, I knew, but this is a whole new level of selfish. This is the pinnacle of narcissism!” She takes a breath, dashes her eyes between the bar and then me.

  I take this as my cue to offer her some Seneca Falls hospitality in an effort to calm her. Without a word—I wouldn’t dare disturb her feisty tirade—I walk over to the bar and gesture for her to join me. She follows, dragging her feet, but takes a seat. I claim the stool next to her and then pull the cork from one of the bottles, pouring her more than a tasting’s worth of our new holiday blend. Leila grabs the glass from my hand before I can offer it to her and takes a healthy sip.

  She closes her eyes and purses her lips as the smooth liquid coats her throat. “Mmm,” she hums, visibly savoring the crisp taste and the momentary relief. With her head tilted toward the heavens, I notice a droplet of wine that’s settled at the center of her delectable lips. I want to brush my fingertip along her mouth, or better yet, lick it away. My junk twitches in my pants, causing me to tense and it’s then that Leila opens her eyes and catches me ogling.

  “You okay?” I clear my throat. I’m certainly not.

  Thankfully she doesn’t notice that she’s making me crazy. “No,” she admits. She shakes her head, takes another sip, this time lapping the remnants with the tip of her tongue. She’s not trying to be seductive, but my dick doesn’t know that.

  Hiding it the best I can, I adjust the strain in my pants so when I speak I won’t sound like a pubescent boy. “I’m sorry,” I offer, void of a satisfactory excuse for what her sister’s done to her.

  “It’s not you who should be apologizing, Jude. I appreciate it, and thank you, but this isn’t your fault.” She peers at her feet dangling from the bar stool, and swings her legs to and fro. The slow rhythm entrances me, making me wish I had my guitar to play her a tune to better her mood because I know the Christmas carols aren’t doing it for her. I guess, if anything good could come out of this, it’s that I get to spend a little more time with her, but I’m not a creep and I know I can’t hold her hostage forever. Even if that does sound tempting as all hell.

  “So, what are you going to do? Do you need me to call a cab? Not that I want you to leave or anything. You can stay all day if you want—I’d actually enjoy that—but I thought . . . I don’t know . . . I guess . . . I just . . .” Shut up, Jude! I must sound like a stuttering fool.

  Leila finally notices my state of discombobulation and she giggles. I love that sound. It’s awfully pretty. Like her own personal song full of emotion. Her smile remains as she lifts a hand to her chest. “I don’t know how I can laugh at a time like this, but it can only mean you have some magical gift.”

  “Me?” I scan the room, dramatically, waiting for her to feed my ego with a confirmation that it is, in fact, me who has brightened her very dismal day.

  “Yes, you.” She pokes my chest while eyeing me over the rim of the stemless wine glass, and I pray she can’t feel the wild thumping of my traitorous heart. I want to reach out and grab her hand, pull her closer, explore how the wine tastes on her lips, but I don’t. I would never take advantage of a vulnerable woman, no matter what kind of signals she’s giving me. And judging by the way Leila’s eyes are dancing, the fact she was left here alone, with me, doesn’t seem to be bothering her all that much anymore.

  “Why don’t you join me, Jude?” She slides an empty glass in my direction. “We might as well make the best of this, being we’ve been thrust together this way.”

  I gulp when her tongue rolls the th of thrust. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was flirting. On second thought, her cheeks are flushed and she’s giggling again. I’d say she’s tipsy.

  “Not much of a drinker, I take it?” I stifle a laugh, enjoying the way her body has come to relax after so much tension.

  “Not really, but this stuff is very good.” She downs the rest of what’s in her glass and then reaches for the bottle.

  I intervene, taking it from her. “You sure you wanna do that?”

  Her eyes narrow and she pouts. Defiantly, she tugs the bottle from me and brings it to her lips. The delicate skin over her throat dances in waves as she swallows. When she’s sipped her fill, my ears—and a few other parts of my body—jerk at the popping sound her lips make when she’s done.

  I shake my head, suppressing more than a man has the power to su
ppress. “Suit yourself.”

  “Feels good to do something for myself for a change. You ought to try it.” For the second time in five minutes, she pushes the bottle toward me. Her brown eyes bore into mine, tempting me. I’m a mere second away from taking her up on the offer—a carefree afternoon of day drinking and secret sharing before we both go back to pleasing everyone but ourselves. But I remember that I was left in charge and that Becca and Trent entrusted me with the shop. Getting drunk and winding up hungover would not bode well with the fam. Especially while trying to prove my worth around here.

  I wave my hands between us and shrug. “Not a good idea.”

  “Party pooper.”

  “I’m not one to refute a challenge, but I really can’t, Leila. I’m working and I don’t want to disappoint—”

  “Your family,” she finishes. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  The mood shifts again and I want to punch myself for allowing that to happen. A pretty girl whom I haven’t stopped thinking about since the moment I laid eyes on her is flirting with me and suddenly I’m Mr. Moral? Wow, this place is really getting to me.

  “You know what?” I slap my hand atop the bar. “You’re right. Letting loose isn’t the end of the world.” I grab the same bottle that was just in her grasp and take pride in knowing my lips will touch the same surface hers have. A glass of wine won’t kill me, after all, but stealing even the tiniest bit of Leila’s joy just might.

  “Rebel!” Leila shouts as she watches me drink.

  The small mouthful almost leaks from my lips as I laugh at her cheering. I swipe my lips with the back of my hand. “If this makes me a rebel, then I really better get a life.”

  “Like I should talk,” she laughs. “I do whatever my father says because I don’t like disappointing him. I’m twenty-two years old and I’ve never once told him no.”

  My eyes pop in surprise. “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Sorry, love, but you’re in that boat alone. I’ve given my mother enough trouble to last a lifetime and I’m only twenty-three. When my dad left, I kind of took it out on her and to this day I hate myself for it. Working here is sort of a penance for the hell I put her through. I know she means well and I’m grateful for everything my family’s done for us, but sometimes . . . I don’t know . . . sometimes I want to be a little selfish. Does that make me a total asshole?”

  “If it does, then I guess I’m an asshole, too!”

  I raise the bottle and hail, “To being an asshole!” Leila lifts her glass to clink in toast and since it’s empty, I top her off before throwing my head back and draining what’s left.

  I’m supposed to detect certain notes of this and a buttery hint of that, but instead I taste victory. “You were right. This does feel good. I wish I had met you a long time ago.”

  My admission tints her cheeks pink again, but I’m not sorry for what I’ve said. “It’s true, Leila. I know this hasn’t been the best day for you, but it goes down as one of my favorites in a long time.” I’m not sure whether the alcohol, the adrenaline, or the sprig of Mistletoe in the distance can take credit for what comes next, but I lean in closer and peck Leila’s cheek with a sweet kiss.

  When I pull back, we’re only inches apart and her hand flies to the spot I’ve just marked with my fondness. “What was that for?” She feigns ignorance, as if she doesn’t already know that I think she’s the best thing since my vintage Rickenbacker.

  “For making my day. For being you.”

  She bats her eyelids and melts my heart, but when she licks her lips and closes the distance between us I’m hot and hard all over again. I know then that our shy teetering between ignoring what’s right in front of us and giving in has finally come to an end. The tip of Leila’s upturned nose grazes mine before she tilts her head and closes her lids. I don’t hesitate to finish what she’s started by claiming her lips with mine.

  It’s intense and wild, like all amazing first kisses should be. I sensed it would be good, but not this good. Her lips are soft, plump, inviting. She parts them to grant me access and our tongues tangle and explore while our hands do the same. The stool is of no use to me anymore as I’ve tethered myself to her, so I stand and kick it behind me, then guide Leila off hers by grasping her shoulders. She fills my mouth with a moan that draws a growl of my own. I want to inhale as much of her as I can before she comes to her senses and realizes what we’re doing. I take advantage of the spell she’s somehow fallen under and deepen our kiss.

  Leila’s hands burrow into my hair, her body pressed up against mine. All logic and reason bolts from my brain as my need to pleasure her heats the space around us. I nudge her legs open with one of mine and settle between them, lifting her by the waist and placing her on the bar top. Our lips are still hungry, still joined in passion, but she squeals from the abrupt movement.

  “This okay?” I pull back to ask, breathless and eager.

  “Uh huh,” she answers, dipping forward to slip her tongue back in my mouth. Her legs wrap around me tighter and her curious hands feel their way around my body. Arms, chest, back, and further down. Before long, my shy stranger has her fingers crawling around the border of my boxers, propelling me to buck against her core.

  “God, Leila. This is—”

  “Shhh.” She places a finger over my mouth. “This is good. It’s so, so good.”

  I take that as my cue to continue, to turn so good into so much fucking better. Never mind the sun pouring in through the naked windows of the tasting room. Forget that we don’t even know each other’s last names. This feels right and too fucking amazing to worry about the consequences. “Leila,” I growl, nipping at her neck.

  “Jude,” she moans, allowing me more access as her head falls back. Her hand returns to the waistband of my jeans, her fingers toying with the button.

  I reach between us to offer help, my calloused hands grazing the soft, tight skin of her tanned thighs. When my button is undone, I move to undo the one on her shorts, but I’m forced to stop when a vibrating in my back pocket interrupts us.

  “Fuck!” I hiss. Could there be a less perfect time for this?

  “What is it?” Leila pants.

  “Phone. I’m sorry. I have to see who’s calling.” Unwilling to leave the heat of her embrace, I dig into my pocket as our hearts gallop in sync.

  Our hot-blooded moment is gone, however, once I retrieve the phone and see who’s to blame for the case of blue balls I’m about to be slapped with. “Ugh,” I groan, hanging my head. “It’s my grandmother. And no one ignores a call from Mama Rosa and lives to tell about it.”

  Leila releases a musical sigh and nods her head. “You’d better get it then. I wouldn’t want you to die before we get to the good part.”

  8

  Leila

  What am I doing? I really am a slut, aren’t I? If Jude’s phone hadn’t rung, who knows where’d we be right now. You’d be rounding third and getting ready to come home, that’s where you’d be.

  “Oh, shut up,” I whisper aloud. That voice sounds nothing like mine and too much like Melissa’s. All thoughts of her fled my mind the moment Jude’s lips found mine and now here I am back to harping on the bad parts of this day when I want to get lost in the good. Like Jude. His lips. And those amazing hands. I suddenly feel gypped of the full experience and ready to tell the voices in my head—and this Mama Rosa lady—to leave us alone so we can finish what we started.

  “Yes, everything is fine here. Uh huh, looks like an elf threw up in here. I did all of inside. It’ll be dark soon so I’ll do outside tomorrow. Yes, yes, I’m fine, too. Um, Gram, I have someone here at . . . a . . . um . . . a girl . . . Leila. No, she’ not my . . . no, she’s visiting from—” Jude pulls the phone from his ear and mouths his question quietly. “Where are you from?”

  I smile—he’s flustered, and he’s really quite cute when he’s flustered. “Rochester.”

  “Oh, cool! Not too far from here.” He beams and then remember
s he left Mama Rosa dangling. “Rochester. She’s from Rochester and she came for a tasting with some snooty bachelorette party that actually left her behind, so I really should . . .” There’s a long pause and Jude demonstrates his frustration by tapping his foot and rolling his eyes. “No! You can’t speak to her! I just met her myself.” Another pause. This time Jude scans my body from the tip of my mousy brown hair to the ends of my bootie covered feet. A crooked grin brightens his face and causes butterflies to flitter around inside my stomach. “Yes. She’s very pretty.” He scratches his head and then looks down at his feet, which are on the verge of choreographing a tap number of their own accord. “Gram, can I please—” His feet stop shuffling. Jude is planted in place, his posture stiff, and his wide eyes on me. “Go on,” he practically sings, suddenly interested in whatever his grandmother is rambling about on the other end.

  I can hear her buzzing at high speed from where I stand a few feet away from him. It’s impossible to make out what she’s saying, but her muffled words have Jude nodding his head and smiling as if she just told him he won the jackpot, or better yet, a record deal. He paces the length of the bar, listening to her speak. He barely gets a word in edgewise, but he does get the chance to explain about Melissa, my father, and the bathroom debacle. It’s crazy how much he actually knows from the little I told him this afternoon. It warms my soul to know he paid attention; that I wasn’t making out with a total stranger, ready to give it up in the name of lust at first sight. I ogle in wonderment, my heart pitter pattering as I examine the way he walks in sexy strides and how his fingers tug and rustle at his hair. When he’s not looking, I close my eyes and let the brief memory of our mini-escapade set my body ablaze again. I really hope he gets off that phone soon and continues where we left off.

  “Grandma, you’re a genius!” Jude finally shouts, startling my eyes open and quashing my dreamy fantasy. He swivels to face me from across the room with an ear to ear smirk. On his march back to me, he ends his call by saying, “Love you, too. And thank you, Gram. You never cease to remind me that it’s okay to shake things up from time to time.” With that, he presses a button on his phone and tucks it away in his back pocket.