I may have earned enough diplomas to start a forgery business, but my younger brother’s law degree and stellar job poked holes in my confidence, his every leap forward a floodlight on my stalled career.
Thankfully our food arrived before she could go on about Mitchell’s success or Uncle Charlie’s funeral home. I’d been avoiding that particular connection for the whole of my adult life. Working around death, dressing lifeless bodies and watching people sob, was not happening. Still, the disappointment in my mother’s eyes hit home. I’d worked hard to keep her spirits up since we’d lost Dad. The first two years had been hell for her. For me, too. But she’d been a shell of her former self. Five years later, her happiness remained priority one.
“Fine,” I said, eager to appease her and switch topics. “If this new venture doesn’t pan out, we’ll talk to Uncle Charlie.”
Since that wasn’t an option, the sommelier gig had to work.
Five
Jimmy
The first day of the sommelier contest arrived without fanfare. Considering I’d waited two years to hatch the perfect plan and would finally deal with my family, I’d expected a bit more ceremony. A James Bond soundtrack, maybe.
But calm was fine. All I needed was the outcome.
The restaurant hadn’t changed since it had opened four years ago. Egos inflated, the Adriano brothers had spared no expense and followed up their first two restaurants, Aroma and Blend, with Crush. Rave reviews piled up, and the wait list grew, all three hot spots offering killer wines and cool vibes. Crush still had a small tree growing in the center of the room, decorated with tiny white lights. The world class wines lining the back wall were as impressive as ever, the sleek wooden tables and white chairs cool and stylish.
The two major differences since I’d last visited were that, these days, a typical evening at Crush saw more empty chairs than full.
And I wasn’t here with Sophia.
I swallowed the bitterness and scanned the space. Three quarters of the sixty-two seats were taken, each place set with five glasses, a sheet of paper, and a pen. I nabbed a chair at an empty foursome to keep my distance. Not that I needed to make the effort. The other contestants were business-casual junkies, from the slick of their hair to the shine of their shoes. My torn jeans, biker boots, and faded “Dare Me” T-shirt were preppy repellents, which suited me fine.
I doubted a person here could discern a 2004 Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon from a 2005. Probably wouldn’t be able to afford their three grand price tags, either.
A bottle I’d opened the other night without a thought.
Although I’d cleared wine from my life, there were a few purchases too precious to disown, the Screaming Eagle among them, and I’d popped a cork for my dirty princess. When she saw it (after rummaging through my cupboards—the nosy little thing), she’d gasped and draped herself over the bottle. I hadn’t given two shits about impressing a girl in ages, but the urge to see her face after her first sip was too hard to resist. Wine, no matter the price, was meant to be enjoyed.
The second it had touched her tongue, her head lolled back, a glorious sigh following. A sight to behold. Watching her drink that wine had been as unforgettable as the first lick up her thigh. Normally my evenings with women weren’t all-night affairs. We’d enjoy each other, chase our release, then say our goodbyes. They didn’t leave me aching for more, but it had been two weeks since I’d fucked my dirty princess, and I’d replayed every taste and bite between us until I’d memorized the feel of her.
A habit I needed to kick.
The seats filled up, all but the few around me, men and women ages twenty to sixty fixing their suit jackets, crossing and uncrossing their legs. A nervous lot, the bunch of them. I couldn’t deny the excitement twitching up my spine. Although I was on a mission, the thrill of tasting wine again was hard to ignore. A breath later, that excitement smacked me upside the head.
Pushing through the doors was the dirty princess herself, as though I’d conjured her.
She smoothed her gray pencil skirt, then adjusted the buttons of her white blouse. She touched her hair next, the straight strands pulled into a ponytail. She wore as little makeup as the night I’d met her, but she was as done up as the rest of this uptight crowd. Difference was, I’d seen this particular woman throw her head back in ecstasy. My blood heated, the snippets I’d relived the past two weeks as fresh as ever.
Her moaning as she sucked me into her mouth.
Me sinking so deep inside her, I lost my mind.
Us laughing hysterically as we snapped that shot of her ass.
I’d barely cracked a smile the past two years, but I’d never howled like that with a woman. Never had to walk around, clutching my stomach to find my breath. I also couldn’t recall having sex four times in one night because I simply couldn’t get enough.
It was easy to chalk the wild evening up to me finally finding a way to deal with my family. Liberation had me ready to jump out of my skin. There was something more, though. The innocence of her freckle-stained face, willowy body, and big doe eyes as she told me to fuck her hard had shot my lust into overdrive. Now here she was again.
The last person I wanted to see.
She continued to adjust her clothes and clutch her purse, anxiety radiating from her in waves. The urge to walk over and test if my touch could ease her in the light of day like it had that night lit through me, unwelcome in its force.
Her jumpy gaze landed on me and her mouth dropped open. Steady chatter hummed through the space, but I could’ve sworn she squeaked. She clamped her jaw shut and searched the room for a free seat. Her frantic gaze was forced back to me, and the only three vacant spots. Again she searched in vain, the rounding of her spine a clue she wasn’t thrilled about her options. She looked out the way she came, squeezed her eyes, then squared her shoulders and marched toward me.
Part of me—the lower half—wanted to pin her to the wall with my thighs while I hitched that proper little skirt higher. The other part hoped she’d wandered into the wrong place. Not because our night together had been shitty, or the fact that she’d disappeared without a trace. No. The thing that had the tendons in my neck bunching was remembering how good it all was. Too good and too much fun, and I’d imagined rounds two and three and four ad nauseam. But rounds always ended in a knockout punch.
This girl was nothing but trouble.
She paused at the table, drew in a long breath, mumbled something as she exhaled, then glared at the seat beside me and the ones across. She chose beside, probably to face the room.
The only reason we’d hooked up two weeks ago was because there were no names and no strings. She’d admitted how hard it would be for her to relax, how awkward she’d feel afterward. The relaxing part I took care of with one brush of my lips. The awkward was still alive and kicking.
What went down between us couldn’t happen again. Distractions over the next two months weren’t an option, and repeat affairs led to feelings, and feelings led to promises, and promises were nothing but lies dressed up to seduce. Not an outcome I was keen to revisit. Still, I couldn’t ignore her anxiety, as long as she wasn’t here because of me.
I leaned toward her. “You’re the last person I expected to see.”
She squished her lithe body farther from mine. “Kind of coincidental, don’t you think? Did you follow me?”
“I got here before you. If anyone is stalking, it’s you tailing me.”
Indignation colored her cheeks. “I didn’t follow you. I saw a flyer and thought it looked interesting, but you obviously read it, too. If I’d known you’d be here”—aggravation laced her hushed tone—“I’d never have shown up.”
Her harsh words had me fisting my hands, or maybe it was how tempting the line of her neck looked, that column of tanned skin shifting as she swallowed. But she was right: having a diversion wouldn’t help my plan. “Then we’re on the same page.”
“Excuse me?”
“Since we’re
both here for the contest, we can pretend that night never happened.”
Her face fell, but a beat later, she said, “Good,” nothing but ice in her voice.
I followed with “Great.”
She spat, “Fine.”
So much for stamping out the awkward.
Waiters began moving through the space, small measures of white wine poured into each glass. A reporter sat at the bar, snapping photos and taking notes.
“Besides,” she added, “we won’t have to worry about seeing each other once you’re eliminated.”
Hot, and cocky to boot. “You’re right, we won’t. You’ll be gone by week two and won’t get to congratulate me on my win.”
The same competitive streak that had sparked between us at The Blue Door resurfaced, along with a punch of lust heading south. That night, we’d played drinking games, sipping wine and listing the notes dancing on our tongues. Then, at my place, I’d tasted them on her. A dribble in the hollow of her throat. A splash between her breasts. A dab of Cabernet on her pussy.
I almost groaned at the memory, but rustling at the front of the room saved me.
Alonzo Adriano had just introduced himself, and I hadn’t even noticed him enter. He may have been a head shorter than my six foot two, his cufflinks and navy suit camouflaging him in this room of wannabes, but I should have been focused.
The group was rapt, hanging on the man’s every syllable, and here I was, fantasizing about a woman.
Alonzo gave a brief rundown about his two brothers and their restaurants, his dark eyes intent as he gestured to the wall of wine bottles, extolling the beauty of their collection, reverence in his voice. At least the man was passionate.
A final contestant hurried into the room, the man’s blond hair parted so severely, the edge of his scalp shone. He tightened his tie, distaste on his face as he judged my tattoos, but he slid into the chair opposite my dirty princess. Moisture beaded on his large forehead.
We sat in silence as a sign-in sheet was passed around. When it reached me, I didn’t hesitate. I printed Jimmy Leon, using my mother’s maiden name. If I’d written Giannopoulos, it wouldn’t be long before Alonzo sussed out that his Offshoot Winery bottles came from my family vineyard, and this whole ruse would be shot to shit.
The dirty princess rolled her pen through her fingers, her gaze lingering on the page before she wrote Rachel Kates. The letters were as neat and tidy as her appearance, but there was a wild woman beneath the surface. One I’d had grinding against my hips. My mind drifted back to that night again, to our sweaty bodies and her passionate cries, and my cock stirred.
Jesus. Next session, I’d need to find a seat away from her.
As she passed the page across the table, the latecomer made sure they brushed fingers. An obvious move. He thrust his hand toward her. “I’m Rufus. Looks like we’ll be spending the next two months together”—he eyed the sheet—“Rachel.”
She sat straighter. “Looks like it.”
Her hand slipped into his, and I barely refrained from slipping my arm around her shoulders. To claim her? To mark her as mine? The notion grated at me. A couple of women I’d been with frequented the dive bar where I worked. We’d have our night of fun, then I’d pour them drinks at Rudy’s Tavern and we’d make small talk and go on like it had never happened. Once and done. Here I was, jealous over some jerk with enough hair gel to lube a Slip 'N Slide.
His slicked blond head and three-piece suit were more her style anyway. Probably came with a lot less baggage, too.
Still, after their exchange, I couldn’t resist leaning over and whispering in her ear. “You know, if you marry him, you won’t be able to take his last name.”
She shivered, then craned her neck to check the sheet as he got up to pass it to the next table. A laugh exploded from her, the same bark of a cackle she’d let loose at my place, like an asthma sufferer on laughing gas. Annoyed glances shot our way, but I chuckled.
“It is a shitty name,” she whispered.
“Downright crap,” I agreed.
Rufus Colon probably had a hell of a time in high school.
While the Colon chatted up the next table, the tension between Rachel and me ebbed. Keeping things friendly between us might be a better tactic than avoidance. Labelling her as off-limits would only jack up my desire. Plus, if we talked about our night together, it might stop occupying my headspace.
But when I said, “Did you send that picture to your boss? Is that why you’re here?” she dropped her forehead to her hands. I winced. “Wrong thing to ask?”
Without moving her head, she said, “As far as I’m concerned, that photo never happened.” She pushed to her feet and leaned into my space, her angry whisper puffing against my cheek. “Since I can’t remember a single thing from that night, it’s easy to believe, as long as you don’t feel the pressing urge to bring it up. And yes, that photo is why I’m here. I lost my job because of it.”
She dodged the tables, her heels punctuating each angry step toward the bathrooms, and I was left…uncomfortable. She didn’t remember our night together? The sex on the floor? Or in my bed? Against the wall? I’d been reliving every glorious detail for weeks and she remembered nothing?
My necklace felt heavy, the cuff circling my wrist tight. I’d given that woman six orgasms and not one of them had left a mark. When I came up for air from between her legs that night, she’d grabbed my hair, pulled my face to hers and said, “You are a god. I don’t know what you just did to me, but you better do it again.”
So I did. With gusto.
And she didn’t remember.
The knowledge chafed at me, worse than if she’d faked every yes and more and don’t stop. She had no idea how good I’d made her feel. How hard she’d made me come.
I was pissed.
Alonzo collected the sign-in sheet and proceeded to place five bottles of white—Chardonnay, Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Sauvignon Blanc, and Pinot Grigio—in a line.
“Tonight,” he said, “is an elimination round. A blind tasting to separate those who are serious about their wines from those who are here for the show. If you don’t guess all five varietals correctly, you’re out. No second chances. The rest of you will be invited back. Each Tuesday and Thursday for eight weeks, we’ll test your skills: opening bottles, pouring wines, and table-service exercises. Each session will involve a blind tasting and an elimination. Those with the two lowest scores will be sent home each round. Are there any questions?”
As hands flew up, Rachel and the Colon slipped back into their seats. She sat perfectly composed. Too stiff to be natural. Although taking that photo had been funny as hell, and we’d had a blast taking it, she was obviously uncomfortable. I could understand her embarrassment. I hadn’t done something that ridiculous since college.
“I won’t mention it again,” I said.
She stared dead ahead. “You just did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And again.”
“Are you high? I didn’t say a thing.”
A few people shushed us, a dirty look shot from the Colon, and she lowered her voice. “Actually, everything you’re not saying revolves around the one thing that’s banned from discussion. As far as I know, it was the worst sex of my life, and I’m here to listen to Mr. Adriano, not you.”
Worst sex? Of her life?
She may have been defensive about that photo, but she didn’t remember how she’d dared me to flash the entire street beforehand, or the kisses I’d trailed up her calves afterward, our laughter dissolving into breathy moans, all playfulness forgotten.
She didn’t remember a damn thing.
We sat beside each other, invisible bricks stacking between us. All I could do was review every detail from our night, and she was oblivious.
By the time the questions died down, all five glasses in front of us had been poured. The Colon sweated profusely. Rachel fidgeted beside me. I should have been calm; the tasting was a joke. Even my brother, with h
is underdeveloped palate, could discern a Riesling from a Chardonnay. It was child’s play. Except I was riled up, the only cures a long ride on my bike or a round with a punching bag.
I forced my focus on the wines. I knew each one by aroma alone.
Riesling: green apple, lime zest, a hint of petrol.
Sauvignon Blanc: asparagus, gooseberries, fresh cut grass.
The others were just as easy.
Rachel shifted and her skirt rode up, exposing her legs. Long legs. Sexy legs. Legs that had gripped my hips like iron.
When my grandfather first explained that the alcohol drips that clung to a wineglass were known as the wine’s legs, I’d giggled. When I got older, I understood how sexy that sweep of liquid was, tantalizing and teasing. Exactly like the distracting legs beside me.
I jammed a hand through my hair and diverted my attention to the posers around the room. Many were fumbling with their glasses, scratching out and rewriting their answers. It was laughable. Rachel paused on the Gewürztraminer, likely confusing it with the Riesling. If she got it wrong, we’d part ways and I’d never see her again. I’d get her out of my head once and for all. Eliminate any distractions. But the idea of her never knowing the feel of me inside her, when I could barely look at my bed without stroking myself, wasn’t right.
When she wrote the correct answer, my relief shocked me in its intensity.
We were asked to swap pages, then Alonzo described each wine. The Colon, predictably, messed up the whole page. He scowled, and said, “Shit.” Rachel and I shared a laugh.
People stood, the room a mix of cocky smirks and dejected faces, at least half not invited back next week. Rachel exhaled, pleased with her success.
I wouldn’t see her for five days, and if the past eleven were any indication, she’d occupy too many of my quiet minutes. She, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t give me a second thought. Unaware what I was playing at, I wrapped an arm behind her chair, my breath close enough to skim her ear.
“Six,” I said.
“What?” There was no hiding the tremor in her voice.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 5
