Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  “‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’” I tease. The sound system was something he insisted I needed. While the old service piped in country music set on my iPad propped against a speaker in my office, the new system is remote, direct from a computer, and music can be changed with the touch of a finger.

  “It’s going to be all rainbows from now on,” he retorts. Garrett lowers the volume but doesn’t change the tune. He clutches me to him, startling me until his hand coasts up my arm. He grips my hand, and then he leads me up the narrow floor space between the booths and the tables. I giggle until he rubs his nose along my neck as we pause a beat. I fall into step, letting him lead as the music fills the room, cascading over us.

  I’m not wearing heels, and he’s not in dress pants, but his jeans and my chunky boots don’t prohibit us from covering the floor as best we can until he dips me. He’s lowered me to a table, pressing his body over mine. Our mouths find one another and begin a tango of their own with lips, tongues, and teeth.

  “We need to christen this place,” he mutters into my skin as his mouth travels down to my neck.

  “Here? Now?” My voice cracks as I melt under the attention of his kisses. Each time he kisses me, it takes my breath away. Maybe it’s because I love him, and I know he loves me in return.

  He pops his head up, looking toward the locked front door and the lowered blinds. “Right here,” he says, looking down at me. “There’s no better time than the present.”

  “I think you mean, there’s no place like home,” I mutter as his fingers work the button of my jeans.

  “That too.” He chuckles. “You’re my home, and there’s nowhere better than in you.”

  “Now, you’re just being cheesy,” I tease, but I choke as he yanks my jeans to my ankles.

  “You know I prefer incredible, insatiable, and unbelievable.” He lowers his mouth between my thighs before I can respond, wasting no time to christen this room or prove to me he means what he speaks.

  “The way I see it,” he says after a long lap at my suddenly pulsing core, “I have eight booths and a few tables to service you on before I spread you out on that long counter.” He nods his head, suggesting the single-seat counter.

  “Oh, my,” I whimper, but tremble with the anticipation of him taking me on every surface in this diner, claiming me as I claim him.

  “All mine,” he mutters, changing my words and returning to my center.

  I’m a rag doll by the time he finally takes me on the expansive counter missionary style. He’s already licked me, fingered me, and taken me from behind, wringing out three orgasms before slowing the pace to make love to me on the narrow surface. I can’t give him any more of me, other than to let him fill me when he finally releases. Breathless, he lowers to me, covering me like a blanket, and we lie like this for a minute.

  He chuckles softly into my neck. “We’ll need to bleach the place.”

  “That’s the first thing you think of?” I mock, teasing him as he props up on an elbow over me. His smile takes my breath away because I know it’s all for me, and I’m so…happy.

  “No, I was actually thinking of the first day I met you when Wally ran into you. You were all disheveled with sand in your hair, and—”

  “A hot mess,” I interject, not wishing to think of myself from months ago. I think of how much I’ve changed, and I owe so much of it to him. Dorothy freshened up in the Emerald City.

  “I was going to say I knew you were different.”

  I do not like the sound of this, especially with him still connected to me. I shift, but he tenderly clutches my jaw, forcing me to focus on him.

  “I didn’t see it right away, and I’d find myself staring at you as if I knew there was something about you.” He brushes back my hair, looking into my eyes in that way he does as though he wants to see inside me. I meet his stare, knowing I look at him the same way. “But I see it now. Your smarts.” He taps my head. “And your heart.” He pokes my chest. “And your courage.”

  The traits of the three friends in The Wizard of Oz.

  “I was lost,” I tell him, lowering my voice and rubbing a hand down his bare chest.

  “You just needed some time off, sweetheart. A trip over the rainbow.” I chuckle at the reference.

  “California is something,” I say, recalling the times we had there. It seems like another lifetime to me even though it’s only been three weeks.

  “You’re home to me, Dolores, and I’ll tell you again there’s no place I’d rather be.”

  “I’m happy you’re here with me,” I tell him because it’s true. He’ll be returning to California shortly after I open to settle some business and set up a new routine of days there and weekends here. We formalized the contracts with Charlie as our mediator. Garrett gets use of the land while Magnolia still owns it. Garrett and I will live at Magnolia’s. He has a soft spot for her, and if I know him, he’s going to eventually wipe away the debt we owe him. I’ll cross that bridge once we get there, though.

  Home is where the heart is, the old saying goes, and my heart is with Garrett. He’s all I need. And for now, I’ll stick to my own backyard as long as Garrett lives in it with me. I’m excited about our future, and for once, I feel truly happy.

  + + +

  Want to know how Garrett proposes?

  Read more in the bonus material: Over the Rainbow Proposal.

  + + +

  Did you enjoy this story? Please consider writing a review on major sales channels where ebooks/books are sold. If you liked this book, you might also like some of my other work which includes:

  More by L.B. Dunbar

  Sexy Silver Foxes/Former Rock Stars

  When sexy silver foxes meet the women of their dreams.

  After Care

  Midlife Crisis

  Restored Dreams

  Second Chance

  Wine&Dine

  Collision novellas

  A spin-off from After Care – the younger set/rock stars

  Collide

  Rom-com for the over 40

  The Sex Education of M.E.

  The Sensations Collection

  Small town, sweet and sexy stories of family and love.

  Sound Advice

  Taste Test

  Fragrance Free

  Touch Screen

  Sight Words

  Spin-off Standalone

  The History in Us

  The Legendary Rock Star Series

  Rock star mayhem in the tradition of King Arthur.

  A classic tale with a modern twist of romance and suspense

  The Legend of Arturo King

  The Story of Lansing Lotte

  The Quest of Perkins Vale

  The Truth of Tristan Lyons

  The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance

  Paradise Duet

  MMA chaos of biblical proportion between two brothers and

  the fight for love.

  Abel

  Cain

  The Island Duet

  The island knows what you’ve done.

  Redemption Island

  Return to the Island

  Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore

  Modern myths of Greek gods.

  Hades

  Solis

  Heph

  * * *

  Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar

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  Book + Main

  Website

  Nibble of what’s next…

  Silver Brewer

  1

  Letty

  Where the hell am I?

  I’m losing GPS on my phone and I’m sensing I’ve passed the same copse of trees three times.

  Who can tell?

  I’m surrounded by birches, maples, and hemlocks, and those are the trees I recognize. Everything is a sea of thick
bark and greenery, but soon this forest will be ablaze with golds, reds, and oranges. The changing season is the reason for my rush. I need to secure the property before winter, so ground can be broken first thing next spring.

  I work for McMullen Realty, and I’ve climbed my way up from assistant office manager to assistant seller to commercial real estate agent. Not exactly my career choice, but it’s been a steady income. After years of not knowing what to do with myself and my college degree in English, I settled on property. It’s the family business. When I didn’t have a job by twenty-four, my mom made me work for my uncle, a real estate mogul in Chicago. I’m now forty. Uncle Frank prides himself on buying and selling, and what he wants is to buy this godforsaken property in Georgia and sell it to a hotel company who wants the space for their next lodge-like resort and spa.

  As the only vehicle in sight while I wind through curving roads, I’m waiting any second for Jason to jump out with his creepy hockey mask and start chain sawing me. I might have mixed a few horror movies together but that’s the scene in my head as I weave along the narrow drive. I’m no longer certain I’m even in the correct county. The right state, anymore. I need Blue Ridge, Georgia, but all I’ve seen for miles is tree trunks and foliage, and occasionally, the subtle marking for a turn off.

  From the office, Marcus tries to assure me I’m in the correct place.

  “There’s only two tire tracks leading to nowhere,” I say into the phone, struggling to drive the rented Jetta over the rough terrain.

  “That’s it. You’re in the right place. Don’t mess this up.” His gruff voice barks through the speaker.

  I hit a bump and the phone jostles out of the cup holder to the floor.

  Damn it.

  I can’t risk reaching for it and I’m too afraid to stop until I see the place I’m destined to find.

  Harrington Cabin.

  I’m not certain what I’m expecting. I’ve been told it’s rustic, but I don’t know if that means quaint or just plain rough. Either way, McMullen Real Estate wants the property.

  “I think I’m almost there,” I shout, as the phone lays on the passenger side floor, face down. I can’t hear Marcus’ reply. He’s not only my assistant, but one of my best friend’s, and he knows this acquisition is important to me. I’d prove myself as a skilled real-estate buyer if I can brook this deal. I’d also seal my position in the company and earn myself a cut of the business.

  Partner.

  The word echoes through my head. The sound has a nice ring to it.

  Olivet Pierson. Partner.

  As the dirt road narrows, I see light at the end of the tunnel of trees. A clearing of sorts stands before me and I slow even more than the five-miles per hour I’ve been driving. As I break through the lane, before me stands a vision of masculinity. With his shirt off, the bare back of a muscular being slings an ax over his shoulder, splitting wood standing upright on another log. The thwack isn’t heard inside the car but the thunderous power in which he cracks the wood seems to vibrate under my car and into my foot. I’m frozen at the appearance of rippling back, sweating spine, and low-slung pants exposing a sliver of waistband suggesting he wears boxer briefs—in red. The hair on top of his head is short, trimmed close on the sides and a tad longer on top while a bush of facial hair covers his jaw. My eyes focus on the side of his profile as he stands and straightens, and then quickly turns to see my car. Deep, dark eyes, narrowed and angered, zero in on me. He drops the ax and raises his hands, his mouth opening but I don’t hear what he says.

  I’m blinded by the gleam of sunlight bouncing off his firm chest, a sprinkle of hair in the shape of a V between the flat plains of his pecs and above the slow ripple of abs. More hair leads south, dipping into the red band exposed above his waistline and my mouth waters until two large hands hit the hood of my rental car, and I notice his mouth move as he shouts at me.

  “Stop.”

  Oh. My. God.

  My foot slams on the brake, causing me to jolt forward, narrowly missing the bridge of my nose on the steering wheel. I stare out the front windshield, taking in the appearance of the man I almost hit. He’s a mountain of a man, someone I envision people wrote tales about long ago. He’s lumbersexual by modern standards and then I note his hair again. Cropped and charcoal. It isn’t black but more like the smoky color before the coals are ready. A perfect blend of dusty silver over head and jaw. He’s a silver fox but from the size of him, he looks more like an angry grizzly.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mutter as I scramble to remove myself from my car. My ankles twist as the heels I wear don’t balance on the uneven dirt beneath my feet. I clutch the open driver door for support, expecting to fall and knock my chin. How many stitches would I need? Is there even a doctor out here? A hospital nearby? Oh God, I might bleed to death.

  Then I take note of the puzzled man before me, still leaning against my hood.

  Staring at him, I’d certainly die a happy woman.

  However, the vibration coming off him is anything but pleased. His chest heaves as his eyes nearly disappear while he squints at me.

  “Who are you?” He emphasizes each word as he speaks in voice rough like the bark on a tree. I certainly can’t use the statement: I was in the neighborhood, because I doubt there’s another human being within miles.

  Oh Lord. If I screamed would anyone hear me?

  “I’m Olivet Pierson, and I’m looking for George Harrington II. Is this the Harrington cabin?”

  “How did you get here?” His curiosity causes him to look up, over the back of my car, staring down the pinched lane I travelled.

  “Are you George Harrington?”

  His head swings back to me and his lips twist. Pressing off my car, he turns for a clothe on the pile of wood and wipes it over his face. Absentmindedly, he travels down his chest, or rather purposefully, as he must know I’m watching his every move, practically salivating as he takes his time to swipe across his chest and dip to the trail leading lower. He pats himself with the clothe over the zipper region of his jeans and I flinch. My eyes flick upward and his lips mockingly smirk.

  I can’t say it’s a smile. His face is too serious looking for such a thing. Crinkles mark the edges of his eyes and his cheekbones are well-defined despite the bearded jaw. He might have been teasing me, but his face gives nothing away.

  “So…” I repeat. “Are you George?”

  “You must be looking for my father,” he states, tossing what I realize is a white T-shirt back to the pile of wood. He takes up the ax and I try to catch my breath. I’m gripping the open driver door for support, peering at him as he turns his back on me and lifts the wood chopping instrument. The sound of a splintering log resonates loudly around us, echoing in the deep quiet. I take a second to look around me, no longer lost in the woods, but noticing the beauty of various shades of green. Steeples of pines and broad sweeps of maple whisper in the breeze, backdropped by a glorious blue sky. The landscape is breathtaking, and the silence reminds me this is the perfect location for a spa and resort. Secluded. Rustic. Peaceful.

  Thwack.

  Another log splits and I turn back to Mr. Lumbersexy.

  “Do you know anything about the property?” I ask, interrupting him mid-swing. He doesn’t miss the log, but it doesn’t crack. The ax bounces back and the log topples to its side. He turns on me. The move aggressive in nature, and yet, I don’t find I fear him. His mouth opens but I speak.

  “I’m told it’s owned by George Harrington II. The house on Mountain Spring Lane told me how to get here. Told me I’d find him here.” I pause as he glares at me. I stopped at the original address given to me by the office. The Lane—I’m told that’s its local nickname—is a dirt strip with three antebellum looking homes along the private gravel drive.

  When he doesn’t speak, I do. “It’s a beautiful piece of property,” I say, turning my head as if I’m noticing the land, but all I can concentrate on is the weight of his eyes on me, knowing he’s following
the twist of my neck as I gaze around me.

  “What do you want?” he snaps. The gruffness of his tone snaps my attention back to him. Maybe Grumpy is a better name for him, not Sexy Lumberjack.

  “I’m looking to discuss purchasing the land.”

  The ax slips from his hand while his other hand fists into a ball of knuckles. He’s scary, but again, I don’t fear him for some reason.

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Everything’s for sale, Mr…” He still doesn’t offer his name, but I’m sensing I’m in the right place, so he must be George Harrington.

  “Listen…” He pauses, and I offer my name.

  “Olivet Pierson. McMullen Realty,” I say, walking around my door and closing it. I reach forward for his hand, my palm already sweating with the anticipation of touching the paw of his. He’s even bigger the closer I get to him and we stand in contrast to one another. He’s bare-chested, in wood-shaving covered pants, and rustic work boots while I’m wobbling in my heels with a pencil cut skirt, blazer, and uncomfortable blouse.

  His eyes glance down at my hand, but he doesn’t reciprocate and reach for mine. Instead, he crosses his arms, swelling his barrel chest and producing two large biceps, flexed in warning.

  “Cricket,” he begins but I correct him.

  “Olivet.”

  “This place isn’t for sale, so you can just reverse out of here, hopefully not backing into an unsuspecting tree, and return from wherever you came from.” His tone is definitive. All those words add up to one: Leave. But I’m not going anywhere without the security of this property signed on a dotted line.

  “Now Mr. Harrington,” I say, lowering my hand, placing both on the hood of my car. The problem is I’m still looking up at him, so I’m not really in a position of authority, talking him down. This always looks good in the movies, but it’s clearly not working with my five-foot seven stature compared to his six-foot plus-too-many-extra-inches of height.