Deliciously Sinful

by Lilli Feisty

  Jesse wasn’t sure what she thought about Sherry referring to her as a girlfriend, but at least the woman didn’t appear angry.

  “Don’t take them off unless you want to. They actually look cute with your outfit.”

  Slowly, Jesse straightened and checked out her reflection in the mirror again. Her skirt had red flowers, and she was wearing a gauzy white blouse. The shoes definitely were a lot more stylish than her outfit, but they certainly added a look of sophistication.

  And she liked it.

  “I actually got those in Paris. I was there meeting with some sommeliers, and I popped into this little shop in the Sixteenth District.” Sherry closed her eyes as if remembering the taste of a magnificent crème brûlée. “You should have seen it. The shoes in that shop were so amazing. Orgasmic.”

  Jesse blushed at the phrase. She’d never had sex, but she knew what Sherry meant.

  Jesse crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Sherry. “You’ve been to Paris?”

  Sherry nodded. “Several times. It’s such a wonderful city…so romantic and beautiful. It charms you.”

  Jesse wanted to hear more. She wanted to hear all about Paris. But she didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to seem silly.

  Sherry smiled. “Every girl should go to Paris, at least once.”

  “Yeah.” Jesse slipped off the beautiful shoes. Immediately, she felt frumpy. “I bet it’s amazing. I’m sure I’ll never be able to go, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Don’t you want to see the world?”

  “Well, yeah, but…” The conversation was hitting a bit close to home. “My dad needs me here.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your dad would be just fine on his own if you wanted to see the world. And remember, you only live once. You’re young! The world is your oyster. Take my advice. Travel while you still can.”

  “But you still travel and you’re…” She was going to say “old” but realized that sounded offensive, so she ended with “not eighteen.”

  “I know. But things change as you get older. You get more responsibilities and less freedom.”

  “And you get stuck in places like Redbolt instead of Paris?” Jesse couldn’t help the little bite of defensiveness in her voice.

  But Sherry just tilted her head and gave her a soft look. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

  “What?”

  “A long time ago, I was married.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  Sherry shrugged. “I was young. I married my high school sweetheart, and before I knew it, I was thirty-two. And very, very unhappy.”

  “Why?” Jesse didn’t want to pry, but she found everything about Sherry fascinating.

  “Well, it turned out my high school sweetheart was a cheating bastard, but that really wasn’t the problem.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “He wanted a housewife. And I was happy doing that, and I love my son more than anything. When my son got older I wanted to travel, to see the world. I wanted to be able to buy shoes like those.” She pointed to the pumps now resting on the floor. “I wanted to know I made the money myself to do so. I just wanted more.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “So, when I discovered he’d been screwing around behind my back, I took it as an opportunity to start my life over.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I’ve always loved wine. So I went to school, learned all there was to know, got a job in the wine industry, and now I’m loving every minute of my life.”

  “Wow. That’s a great story.”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t change a thing about my life.”

  Must be nice, Jesse thought, then quickly pushed the pessimistic notion out of her brain. Jesse did have a great life. She had nothing to complain about.

  “But,” Sherry continued, “it took a lot of work to get where I am today. Do you believe in destiny, Jesse?”

  “Um, sure. I think so. Do you?”

  “A little. But I also believe you control your own destiny. And at the end of the day, you need to make yourself happy. And you’re the only one who can do that.”

  “What makes you think I’m not happy?” Jesse said.

  “I’m not saying you’re unhappy, honey. I just think it’s a good idea for us all to ask ourselves that question every now and then.”

  “Well, I am happy. I like living here, and I’m sure Paris is lovely, but I’m needed here. With my family. And that makes me happy.”

  “I’m glad. Because Nick says you’re a very talented chef-in-training, and you never know. One day the Green Leaf may just need someone like yourself.”

  Jesse jerked back. “W-what? What do you mean?”

  Sherry stood. “I’m just saying if you like it here, and if you end up being as good a chef as Nick says you have the potential to be, and if family is what makes you happy—well, then, maybe one day heading the kitchen of your family restaurant would be a dream come true for you.”

  Jesse wasn’t really sure what she was going to do when she grew up, but being head chef of the Green Leaf had never entered her mind.

  In fact, the very idea made her cringe a little inside.

  Which was ironic, because based on everything Jesse wanted to believe, Sherry’s words should have brought her great joy.

  Instead, Jesse felt like her throat was closing in and she was being suffocated.

  “Um, thanks for letting me try on your shoes, Sherry.”

  “Help yourself, Jesse. You know where my room is.”

  Wringing her hands, Jesse nodded. Suddenly she felt as if her entire life had just flashed before her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  How are those delicious lumps of death coming along?”

  Phoebe didn’t look up from the batch of brownies she’d just taken out of the oven. The cook-off was coming up fast—one week away to be exact, and Phoebe thought she was finally making some progress. The brownies were actually starting to resemble those that her aunt and uncle used to make. A small resemblance, but there nonetheless.

  With a bit more practice, she just might have a chance.

  “My offer for help is still on, you know.”

  “Thanks, but no.” She wanted—needed—to do this on her own. If she could do this, it would mean she was a success, that she could effectively carry on the legacy her family had left her. And she needed to prove it all by herself.

  “So,” Nick said, slicing an onion with quick, sharp slices of his big knife, “tell me more about this cook-off thing.”

  “It’s a tradition,” she said. “The county has been holding it for over twenty years. For ten of those years, my aunt and uncle have won the dessert category with their delicious brownies. Every year. They’ve become somewhat legendary.”

  “And you’re trying to carry on the tradition.”

  “Not trying. Succeeding.” She cut a slice through the brownies in the pan. The knife slid through nice and smoothly. She smiled. Yes, she was definitely making progress.

  Nick sauntered over and picked up the old, tattered piece of paper on which the recipe had been handwritten by her aunt. Studying it, he said, “Huh.”

  Phoebe looked up. “What?”

  “These measurements are…interesting.”

  “Well, that’s what makes them special.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  She held up the knife. “I don’t want to hear any ‘buts’ out of you. I don’t want your opinion, and I don’t need your help.”

  He was still staring at the piece of paper. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He dropped the paper onto the counter. “As you wish.” He walked behind her, and she felt his hand on the base of her spine. The result of which was an electric thrill that went straight up her back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” But he was moving her hair away to kiss that place on the back of her neck…the place that, when he put his lips there, m
ade her brain go a little bit fuzzy.

  “Stop,” she said. But her protest sounded weak.

  “No. I like the way you smell.” And then she felt his tongue on her skin, licking just under her ear. “You have a little chocolate on you. Just thought I’d get it off.”

  “Thank you.”

  His lips lingered a little too long on her skin before he whispered, “Welcome, love,” and walked away.

  It wasn’t until he left the kitchen that she allowed herself to smile with pleasure.

  “How are things going with Phoebe?”

  Nick picked a pack of cigarettes off the arm of the porch chair and glanced toward Sherry. Funny, it was the same pack he’d purchased several days ago. He used to buy one about every day. Why had this box of smokes lasted so long?

  It was exactly one week since that night at the beach with the oysters and sex that churned like the crashing waves of the ocean.

  Every time he thought about that brilliant night, he got hard and broke out in a cold sweat. And so he tried not to think about it. But every time he saw Phoebe, he’d barely been able to control himself. And sometimes he hadn’t been able to at all. The storage room was becoming quite familiar.

  Today the restaurant was closed, and it was Nick’s day off. He hadn’t seen Phoebe all day, and she hadn’t called him. He hadn’t called her. There was no reason to.

  So why did he feel as if there was something missing that day?

  Sherry snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Nick. I asked you a question. How are things with Phoebe?”

  “Things with Phoebe?” he said. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

  Sherry took a sip from the glass of red wine she held in her hand. “I was just wondering.”

  “There’s nothing to wonder about. She’s my boss. I do my job.”

  Sherry laughed. “I don’t think that’s all you’re doing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, Nick. I know you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course I do. Are you really going to try to tell me you aren’t fucking Phoebe Mayle?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The fact that every time she’s in the room, you look like a dog in heat.”

  “How can I be a dog in heat? I have a penis, not a vagina.” He took a drink of tequila. “I’d have to be a woman to look like a dog in heat.”

  “Okay, you got me there. Fine. Whenever you see her, you look like a man with a big hard-on for his boss. Furthermore, you get this puppy-dog look in your eyes.”

  “What’s with all the dog analogies?”

  “I can’t help it if you look like a lovesick puppy whenever she’s in the room.”

  He nearly choked on his tequila. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She crossed her legs. As usual, the woman was dressed impeccably. She’d worked that day and was still in her dress clothes. He didn’t know how she managed it, but Sherry could pull off a miniskirt and high heels and still look classy.

  “If you think I’m horny,” he said, taking a drag from his cigarette, “maybe I should just fuck you.” He exhaled a breath of smoke.

  A loud guffaw escaped her mouth. “You already tried that.”

  “Obviously not hard enough. Hey, speaking of which, what’s up with you and Steve?”

  “Don’t try to avoid the question.”

  “I’m not. I’m just wondering. What’s he got that I don’t have?”

  She pretended to think about it. “Let’s see. Manners, a nice personality, respect toward women, a connoisseur’s taste in wine.”

  “Hey, I have that, too.”

  Her eyes actually turned a bit dreamy. “Not like him.” Then her voice rose a pitch. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone outside France who has a palate like his. He can tell you the exact acre where any of these local wines come from. I haven’t seen anything like it outside the Loire Valley.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yes, and he’s very sweet.”

  “Good. I’m glad you like him. But, aside from his amazing ability to decipher geographic tannins, what do you like about him? Is he special or is this just a tryst?”

  She paused, and Nick was surprised. She seemed to be actually considering the question. In all the years he’d known Sherry, she’d been like him. She’d wanted to have fun, to be herself, to live without the restraints of having a partner. He realized he kind of thought of her as a soul mate that way. Two of a kind. And a kind of panic washed over him at the thought that maybe he’d been wrong. If Sherry could actually fall for a guy, and be serious about it…where did that leave Nick?

  “So?” he prompted. “You actually like this guy?”

  Slowly she nodded and then finally said, “Yeah. I really do.”

  “But why?” And this time he heard the wonderment in his own voice.

  “What can I say? He likes me.”

  He laughed, and it sounded a lot more bitter than he would have liked. “He likes you? Sherry, a lot of guys like you. A whole hell of a lot. And you’re getting all mushy over some hick from Nowhere, California?”

  “Don’t call him that. Did you know he went to Stanford?”

  “So?”

  “So he’s not a hick.”

  “He owns a hardware store.”

  “And what’s wrong with that, Nick?” She turned to face him. “What’s wrong with not living in Los Angeles? What’s wrong with not worrying about where the next big party is? Or enjoying life in all its simplicity?”

  “Is that what you want, Sherry? To leave L.A. and live in Hicksville?” He took a deep drag from his forgotten cigarette. “You’ve only been here a little while. How can you think like that?”

  “Oh, hang on there! I’m not saying I’m up and going to move. I love Southern California.”

  “Then I don’t get it. Why are you going on about Steve if you’re just going to leave here?”

  “Love is strange that way. Love makes things work.”

  “Love?” he asked incredulously. “You’re telling me you’re in love.”

  She gave a small shrug; he knew she’d picked up that habit in France. “I don’t know. All I know is that when I’m with Steve, I feel…”

  “Bored?”

  “Safe. He’s a lot more worldly than you might think.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He was in the Peace Corps. Lived in Bolivia for many years. Lived on a boat. Rode a motorcycle around Colombia.”

  Nick had to admit he was surprised. He never would have thought Steve had left Humboldt County, and those other things were actually impressive. In fact, the more time he spent in this seemingly backwoods place, the more Nick discovered the people weren’t as backwoods as they seemed. Truth be told, he’d encountered some of the most cultured and educated people here he’d met in a long time.

  Like Andrew, who owned the movie theater. It was ten years ago that Irish Andrew had come through Redbolt on a backpacking trip. Andrew had been an actor back in Dublin, and now he was here, running the film projector for whatever movies he thought the community ought to see. And Nick was actually impressed at what he brought into town. Most were Sundance winners or art-house flicks Nick would have thought were never viewed outside Hollywood or New York.

  So when Sherry was talking about Steve’s worldly experience and his Stanford education, Nick really wasn’t as surprised as he would have been when he’d first arrived. Actually, nothing about this place surprised him anymore. Funny, that.

  “You never answered my question, Sherry. Lots of guys like you. So why Steve?”

  “Because he likes me.” She pointed to her chest. “He doesn’t care that I used to be married to John McDavid, owner of the L.A. Spartans baseball team. We talk about wine and art and France and the vineyards in Chile. We talk. He likes me, and I like him, too.”

  Nick grunted. “I’m smart, and I liked you.”

  “You know we would never work, Nic
k.”

  “I don’t want things to work. I just want to get laid.”

  “Stop acting like a prick.”

  “That’s me. Nick the Prick.”

  “Shut up. You’re not a prick. You just played one on TV.”

  He studied her face for a few moments. She was probably one of the most attractive women he’d ever seen. And that was saying a lot considering the array of beautiful ladies he’d had access to in L.A.

  Had access to. Past tense. But now he couldn’t think of a single woman who was more beautiful to him than Phoebe.

  You bloody moron. Get those thoughts out of your head.

  He was silent for a moment. Then, “Seriously, Sherry. Why don’t you think things would ever work between us?”

  Their being together should work, he thought. In theory, they should make a great couple. Sherry got his sense of humor. She was gorgeous. She put up with his shit. They both liked food and wine. On the surface, they would be perfect together.

  With a blank expression, she stared at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m serious. We have a lot in common. You’re gorgeous. We get along. Why don’t we ever give things a go?”

  “Oh, holy shit.” She leaned back in her chair and sipped more wine. “Holy effing shit.”

  “What?”

  “You stupid fucking moron.”

  “Hey,” he said, somewhat affronted. “No need to get nasty.”

  “You realize what you’re doing, right?”

  “Oh, God. You’re going to go off on one of your psychoanalyzing rants, aren’t you?” He stubbed out what remained of the cigarette and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m gonna need more tequila for this.”

  “Bring back the bottle of wine, too.”

  “Yes, mistress.” He took his time getting the drinks. He hated it when Sherry gave him one of her lectures. She was always so…right.

  He could drag out the minor task only so long before he finally went back to the porch. After refilling Sherry’s wineglass, he took his seat and swallowed a gulp of tequila.

  “Proceed with the sermon, ma’am.”

  “I shall.”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s with all this talk about you and me?”