He pushed a hand up the back of his hair. “Sophia and I dated for two years. I looked a lot different then, more like the cardboard cutouts in the contest.”
No freaking way. “Was your hair short?”
“Yep.”
“Did you have tattoos?”
“Nope.” He popped the P at the end and winked.
The man was lethal. “I am intrigued.”
“Let’s just say it took some shitty things for me to figure out who I really was, and for me to figure out who Sophia was. When I lost the winery and my shiny future, she hitched a ride on someone else’s train.”
“Jesus.” My heart squeezed, an urge to touch him and show my empathy surging, but his lips tightened into a stern line, like they had after he’d tasted his family’s wine. I folded my hands on my lap instead, silence blanketing us. Seeing Sophia today must have been more painful than I’d realized.
Blowing out a breath, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His T-shirt rode up his back, and his black boxers peeked out. I wanted to peek in. Push his shirt up and pull his jeans down and grip the length of him, experience everything I’d lost to the haze of alcohol. Touch more, see more, know more. Ask what happened with his father and curl into his side, voices whispered as we shared our secrets.
My father would likely be unimpressed with this scenario.
I’d never erased his last voice message and would never forget our final fight. As hard as my father had worked to provide for us, my mother had worked harder to fit in with the country-club crowd. Tired of her incessant phone calls and insistence I date certain guys or wear “the right” clothes, I’d hitched a ride on Gabe’s motorcycle, staking my independence. I was twenty-two and my mother still forbade me from bringing Gabe’s tattooed, blued-haired self to a fundraiser.
My reply: “Then I’m not coming, either.”
She didn’t speak with me for weeks afterward, the whole thing culminating in a fight between my father and me.
I still played his follow-up voicemail from time to time. I’d let his apologetic words seep into my dark corners, filling me with memories and sadness…and happiness, too. Men like Gabe don’t stick around, my father had said. Boys like that are trouble. You are smart and talented and will be a success, and I don’t want anything to stand in your way. Then, But I’m sorry and I love you and We’ll chat soon.
A chat that never happened, but Gabe had proven my father right. He dumped me via text shortly afterward, saying things were too complicated for him.
My texted reply: Sorry that my dad died. Must be hard for you.
If my father were still alive, would he offer similar advice? Warn me Jimmy had been through the wringer with his family and wasn’t capable of love. That I’d fall for him only to get hurt. That he and his tattoos and motorcycle were nothing but trouble. My feelings for Gabe hadn’t been born of love or lust. Seeing him had been me thumbing the system. Giving in to my attraction to Jimmy as an adult was a different animal. A primal beast, curious and hungry. But my father’s last words swarmed my mind. Unable to clear my head, I let our silence linger.
That’s when Jimmy’s inquisition started.
Nine
Jimmy
“You’ve met my ex and know I’m single, but I’ve seen you checking your cell plenty. Is there a man I should be aware of?” I patted the pillow she’d placed between us. “A reason you’re keeping your distance?” I’d done enough sharing for one day. Never wanted to think about Sophia and her betrayal again. Time to unravel more of Rachel.
She smiled tentatively. “Are you jealous?”
“Yes.”
She sucked in a breath at my honesty.
As soon as I’d acknowledged my deeper interest in Rachel to myself, the games stopped. I wanted her. Not just another night between the sheets (and on the floor and against the wall). I wanted a glimpse of that adoring look she’d leveled on me in the store, to stand together, her hand in my back pocket, my fingers in her hair, knowing she was mine. See if I could trust a woman again.
As a kid, I’d dreamed of being a professional soccer player. I’d watch every major league match, imagining my father cheering me on. Determined to earn a spot on the coveted CRL—California Regional League—I’d played soccer day and night. My mother would have to drag me inside to go to bed. I’d stopped hanging with my friends. I’d made it, though. Played a few strong years, until girls and wine became more important.
My father only ever came to one game.
I figured it out then. My father may have withheld his affection, but if I wanted something tangible, lack of determination was my only roadblock. I aced my viticulture degree, traveled Europe to immerse myself in wines until I’d earned my Master Sommelier.
I planned to put as much effort into winning Rachel.
She dragged the first glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to the edge of the table, giving it a swirl. She brought it to her nose and inhaled. Instead of listing the aromas opening up, she said, “I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve been single for close to a year. The incessant cell noise is my mother. She’s on the overprotective side.”
I’d figured there was no other man, but it was nice to hear it. “You two are close?”
“She drives me insane at times, thinks every person she knows is a minute from catching an airborne disease, but I love her. You should have seen her at my high school art shows, telling anyone who’d listen I was her daughter, and wasn’t I the most talented kid? Which was often followed by my childhood finger painting prowess, and the story about me and a naked Aaron Waxon covered in phthalo green.”
“Sounds sweet.” As was the way Rachel glowed, her memories lighting her from within.
“More like mortifying, but she always means well. My brother can be an ass, too, but we’re close.”
“Younger or older?”
“Physically, he’s two years younger. He’s twenty-five. Life-wise…definitely older.”
Her voice thinned, insecurity in the hunch of her shoulders. She may be an adult, living on her own, but her self-worth was still tied to her family. Something I’d been well acquainted with until I shed that baggage. “What’s wrong with your life?”
She replaced her glass on the table, untouched, and fell back onto the sofa. “I’ve held an obscene number of jobs since college. I can’t figure out what to do with my life, like I’m in one of those movies where I’m left floating in space and can’t find my way back to Earth.”
That would explain her quotes on the wall, the searching. She was a fine wine, developing, exploring her depth. I wanted to help uncork her. “What was the worst one?”
“Worst one what?”
“Worst job? If you’ve had that many, some must have been painful.”
She covered her face with her hands, like hiding would ease her embarrassment. “You have no idea.”
“Let’s hear it. I’d love to know the levels to which you’ve sunk.”
She stole a glance between her fingers. “When you say it like that, how can I resist?”
I removed her pillow barrier from between us and scooted closer. “I’m dying of curiosity.”
She didn’t pull away, didn’t shove that flimsy divider back between us. She uncovered her face and twisted toward me. “Okay, so, I don’t even know why I’m telling you, but I saw a classified ad that read 'Must love animals.' Next thing I knew, I was on the street in a poodle costume, waving a Doggy Wash sign.”
My grin stretched so wide my cheeks hurt, and Rachel covered her mouth, attempting to hold in her laughter. It escaped anyway, a snicker that rolled into a sharp cackle.
“The worst,” she said, dabbing at her eyes, “was my brother. He happened to drive by and see me, and he’s never let me live it down.”
A full-on snort followed, her head tipping forward as she gripped my thigh. Her whole body shook, and she nearly fell right into me. I lost it, too, everything about Rachel’s silly humor infectious. That ridiculous sound. Her willingness t
o embarrass herself. The way she could flip from sultry to fun to feisty on a dime.
When we'd taken the ass photo, she’d laughed even harder. She would try to pose, then she’d tip over on her side, slapping the floor and cracking up. I’d have to walk around, my abs aching, my throat dry from laughing so damn much. When we finally nailed it, she shuffled toward me on her knees and kissed me while smiling, branding me with her joy. I’d never kissed a woman like that—both of us grinning, small laughs tumbling against each other’s tongues.
Rachel was one of a kind.
She was also lost.
When our breathing regulated, we slouched into the couch, side by side, the edges of our hands touching. “You know what I find infinitely interesting about you, Ray?”
Her fingers twitched, a spark sent from the back of her hand to mine. “What?” she whispered.
“You have this wild innocence about you, on the surface. Looks like you work hard to keep your apartment neat. Keep things in order. You’re sexy as hell in everything you wear, but your outfits seem calculated. It reminds me of how I used to be, trying to fit into a certain mold. The girl I met that first night was wild, and I’d bet there’s more of her in you than you’d like to admit.”
She snatched her hand away and clutched her thigh, avoiding our touch. “I don’t think my psychological assessment figured into our deal.”
I knocked my boot against the gray coffee table. Clean lines. Compact. Probably Ikea. “Am I wrong?”
She settled heavier into the cushion, her body no longer rigid. “I don’t know.”
“Trust me, I do. I’m older and wiser and speak from experience.” I pushed my palm under hers and clasped our fingers, bringing her knuckles to my mouth for a soft kiss. “I see you, Sunshine. Now what do you say we rock this tasting?”
I sat up, pulling her with me, the warmth between our palms snapping across my skin. Until we both let go. She kicked off her heels and crossed her ankles. Her skirt rode up, exposing the curve of her knees. That stretch of smooth skin had my mind back on our first encounter and everything I wanted to see again.
“I’m ready,” she said.
I leaned in, our noses an inch apart. “Ready…meaning I can flip you over and eat your pussy now?”
Her cheeks burned the color of our Cabernet. “Incorrigible.”
“Honest.”
“Stick to the tasting.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” I zeroed in on her prim thighs, pressed so tightly together. Her denial of our pull only incited my craving. That was fine. She was worth the effort.
With two fingers on my chin, she flicked my attention away. We turned our focus to our wine tasting, but the barrier between us had lifted, truths shared clearing the way.
We swirled the glasses and listed the scents opening, inhaling the aroma of a crushed blackberry, then repeating the exercise, comparing notes. I pushed her to close her eyes and bite the green pepper, chew its tough skin, describe the layers of taste from bright to vegetal to bitter. The exercise was a decent one, but mostly I loved watching her jaw work, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her soft hum as she sifted through the flavors. The moment it clicked, when she linked that vegetable to the aroma in her glass, she grabbed my knee and squealed.
It sent my pulse thundering.
I had a rip in the knee of my jeans, and her thumb dipped inside. I placed my hand over hers to still her movements. One brush, and I was ready to tug her on my lap and explore the dirty side she kept locked up.
She slipped her hand away. “I’ve done classes, spent hours at my father’s tastings, but Cabs were always elusive. It clicked tonight. So thank you.”
I shrugged. “Told you I’d uphold my end of the bargain. And that’s nice—that you and your father share wine.” No matter my effort, mine was always too busy building his business to enjoy a glass with me.
“Shared,” she said, her downturned eyes as sad as her voice. “He died five years ago.”
The admission sunk an anchor through my chest, taking my heart with it.
Unable to keep my distance, I threaded my hand into her hair and dipped my head to her level. “I’m sorry.”
There wasn’t much else to say. No words eased the blow loss dealt. I’d loved my mother’s father more than my own, and when my pappous had passed, I’d hid in the vineyard for hours, picking unripe grapes from the vines and crushing them with my fists. He’d kicked a soccer ball with me, had taken me by the hand and told me tales of the Greek gods as we’d walked our land. Hopefully Rachel saw understanding in my eyes.
She leaned into my hand. “The more time I spend with wine, the closer I feel to him. He loved it.”
The more time I spent with wine, the farther I felt from my family. But I was glad for her.
We stood, our tasting and time over. I offered to help clean up, but she waved me off, an end to our night.
I grabbed my jacket and paused at the door. “Give me your number.”
“Shouldn’t you ask, not demand?”
“If you remembered our night together, you’d know I’m more of the demanding sort.” I couldn’t resist another glimpse of her indignation.
It didn’t come. “How demanding?” Her voice purred with curiosity.
I stepped closer. “Very.”
Her eyes lit up, a breathy sigh escaping her lips. “I wouldn’t remember.”
“But you want to know, don’t you?”
She inched backward, until she hit her hallway wall. “Yes, but…”
“What’s stopping you, Ray? Because this quote…” I gestured to the one above her head: Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star. ~ W. Clement Stone. “How do you know I’m not that star? I’m burning pretty hot for you. What’s to say I’m not the thing you’ve been missing?”
There was little space between us—me hovering over her, her head tilted to search my face, determine my worth. She flattened her palms on my stomach and my abs tightened. If this was her keeping me away, it was having the opposite effect. But hesitation rippled from her.
I pressed closer, my lips a breath from hers. “I think I scare you. I think you can’t imagine yourself with me, or me in the life you’ve pictured, and you think I’m after a quick fuck. You’d be wrong on all accounts. Life is what you make it, and I can find a thousand quotes to hang on your walls to that effect. But it only falls into place if you honor who you are. I’m more comfortable in a dive bar than a yacht club. I get off on body art and speeding on my Harley. I’d also wager having you on the back, gripping me with your thighs and clutching my chest would kick the experience up a notch. I want to spend time with you, not just prove I can make you come with my tongue. Although I want that, too.”
Riled up and high on her scent, I brushed my lips against hers. Just a tease. She whimpered and eased her lips open, a small distance, enough for me to swipe my tongue along her bottom lip, stealing the tiniest taste. I pulled back, but her eyes remained closed.
“What’s going to happen now,” I said, my voice deeper than I’d ever heard it, “is I’m going to give you my number, and when you think you’re ready, you’re going to call. Until then, I’d prefer if you don’t ignore me when we’re at Crush.”
Her iPhone was the same model and color as mine. I grabbed it from her hall table and tapped her screen. No lock in place. I entered my details, smirking as I chose a name for my listing. She blinked at me the whole while, lost in a haze. I was having trouble functioning, too, that tiny bit of contact jumbling my senses. All but one.
Desire.
She’d call me. Of that I was sure. Question was when, and if I could wait that long.
“Until next time,” I said, and she bit her lip.
As I turned, she said, “I’ve never met anyone like you. You have me all twisted up.”
Jesus.
I glanced back, and my heart gave a kick. It was like we were back in the grocery store, her eyes full of nothing but me. She may have been t
wisted, but the need in her voice had me contorted in knots. “When you’re ready, I’ll untie you. We’re not in a rush.”
The intense moment lingered, agonizing seconds filled with scorching heat as we stared at each other. I was a heartbeat from pinning her back against that wall.
Instead I left. It would take a long, fast ride to subdue a fraction of my sexual frustration. But it was more than that. The urge to lock us in her apartment for a week, wine tasted and stories shared, was potent. The past two years had been nothing but time to stew while I excavated the edges of who I really was. Rachel made me laugh and challenged my wine knowledge, a gift for the time I’d endured. Like walking into Vesper had been fate.
I still had no clue what led me to the club that night, but fuck if I cared. I had Rachel now, even if she didn’t realize it yet.
As I reached my bike, my cell rang. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait long, after all. But I frowned at the screen. Alena Giannopoulos. My mother’s name had lit my phone often lately, a barrage of appeals I’d ignored. I did the same again.
Growing up, my mother would cook mountains of food for family gatherings. She’d tut over our cuts and sprains, always going out of her way to praise my accomplishments. She also worried over my father’s heavy-handed ways, but never interfered. Not even when he gave me the ultimatum to break things off with Sophia or lose the winery. Not even when he followed through, and I lost both. My mother’s meek acceptance of his authority hurt worse than his betrayal.
They could all go to hell—them and their lies tainting our family wine and my grandfather’s legacy. The only call I planned on answering was from Rachel, a woman who spoke truth and offered innocence and oozed the promise of sin. Until then, I’d live off the meager taste I’d stolen.
Ten
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 9
