I’m no good at this, despite my Gallic next-door neighbors. “Blackberries?”
She turns towards Hank and laughs with such frivolity you’d think I’d just suggested it tasted like poop and unicorns.
“Enrico?” she says, placing her hand on his arm again as if he’s going to run away. “I’m sure you’re very knowledgeable about wine, among other things.”
He grins back at her. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Placing the glass to his face, his nose almost touching the wine, he breathes it in, then pulls the glass away, holding his breath, contemplating. “Peach,” he proclaims, sure of himself, releasing a long slow breath as he says it. I feel my eyes roll back into my head. Really? I’m right here, dude.
The way he says it, pausing for just a second to allow us to admire him, gets Caroline so flustered, I can hear her ovaries exploding from over here. “Yes,” she whispers, composing herself. She turns in my direction. “Nice to see we have at least one connoisseur among us.”
That’s it. I’m going to drown her in her own fucking vat. Death by rosé. Not the worst way to go, admittedly.
“Oh, Caroline, you flatter me, it was just a guess.” He runs a hand through his dark curls, and I swear Caroline whimpers. Get a room already.
Without any seating at the bar, I have to stand through five more episodes of their burgeoning love story, each one steamier than the precedent. Whilst I, only a few feet away, slowly morph into a molten lump of sweat and hair. Slouching against the bar, slightly tipsy from finishing Hank’s glasses when I’ve drunk my own, dehydrated from the sweating and crackers and fanning myself with my notepad, I come to the dawning conclusion that Caroline had won this round.
She can have him. Now if they would just let me leave so I can die with dignity, this will all be over and they can go do it behind the barrels, in the cold, cold cellar. I get excited thinking about it, the cellar, not them doing it. I’d sell a kidney for a bucket of ice right now.
“And it might surprise you to know that the last glass of wine was the same as the first. Your palette having adapted and changed throughout the tasting made you experience it in a very different way.”
“Good God, really? No. that is shocking. Well, I think our car should be arriving shortly. Shall we take our leave, Enrrrico?” I can roll my fucking Rs too.
“You won’t be ordering today?” Caroline looks positively shocked. This is a visit for a news article, not a buying session. I look over to Hank. Ah, of course. He’s getting his wallet out.
“That depends entirely on the terms. As a connoisseur, I do appreciate a good price for a good bottle of wine.”
What is he doing? The storm is looming over us, and my body simply cannot take much more of this heat. “Well, I’ll let you two negotiate.” I place a clammy hand on Hank’s incredibly dry shirt sleeve. The man is a mythical beast. “You can find me in the car.”
I storm off. The wrong way. Do a walk of shame past them and head towards the car. Never has a woman been so grateful for air-conditioning. I lie my body down on that car seat and soak in all that refreshingly cold air. Better than sex.
It takes twenty long minutes before Hank joins me. Twenty minutes where I go from angry enough to break something to just plain old sad and miserable.
What a stupid, ridiculous fool I’ve been. Falling for his charm. He isn’t my cowboy, he’s a rattlesnake. As if I even had a chance with him. Thank God I hadn’t slept with him. This’s why I’d promised myself not to get involved. No more Mr. Wrongs, remember? When will I learn? The cold air is cooling my desire to ravage my boss. Good.
“Hey.” He opens the car door. Looking like he’s just stepped out of a magazine photo-shoot, a bead of glistening sweat on his forehead the only sign of the fact that it is a hundred degrees out there.
“Hey.” I don’t look at him.
“I got us a great deal, twenty-five percent off. I ordered several different types; you can mix and match, whatever you want. Just a small thank you for all the work you’re doing.” That’s a silver lining, at least. I have spent a rotten afternoon. A bottle of wine or two might make it better.
“Did you get her number too?” I try not to sound catty, but it’s stronger than me.
“Who, Caroline? She gave me her card, yeah.”
“Good for you.” I continue to stare pointedly out of the window as the car pulls away. “It was all worth it then.”
“Did you get everything you needed for your article?” He isn’t getting the message that I do not want to talk to him.
“Yeah.” I should write about how friendly the staff are.
We sink into silence. I sit back, look at my hands. Suddenly I miss the feeling of his hand in mine. I trace a heart shape into my palm, round and round. I’d thought maybe it was the start of something. I was wrong.
But it is too much to bear, the silence, the niggling jealousy. “So are you going to call her?”
“Who? Caroline. Why would I want to call Caro … ooh.” He grins. “Did you think I was trying to ask her out?”
That’s it. The little chuckle that emanates from his throat, the pity, it tips me over to the third and final stage of grieving a crush. Ugly crying. “You think this is funny?”
My stupid little weak heart is breaking, and he’s looking at me like I’ve made it all up in my mind. I never learn. My tears are as much for me as they are for this relationship I’ve created in my imagination.
“No.” He places a hand on my knee. “No, I thought it was funny that you thought I was flirting with Caroline in front of you. Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
I purse my lips and nod. Yep. It isn’t just a dick move; it is also not the first time someone has done that to me. “So? You never answered my question.”
“No. I’m not going to call Caroline. I didn’t even realize I was being that flirty. Yeah, I let her do her spiel, but I just thought it was to get us to buy more wine.”
“Well, you were.” The tears are really flowing now. What’s left of my mascara runs down my face, I run the back of my hand across my face.
A warm, strong hand reaches under my chin; a pair of soft, warm lips descend on mine. It takes me by surprise, then I sink into it, allow him in.
He pulls back, his hand still holding my face inches from his. “I’m so sorry. I was thoughtless. I’m no good at taking it slowly.” He hesitates. “That’s what we’re doing, right? It’s not just me?”
I nod, as best I can with his hand under my chin. “I guess. I don’t know, are we?”
“I’m no good at this whole relationship thing; I just wanted to surprise you with a few bottles of wine.” He pauses, bites his lip. “I want you Caitlyn; I want to get to know you. I would never do anything to jeopardize that. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
He kisses me again, his lips lingering long and hard on mine whilst his tongue seeks refuge within. Savoring every second.
I’m so conflicted, running hot and cold with him, this perpetual state of unknowing. Wanting what I can’t have. Exhilarated by every touch and yet knowing that this is a dangerous road we’re heading down.
“Hank, we shouldn’t, we decided it was a bad idea,” I whisper, convincing nobody. I look down at those soft, delicious lips, enticing me back onto them just by existing. “We shouldn’t.” If I say it enough times, it will be true.
“I know,” he replies, licking his lips, memorizing the taste of my mouth on his. “I know.”
Chapter Fourteen
Caitlyn
A ferocious wind almost blows me over as I step out of the car. The storm is coming in from the sea. “We should get the plants inside, just in case,” says Hank, jumping out of the car, grabbing my camera equipment and heading inside.
We open the door, bring everything in. Only the sign remains over the porch, swinging violently to and fro as the wind bashes against it.
“Will you be okay?” he asks, looking out of the window.
“I’m a big girl.”
“I know.” He turns to me with a reassuring smile. “I’d rather stay until it’s calmed down. The electricity here tends to be a bit temperamental. I’ll cook us some food.”
There is so much between us constantly being unsaid, pins in things, post-it note reminders for a later date. Maybe it’s the ions in the air, charging up for the storm, but every hair on my body stands on end. Static electricity surging through me. Anticipation.
“I never say no to food.” We lock the door and headed upstairs. I’m thankful for a brick building, not imagining how the wind must howl around Hank's wooden home. “But first I need a shower.” A very cold shower. Rinse that sexual tension right off.
Twenty minutes later, and every last drop of sweat has been washed from my skin. Even my hair had been tamed into submission. I wander out into the apartment, wearing only my robe. “Do you cook?” asks Hank, rifling through my fridge.
“I left home at eighteen. I cook enough not to die of starvation. I wouldn’t say I’m a cordon bleu.” I grab a pair of lace panties from the drawer and slip them on.
“We could make tacos.” It isn’t a suggestion; he’s already heaving flour and other ingredients out of a cupboard and emptying my fridge of chicken and peppers.
There’s something incredibly sexual about a man preparing food. Hank, to all intents and purposes, had not come across as a man in charge of his life when he was lying on the floor of that bathroom trying to find a condom. But if you stick a hammer in his hand or watch him peel an onion, he is pure temptation. My stomach muscles jerk as I remember his fingers tracing the line of my stomach down to my crotch.
Breathe.
He begins to knead the dough. Holy fuck, man. Have a little decency. I steady myself against the kitchen island and fall down onto a stool.
“Tell me about your travels, is that where you learned to do all of this?” It certainly wasn’t in his parent’s home, with their full-time chef.
“I went to Europe, started in the UK and then moved across from France to Italy to Greece. I only saw the north of Africa, Tunisia, Morocco. I’m going to go back one day, see Kenya, Madagascar, the south. This has to rest for ten minutes, shall we have a drink?”
Jen has stocked the fridge for me, including a selection of wines. For a huge American corporation, the Baresi family sure do look after their employees. He serves me a glass of wine–might as well go on as I’ve started–grabs a beer for himself then sits opposite me.
“And you?”
“I’ve been to France and Spain. Not very exciting. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home.” It’s not the opportunity to travel which has restricted my travels, but my work ethic. I don’t regret all the years spent working up to where I am now, just the lack of time for myself. I envy Hank’s lackadaisical attitude to life. He takes me out of my comfort zone.
“Where would you like to go?” I bite my lip. Replying ‘to bed with you’ might be a bit forward for six-thirty on a workday evening.
“Am I going with you? I hear your plane etiquette isn’t up to scratch.”
“You’re funny.” He grins at me and sips his beer. The man looks like an advert for cold beverages on a hot day. My insides tremble and I catch my breath so he won’t hear the quiver as I exhale.
“Do you not remember anything about the flight? Everything that happened before you streaked down the aisle?”
“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” Does he know, does he remember? “No, I’m kidding, my brother gave me some kind of pill, supposedly to help me sleep and I was totally out of it. I didn’t even remember where I’d gotten the hat until some guy came over to ask for it back.”
The wanton, frantic kissing in the corridor, the fumbling in the bathroom. Only I was witness to it. The unfinished business. I need him to feel that too.
“You were in the bathroom. You made a heck of a noise. The woman next to me complained about it.” I try to jolt his memory. “You weren’t alone.”
“Yeah, I woke up on the toilet. Scared the shit out of me, didn’t know where I was. I think…” He hesitates like he’s deciding whether to share. “I think you’re right, I was in the bathroom with someone else, a woman.”
“A woman?” Me. You mean me. You were this close to fucking me. I wave internally. “Do you remember anything about her?” He raises his eyebrows. I guess it is a strange question. “I’m just curious.”
“It’s just a feeling I have, I can’t quite put my finger on it. Like when you go into a room and you can’t remember what you went in there for.” He thinks about it for a second, takes another sip, looks deep into my eyes as if he’s searching for the true inside of me. “Nope, I got nothing.” Fuck.
“Did they ever find your phone?” I cringe inside. I am never not going to feel bad about that.
“No. I had it backed up, so nothing lost, except my dignity and my Toon Blast score.” Phew. “Shall we chop up some food?”
By ‘we’ he means him. I sit on my stool, legs crossed, glass in hand, and watch him slice and dice the chicken and the vegetables, as he explains how he learned to make tortillas.
There is something very comfortable about our interactions. I’m no longer on the defensive, he’s a natural charmer, has perfected the art of putting people at ease. The urge to stand up and slide between him and the chopping board is overwhelming me. Kiss his neck, nuzzle against that perfectly toned chest and feel the warmth of his body against mine.
I’ve already tasted this man too many times. I want more.
“I’m not being very helpful, am I?”
“I don’t mind. This is nice.” He smiles at me again, and my vagina melts into a puddle of lust.
My mouth opens to confess something, but my brain steps in. We’ve only just got back on steady-footing. Is it really the best idea to reduce his first memories of me to almost-fucking in a plane bathroom? Is that how I want him to see me?
I stand up to get the wine from the fridge and he turns to wash his hands at the same time. Inches apart, we once again find ourselves in a compromising position.
“Another beer?” The words come out strangled. I’m holding my tongue to stop it from entering this man’s mouth.
He breathes. Deeply. Is his resolve waning too? “Please.”
I shimmy past him, open the fridge and bend down to get him a beer. As I stand back up I can feel him behind me. So close, the warmth of his body sends a shiver down my spine. He reaches around me.
My mind flashes back to that night, his hand in my underwear, holding him up. I’m as turned on right now as I was in that bathroom.
He grabs the beer out of my hand. “Thanks.”
A flash of lightning and simultaneous thunder crashes down outside and everything goes black.
“Shit.” I jump back against him and he is once again holding me up. Why do I constantly swoon against this man? “I am so sorry. I really need to stop falling into your arms like this. We are not in a romantic comedy and I am not Meg Ryan.”
“You kind of are,” he replies, laughing and pushing me back up onto my feet. “I can see it. Are you a fan of those kinds of movies?”
“Oh my god, I hate RomComs.”
“You hate RomComs? How can you hate romantic movies? I thought all women loved them.” He lights the gas on the cooker hob and sprinkles a little olive oil into a pan.
“I came to the realization one day that everybody in RomComs is inherently evil. Do we have any candles?” I rifle through the cupboards.
“Oh-kay. Why?” He opens a drawer and hands me candles and matches.
“Thank you. Sleepless in Seattle, she strings along her fiancé whilst writing to another man, she hires a private eye to spy on that man and she dumps her fiancé on Valentine’s Day.”
I grab a small plate, tip a lit candle to get some warm wax on it and smoosh the candle down to secure it.
“To all the Boys I’ve loved before.” Hank’s knowledge of RomComs is impressive.
“The one where she can’
t decide between him and several other guys or the one where she can’t decide between him and one other guy … who she kisses?”
“Somebody hurt you bad in a previous life, didn’t they?” It is said in humor, but it strikes a chord.
“All of them.” That hurts as much to say it as when it actually happened. “It’s possible that my heart has turned to ice, yes. As I said before, my love life had always been somewhat complicated.” Like right now in this kitchen.
“You can’t have given up hope. Don’t you want to meet Tom Hanks and live happily ever after?” He flips his tortillas.
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?” Because I’ve met the perfect man and I’m not even allowed to sleep with him and now every other man I meet will not even compare to you.
“I think I’m just destined to be alone.”
An arm wraps around my waist, spinning me around holding me to him. “Nobody should be alone.” He kisses me, his body relaxing against mine. We both release the tension that has been building since we stepped out of the car. We open up to each other.
He switches off the gas, one arm still wrapped around me, lifts me off my feet and carries me over to the bed. Fuck. It’s the most impressive, slick move a man has ever made on me and my whole body applauds.
Laying over me, he pulls my robe open just a touch and slowly swirls his tongue around my breast.
“Wait.” I fucking hate myself, but I can’t do it. I can’t let him go on without telling him the truth.
“What? Shit, if this is no, just say no. Caitlyn, you’re killing me.”
“No. I mean, no, it’s not no. I need to tell you something.” I kiss him, just a peck, then another, enough to reassure him that he has done nothing wrong. I scoot up the bed, and he follows, crawling up over me. My pussy is screaming at me to shut up, but my brain has way more morals than that part of my body ever did.
“On the plane.” He nods. I’m pretty sure at this point he’s just worried that I’ve seen his dick in Business Class. I could just leave it at that. Say nothing, let him do his thing, keep this secret inside me forever. But there are a lot of secrets inside me, post-it notes littered about my brain, and I desperately need to remove some of them so I can see clearly.
The Billionaire & the Princess Page 8
