Waiting, my ass. But he copied me. He hit the Start button, lifting his feet like last time, and I bit back my grin. The crotchety man was too cute.
Exaggerated in my movements, I pressed the upward arrow, increasing my speed. 911 grumbled under his breath, but followed suit. Next I raised the incline a notch. His treadmill mirrored mine. I picked up speed. As did he. A few minutes later, I brought the platform level with the ground, and he copied my move. Since he hadn’t offered his name last time, I tried again. “I’m Rachel, in case you didn’t remember.”
“I am not senile.”
His tone was stiff and formal, the tiniest accent under his tongue. That didn’t stop me. “Do you have a name? In my mind, I keep calling you 911. So if you have a name that isn’t 911, I’d love to hear it.”
He pressed the arrow key (on his own!), but didn’t acknowledge me. A minute later, he said, “George.”
Houston, we have progress. “Well, George, it’s nice to have someone to chat with while working out. Helps pass the time.”
He stomped along, his Frankenstein impression spot on. “You are too skinny. Women these days are always too skinny. You shouldn’t exercise so much.”
My cackle escaped, the birdlike squawk ricocheting off the walls, and I clamped my jaw shut. It was my nervous laugh, the kind that hid the emotion clawing at my throat. My mother had often said I was too skinny. Then my father would jump in and tell me Marilyn Monroe’s curves may have driven a generation of men wild, but Twiggy had decorated every high school locker in the sixties. He’d said I was exactly as I was meant to be. He had been a one man pep rally.
And I missed him.
I swung my arms faster, needing to keep George talking, moving. Pumping his heart. Keep mine from shriveling. “I exercise to keep healthy, not lose weight. Looks to me like you could stand to slim down.” I looked pointedly at his belly, the solid bulge stretching his white T-shirt and keeping his sweatpants from circling his waist.
He tried to stop marching, but the platform didn’t slow, sending him jogging to catch his stride. He slowed and shot me a look. “My wife is an excellent cook.”
“Must be nice. Do you have kids? Grandkids?”
His breathing seemed labored, that quick run pumping his lungs too hard. I slowed my treadmill, hoping he’d do the same. He did and took a few cleansing breaths. “I have one son,” he said.
He didn’t elaborate, but talking kept him exercising. The next best option was to blabber about myself. “I have a brother. And a dog. Our family’s dog, actually. Stanley. She’s part schnauzer, part poodle, and all adorable.”
His mustache twitched. “She?”
“She has a beard, white fur on her muzzle. Stanley suits her.”
He grunted.
My mother had bought me our schnoodle when my father died, hoping the furry friend would lift my twenty-two-year-old heart. When I’d moved out, I made her keep him. Because I don’t have room, I’d told her. Because she needs the company, I’d thought.
Mom pretended it was a burden.
I loved Stanley, though, and didn’t trust people who wrinkled their noses at dogs. I’d bet Jimmy loved animals, too. He probably sponsored the Humane Society and fostered iguanas, had a farm for injured llamas. Before today, while fighting our connection, I would have told myself he hated cats and dogs and spent his free time kicking puppies. I'd have invented stories, pathetic attempts to reverse my growing affection for him. Anything to forget the way he’d cupped my cheek one night, looked into my eyes, and said he’d dream about me.
I had to find the strength to mute my father’s last words and trust my own judgment. Stop revolving my life around my mother’s preferences, worried she’d cut me off again for dating the wrong guy.
I snuck a glance at George. What was left of his gray hair had frizzed up, giving him that old-and-wise look. “So…George,” I ventured tentatively, “if your son dated a girl you didn’t like, like really didn’t like, but he seemed happy, would you be upset?”
As he was about to answer, he stubbed a toe and tripped over his feet. I jumped off my treadmill and slammed my palm onto his Stop button. 911 wouldn’t eat dirt on my watch. He gripped the handrails until his erratic breaths evened out. His eyes were glassy, though, the exertion too much.
“Maybe you should walk slowly awhile.”
He nodded, his hand still over his heart. He pressed Start on his own and resumed a leisurely gait. I returned to my treadmill, walking beside him, ensuring he was okay.
I assumed my question had been forgotten, but a moment later, he said, “Children are impulsive. They do not think ahead. As parents, we must be firm. If my boy dated the wrong girl, they would not be welcome in my home.”
It was my turn to stumble over my feet, his harshness tripping me up. My hackles rose, along with my indignation. “That’s ridiculous.”
He tutted me. “Lust can be confused for love.” Then, although I’d asked a theoretical question, George added, “This man in your life may not be what he seems.”
Our conversation had veered from hypothetical into oh hell no territory. “The guy, for your information, is one of the most caring, thoughtful people I’ve met. He’s smart and funny, and I’d be lucky to have him, even if my mother disagrees.” My vehemence surprised me, and part of me wanted to slap George for being so old-fashioned and stubborn, but I’d asked his opinion.
He grimaced, probably unsure why I was gifting him with too much information, but a drum pounded in my chest, the tune confirming my decision. My reaction to George’s overprotective, and frankly dictatorial, comment had been nothing but pure emotion. The heart of my heart. And my heart wanted Jimmy.
On the outside, Jimmy may have read tabloid, scandalous and tempting, provocative but lacking substance. Inside he was all romance novel, thick with sweet words and sweeter kisses, tortured hero and all. He irritated me, but in that adorable I want to jump your bones way, and my need to defend his honor to this crotchety old man surprised me in its ferocity. Jimmy and I laughed together, and our chemistry was off the charts. My smile grew, my list of things I loved about Jimmy growing with it, topped off with the most important point: he’d always been honest with me.
My father’s final voice message still looped in my mind, but Jimmy wasn’t Gabe. He may not have been the man I’d imagined for my future, and my mother might stroke out at the sight of him, but pretending I could keep away was a full-time job. Another career I was thinking of quitting. Our Napa Valley trip was in two days. That gave me forty-eight hours to buy something cute (that didn’t belong in an ensemble), and figure out the best way to tell Bad Boy I was ready to claim him.
Fifteen
Jimmy
Gravel kicked under my tires and wind blasted my face as I leaned my bike into a turn. The speed and freedom when riding always helped me zone out. I’d forget the onslaught of messages from my mother, the winery I no longer called mine. I’d lose the chip on my shoulder and be one with my Harley. Adding Rachel to the equation took the experience to another level.
Instead of seeking oblivion, her presence anchored me. Her thighs bracketed mine, her hands pressed to my abs. My senses flared in response. I could practically taste the birth of new grapes seeking the sun, almost feel the rows of vines beneath my hand, rough leaves dragging along my fingers.
Most of all, I felt Rachel—each shift of her hips and squeeze of her arms. Her heat seeping through my leather jacket. I could have driven until the world dropped from our feet.
Except Rachel yelled, “Stop.”
We’d just turned down a dirt path, and I braked fast, the two of us jolting forward. “You okay?” I called over the motor.
“I want to drive.”
I killed the engine and leaned my bike on its stand, but neither of us moved. The simmering motor gave way to the buzzing hum of nature, a tune I hadn’t heard in ages. I liked living in the city. Great food. Cool hangouts. The hustle and bustle always offered something new. But
I was still a country boy at heart and returning here was bittersweet. It brought bad memories with the good, but with Rachel around, I had less room for the hate.
She pressed her head to my back, and I closed my eyes as more warmth spread through my limbs, filling me up. Crowding out the things that normally wound me up. I didn’t question why I’d fallen for her so fast, didn’t care to understand the how or when of it. I was a thirsty man desperate for a drink, and she was a woman parched for danger.
I threaded our fingers and kissed the back of her hand. “You sure you can handle all this power between your legs?”
The little minx extricated her hand and dragged it down my chest and abs. She slowed over my dick, gave it a squeeze, then splayed her fingers over the motorcycle seat. She slapped the leather. “I think I’ll manage.”
I groaned.
When the heat fisting my balls ebbed, I kicked my leg over the seat and stood. “You ever driven a bike before?”
She shook her head. “Only been on the back. But I’ve always wanted to.”
She was exploring her deeper urges, sampling which itches needed to be scratched, and she trusted me to help her. “Rules are as follows: you go in a straight line. No fancy spins or turns. Just a smooth ride forward. Sound good?”
She bounced on the seat. “Perfect.”
Keeping the kickstand down, I pointed out the foot pegs, shifter, clutch, throttle, and brakes. Her attention was rapt. If I had to guess, I’d say her pulse was buzzing louder than a jet plane. Mine had on my first ride. When getting my first piercing, too. That first tattoo. Each experience had been thrilling, and I was gifting this to her.
She shifted her weight, settling on the seat and gripping the handlebars. “I think I’m ready.”
I raised the kickstand, making sure she was steady before letting go. “Keep your fingers on the clutch,” I reminded her. “Release it slowly, get the bike rolling, then apply the throttle.”
Her helmet bobbed as she nodded. “Got it.”
She turned on the engine, my beast of chrome and metal humming below her. Sexy as hell. Then she released the clutch. She squealed as she rolled forward, but promptly jolted to a stop. She teetered before finding balance. “Did I break it?”
Just my heart, I almost said, unsure why my head had gone there. A place it had been visiting more often these days. Each time she’d snubbed a date request, it stung a little more. Her fear may have shone through each rebuke, but every minute with her had me sinking deeper. Eventually, getting out would be a bitch.
“Everyone stalls out when they start,” I said. “You released the clutch too fast. Slow and steady wins the race.” Exactly how I’d been pursuing her, but my heart was bound to stall, too. Everything with her was moves and counter moves. Admissions of feelings by me lowered her defenses. Give her too much time to think, and her walls shot back up. The picnic was my grand master plan, one I hoped pushed us from fuck buddies to fuck couple.
She set her jaw and tightened her grip. “Let’s try again.”
“Slow,” I repeated. “Wait for the sweet spot, then the throttle.”
She was in the zone, body taut, her posture pitched forward. The engine thundered to life. She waited a beat, long enough for me to second guess letting her drive. Motorcycles were dangerous. One wrong move, and she could end up with serious road rash, or worse. Maybe this was a bad idea.
But she was gliding along the dirt path, past the point of me stopping her. The throttle roared. The sound set up residence in my chest, vibrating through me. When the bike shot forward, I pictured her losing control, her slim body pinned under all that crushing weight. Panic pushed my legs into a run. She better not fucking fall.
She rode a perfect straight line.
Breathless, I reached her as she stopped. Her grin hit me like a blast of fireworks. “That was unreal.”
I gripped the handlebar and killed the engine. Too bad I couldn’t silence the hammer pummeling my chest. “You’re a quick study, but I’d feel better if you had some lessons before your next ride.”
Unconcerned, she thrust her arms into the air. “I am such a rebel.”
An adorable rebel. “That you are. Now scoot back. We have a picnic to enjoy.”
I parked my bike farther down the path, grabbed my backpack and blanket, and guided Rachel to a shaded area protected by tall grasses and a towering willow tree. Growing up, my brother and I had hiked these mountains and explored the creeks and rivers, branches in hand, as we waged war for our kingdom. Kings of the land. It made for quite the wonderland as kids, but I also found hideaways, secret places I’d keep to myself. Like the secluded pond ahead of us.
Rachel shrugged off her jean jacket and peeled off the leggings she’d worn for the ride, practically skipping to the water’s edge. She kneeled down and dipped her fingers in. No pretense. No worry about muddying her sandals. The yellow straps of her sundress were nothing but strings, the loose fabric shifting over her tanned skin. Add the freckles and long hair, and she was the picture of summer.
I shook out the blanket and spread it on the grass. “Nice to see you in something other than black, gray, or white,” I said.
She grasped a handful of water and flicked it at me, missing by a mile. “Is that your version of a compliment?”
“No. It was an observation. If I wanted to pay you a compliment, I’d tell you you’re the most genuine woman I’ve ever known. I also might add that your beauty makes it hard to breathe.”
Her hand stilled in the water, the warm air shifting between us. “That was an improvement.”
“Did you want me to go on?”
She bit her lip and nodded. I could have continued for hours. Mentioned how her laugh filled my empty apartment, how her freckled curves brought me to my knees, how she was kind, and her impressive wine knowledge made me feel like she shared a connection to my happiest childhood memories. Instead I walked over and crouched in front of her, the birds, the frogs, the crickets all singing her praises. “You, Ray, make me feel alive for the first time in ages.”
A small squeak escaped her lips, her brown eyes a mirror of the sparkling pond.
Damn if it wasn’t true. She also made me want to be better. Admitting I was a Master Sommelier and wasn’t using my skills had coated my gut in inadequacy. I may have chosen my clothing and tattoos and piercings, but I could do a hell of a lot better than working at Rudy’s Tavern. For myself, sure. If someone like Rachel were in my life, I’d do it for her, too. Be proud of my work. Proud to be her man.
Before everything went to shit, I’d toyed with the idea of organizing larger events for the area, shining lights on smaller wineries eking by. I could still do it.
After I forced the winery carrying my name to right its wrongs.
I brushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, stealing a slow kiss. Just a taste. An amuse-bouche before the main course. “Now get your ass over to the blanket, so I can lay my bounty at your feet.”
“Bossy, aren’t you?”
“You love it.”
She didn’t admit it, but she didn’t disagree. A hint of progress.
She sat on her hip, tucking her legs and purse to the side. I spread out our feast: Manchego cheese, Castelvetrano olives, duck pâté, prosciutto, dark chocolate, sliced apples, and quince paste, all on a small wooden board. I’d wrapped two wineglasses in T-shirts, and Rachel unrolled them as I lifted a surprise from my bag. Nestled in a cooler sleeve was the 2010 Marcassin Chardonnay—perfection in a bottle.
When Rachel saw the label, she lowered the glasses and yanked it from my grasp, reading it as though it were a bible. “Would it be wrong to press this to my breasts?”
This woman was too much. “Don’t let me stop you.”
She actually smothered it between her tits, ecstasy on her face. Sometimes a guy just wished he were a bottle.
“I don’t want to open it.” She held it at a distance, her expression still dreamy. “Can I take it home and spend some
time with it? Maybe open it in a week or two?”
“It’s wine, Ray, not a date. You don’t need to buy it dinner before popping its cork. Wine is meant to be enjoyed.”
“But”—she glanced at me, then down at her dress—“I should have worn something celebration worthy. This wine deserves black tie.”
I had on my motorcycle boots, ripped jeans, and a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt. Most people opening a Marcassin would be in slacks or a tux, piano playing in the background, a five-star meal about to be served. But this? The rustle of the willow branches, Rachel’s sundress, the glow of her freckled cheeks—it put that snobbish shit to shame. Instead of replying, I leaned back and yanked off my boots, tossing them and my socks to the side. Rachel smiled and kicked off her sandals.
I stood and helped her up, then led us to the grass. “Feel that?”
She wiggled her toes. “What?”
I flexed my feet, letting the blades wedge between my toes, cool and fresh. “Life. Everything out here is alive. Not just the birds and insects. The grass, too. How often do you let yourself slow down and feel it on your skin? Remember what it was like to play as a kid, stains on your pants, mud under your fingernails. We didn’t care, back then. Having fun was more important than wearing the right thing or driving the right car. As far as I’m concerned, being out here is a celebration.”
She stepped closer, until her toes covered mine. “Then let’s celebrate.”
I cupped her cheeks, feeling the grass below me, the blue sky above, Rachel in my hands. “Sounds like a plan.”
I didn’t kiss her. One more touch and I’d be hiking up her dress and pressing her back into a tree. I slapped her ass instead. She jumped, rubbing her bottom with a playful scowl. We sat back down, and I picked up the Chardonnay, only to realize I’d forgotten the most important thing. “Shit.”
Rachel froze. “What?”
“No corkscrew.”
She smirked. “Well, Master Sommelier, it’s a good thing you brought me along.” Shifting on her hip, she tipped over her purse, spilling its contents onto the blanket.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 14
