by Maisey Yates
He hadn’t meant to bring his marriage up. He almost never did. Before Sierra had come into his life he had gone a long time without ever mentioning it. But for some reason the past seemed very close to the surface when she was around. Probably because of the little ways she reminded him of Denise. Though that was a disservice to Sierra. The similarities were skin deep, and he knew that. At least, he knew it now.
“Ouch. I bet. Did she get all of your earthly possessions?”
Her question, innocent, light, hit a wound that was low, and deep. One that would never heal. No matter how much time passed. He gritted his teeth, unwilling to say anything else. Because it was one thing to talk about his marriage, and another to talk about everything that had happened during the dissolution of it. It was something he wasn’t willing to do. Not with her, not with anyone.
“Something like that,” he said. Well, that had doused his arousal.
Sierra frowned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made a joke.”
He shrugged. “I made one first.”
“Sure. But it’s one thing to joke about our own pain. It’s something else entirely when someone else grabs hold of it and handles it insensitively.”
“Well, I would hate for you to handle me...insensitively,” he said, deliberately making his tone provocative. Because he would rather pull it into this uncomfortable space than back to where they had just been. Where she hit close to the bone, close to the nerve.
“Yeah,” she said, looking away. “So...the menu?”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“I have nothing but time.” She smiled, her whole face brightening. “Besides, if we discuss menu stuff tonight, then that means we can sample some of the items.”
“I should have known the possibility of wine tasting might excite you.”
“I was born with a refined palate,” she said. “Part of my pedigree.”
“It just so happens that I have some bottles back in my office that I’ve been meaning to sample. To see what I want to put in the brewery.”
“What about your beer?”
“I have some of that if you’re interested.”
She spread her hands wide. “I’m interested in it all. I’m getting paid to drink.”
“Are you finagling yourself into an overtime shift?”
She lifted her shoulder. “I have been known to finagle.”
“If I’d been aware that you were a known finagler I might not have hired you.”
She tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Sorry, did I not put that on my résumé?”
“You didn’t give me a résumé.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Really? That’s so unprofessional of me.”
“I have a feeling we’re about to get drunk at work. So let’s save conversations of professionalism for later.”
He walked back into his office and grabbed hold of the bottles of wine that had been sent over by the local vineyards. Sierra was right, a lot of businesses had been very supportive when they had found out about his new venture. And of course, the different vineyards wanted their wines on the list. In reality, he didn’t see why he couldn’t showcase some from each, but he needed to find a way to make a selection that was manageable and economical.
When he came back into the dining room, it was completely empty, the rest of the employees gone, the lights low. Sierra was standing there, her hands behind her back. The corners of her lips were turned up into an impish smile, her eyes glittering in the dim light. She looked like she had been caught doing something naughty. Or perhaps he was just projecting.
Either way, he was in trouble.
He was being an idiot. He had made the mandate about not meeting at his place anymore to keep them out of potentially sexual situations. And here they were. Alone in the empty bar, about ready to start drinking.
And he wasn’t going to turn back. Not now. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe he would keep his distance.
Adrenaline twisted his stomach tight, his heart pounding heavily. He knew this kind of excitement. It was the way that he’d felt before he’d gone out into the arena back when he’d been in the rodeo. There was nothing else like it. That sense of inevitability about what was going to come. Knowing that he was throwing himself headlong into a dangerous, unstable situation, and knowing just as strongly that he wasn’t going to turn back.
Whether he would triumph or fall flat on his ass, he didn’t know. But the gate was about to open either way.
“I have red, white and some other stuff I know nothing about.”
Sierra wandered over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools, draping her arm over the counter, her foot propped up on one of the slats beneath the stool. “What pairs best with exhaustion and identity crisis?”
“Anything. As long as you have enough.” He walked behind the bar, taking a position across from her as though she were a customer and this were normal in any way.
“You look like you have enough.”
“You’re actually going to have to take it easy. Because we have wine, and I wanted to try some of the beer. Also, we’re going to sample some whiskey.”
She laughed. “Is this work or a frat party?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“I have a lot more experience with frat parties than I do with jobs.” She smiled, the expression wry. “I suppose I can see why you, and Colton, and Madison think that I’m crazy.”
“I never said you were crazy,” he said, setting a glass down in front of her. “I said I didn’t think you could do it.”
“Fine. Colton and Madison think I’m crazy.”
“That’s what siblings are for. To keep your self-esteem in check.” He poured a healthy measure of wine into her glass. “And, I can tell you from experience that older siblings worry about everything their younger siblings do. My sister is the secretary at my dad’s church. I don’t think she’s ever set one foot out of line, and I spent about eight years living away from Copper Ridge. Away from her. Still, I worry. I think sometimes worry sounds an awful lot like being an ass.”
She let out a heavy sigh and lifted the glass to her lips. “Well, it definitely manifested itself that way with Colton.”
He poured himself some wine and took a taste just as she did. He grimaced. “So, this isn’t really my thing. What do you think?”
“I’m not going to talk about it being full-bodied or complex or anything. I think it would be a good all-purpose choice for red meat.”
“Well, there will be red meat. I’m firmly pro-steak.”
“A fact I can attest to since my work clothes smell permanently of hamburger.” She took another sip of the wine. “Yes, it is very good. Make a note of this one.”
“Ready for the next one?”
“Don’t we need something for a palate cleanser?”
He chuckled. “Sure, let me get you a Wet-Nap. You can rub it across your tongue.”
“That is disgusting. Just give me more wine.”
He reached beneath the bar and pulled out another glass, this time pouring a measure of white wine into it. Some for her, some for him. “This is supposed to be a dessert wine. What the hell does that mean? Do you have it for dessert, or are you having it with dessert?”
“Well, both. It’s with dessert, part of dessert.”
“I prefer milk with my dessert.”
She snorted into the glass, splashing some wine over the side. “Okay, I didn’t expect that.”
“You drink milk with chocolate, Sierra. It’s a fundamental fact of life. Cake is better with milk. Anyone who says otherwise is just pretentious.”
“Or doesn’t want to drink a giant glass of udder juice.”
“Now who’s being disgusting? I thought you were a lady.”
�
��News flash, sometimes ladies are disgusting. But usually daintily so.” She flashed him a broad smile and batted her lashes. Then she took a sip of the wine, sliding her tongue over her lips, the action sending a slug of heat down to his stomach and beyond.
“What do you think?”
“Sweet. A lot of apricot.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not to my taste.”
“Well, we have another dessert wine here,” he said, “from Grassroots Winery.” He got out new glasses and poured the new wine in. “It’s a rosé.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Clearly it means it’s pink.”
“Yes. It will match the lace curtains.”
He lifted the glass to his lips. “I might agree to lace curtains, but they will not be pink.” He took a sip of the wine. “Okay, I like the pink one.”
Sierra took a taste, too. “Yes, indeed. Very good. Mark this one down for your list.”
They kept on going like that, through the wine, and then the beer. It didn’t take long for a pleasant haze to build up around his vision. He felt a little more relaxed. A lot more relaxed. It made him wonder why he had been so uptight around Sierra up until this moment.
Sobriety.
Right.
Whatever. Sobriety was obnoxious. It made him think. It made him worry. He couldn’t muster up enough memories about his past to bring worry into the present. That was why he was so uptight around Sierra. Because of everything that had happened in the past. Because of one rich rodeo queen who had taken his heart and used it as a chew toy. Even that didn’t hurt as much right now.
“Whiskey,” Sierra said, the word more a command than a request.
“Are you sure we should keep tasting?”
“We’re past the point of driving home anyway,” she said, staring down into the bottom of her empty glass. “Which I perhaps should have thought of before I agreed to a 3:00 a.m. adult beverage tasting.”
He swore. He hadn’t been thinking, either. Well, he had been, but he had been thinking with the brain below his belt. With the aid of alcohol he could be honest with himself. He had known that he was putting them in a compromising position, he had known that their resistance would be down. And he had decided to go ahead with all this anyway.
“We might as well keep going, then,” he decided, adding to the line of glasses already on the bar. “Okay, this is really expensive. But you know I want to have the option.”
“Sure. Fanciness options.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Super important.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Probably,” she said, smiling at him, this one a little lazier than the last. “You kind of like it, admit it. You push me on purpose, and I push you back. Everything feels a little bit electric. It kind of builds. Like foreplay.”
The words shot to his gut, burning hotter than a shot of whiskey ever could. “You think it’s like that?”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I think it’s possibly what we’ve been doing this whole time.” Her whole face turned red. “Sorry, that was the wine. It makes me honest. Which is too bad, because I prefer games.”
His teeth were locked together so tightly he was afraid he might shatter them. But then, if you could die from sexual frustration he had much bigger problems than cracked teeth. He was so hard he thought he was going to bust through his jeans.
He poured the whiskey, knowing it was a bad idea. He did it anyway. Because that was the theme of the night. “You like games?”
“Sure,” she said, “because they don’t feel real. They don’t feel hard. Anyway, I much prefer presenting an idea of who I am as opposed to showing people who I really am. Which has actually been the hardest part about working for you. I actually have to try. To do that I have to care, and I have to show that I care. I don’t like that. But when you have the whole town watching you...”
“Yeah, I know something about that.”
“Do you?”
“My dad is a pastor. It’s a small town. People at the church... They expect a certain thing for me. Hell, people outside of the church expect a certain thing for me. They know who I am. Who I was. And I’m either some kind of cautionary tale that they whisper about behind their hands, and confirmation that there’s no point to what my father does, because even I couldn’t continue to follow his teaching. Or I’m a disappointment.”
She frowned, tilting her head to the side, the expression on her face shifting to one of deep pity. Like she was looking at a scraggly, orphaned puppy or something. “Does your dad think you’re a disappointment?”
Ace shook his head slowly. “He doesn’t seem to. I don’t think he can really support me. But he’s less judgmental than some of the people around town, that’s for sure.”
“I think you’ve done some pretty amazing things. I mean, making this place such a huge success. It used to be that only old fishermen came here. Now almost everyone does.”
“How do you know this was where all the old fishermen used to drink? As you pointed out, you were a kid when I bought the place.”
“I don’t know. It’s something my dad used to say when we’d drive by when I was a kid.”
He laughed. “Sounds about right. And thank you for not judging me,” he added with mock sincerity.
“You judged me,” she said, sounding slightly petulant now. Which should not be cute at all, but it was.
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m mostly over it now.”
She looked down, dragging her fingertip over the top of the bar. It was like she’d struck a match on his cock. When she looked back up, there was no pity on her face. “I think you have to act like you don’t like me because if you started being nice you might do something crazy. It’s the same reason we argue.”
“The foreplay again?” he asked, his chest tight, a ball of fire lodged there, keeping him from breathing.
“Yeah, exactly. Except we’re not using it to build up to anything. We’re trying to keep it from exploding. I think we both know that if we stop talking for two seconds we’ll be screwing instead.”
The crude word on her delicate lips lingered in the air, scorched across his skin. He pushed the whiskey to the side, pressing his hands flat on the bar top. “You think so?”
She took a small sip of the whiskey, then set the glass down, curling her fingers around the glass. She looked up at him and slid the edge of her tongue across her lips, taking in every last drop of alcohol left there. “I do,” she said, the words hushed. “Granted, I don’t have a lot of experience with the F word.”
Lightning streaked down his spine. “You don’t?”
“I’m not a virgin or anything. It’s just that, you know college guys. They act like a quarterback running for a touchdown. Funny thing about that, only one person is left standing in the end zone doing a stupid dance.”
“Is that code?”
“I’ve never had an orgasm with a guy. Not that I’ve slept with that many. Two. But.” Her whole face turned as pink as the wine they’d had earlier. “I mean, I like sex. It’s nice. I like men’s bodies. And...like, not being alone. I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s just that I’m still talking to keep from...”
He didn’t let her finish the sentence. He leaned across the bar, extending his hand, wrapping it firmly around the back of her neck and cupping her head, and drawing her forward. Then he pressed his lips to hers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THANK GOD.
That was the closest to a prayer he’d gotten in a long time. And he supposed there was an element of sacrilege to it. But it was all he could think as those soft lips finally touched his. He growled, parting her lips effortlessly with the tip of his tongue, allowing himself access to everything he’d denied himself for the pas
t week. Everything he had poorly denied himself. Holding out for a week wasn’t a lot to be proud of.
But he didn’t want to be proud. He wanted to come.
With her. That was essential. Because no matter how many times he had thought he should over the past week, he had not found another woman. He didn’t want another woman.
He tightened his hold on her, curling his fingers around her hair. She whimpered, opening her mouth wider to him. And he tasted her deeply. Satisfying a mystery that felt like it was older than time. She tasted like burgeoning spring, and wine. New, a little bit fancier than what he was usually allowed.
The bar stood between them like a chastity belt that the buzz of the alcohol was working very hard to unlock. He planted his foot on the bottom shelf, keeping his hand firmly fixed on the back of her head as he took a step up, before putting his knee down on the top of the bar, drawing his other leg up along with him. Only then did he release his hold on her head, taking both hands and grabbing hold of her waist, lifting her up onto the bar with him, drawing her onto his lap.
She whimpered, pressing her hands to his chest, curling her fingers around the fabric of his T-shirt. “We should probably talk about this,” he said, pressing a kiss to her neck as he slid his hands down her waist, grabbing hold of the hem of her T-shirt. “But I don’t want to talk.” He wrenched the top over her head, tossing it on to the floor.
“No,” she said, her voice breathless, “there has been way too much talking.”
“And the minute we stop, look what happens.”
“Sorry,” she said, sliding her hands down his chest, then beneath the edge of his shirt. “Not sorry.”
“How drunk are you?” he asked, reaching down and grabbing hold of her wrist, keeping her wandering hands still.
“Pleasantly buzzed. Not really all that drunk.”
“Then why haven’t we done this before?” His own voice sounded thick and intoxicated. Everything seemed hazy around the edges, with only Sierra in focus.
He didn’t mind. Not a damn bit.
He lifted his head, watching as she chewed on her lip, her eyes darting back and forth. “Because we’re stupid when we’re sober?” she suggested.
