Page 5 of Tempted Hearts
“Alis volat propiis,” I said since he was obviously eyeing up my tattoo. Starting on my left collarbone, it headed down my shoulder with its vines spreading out in what would eventually be a full sleeve someday. “It’s Latin for?—”
“I know what it means,” he cut in.
“Now, Cole.” Delaney talked to him like a teacher might scold a middle-schooler. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” he responded.
It was hard not to look at his lips as he talked. They were full, for a guy. And his cheekbones went on for miles. It was too bad the guy was such a complete and utter asshole.
Past me might try to figure out how to crack his code and make him like me. But present me had committed to not letting other people control my mood.
“I see Pia,” I lied. “I’ll catch you guys later. Gonna go say hello.”
How someone as nice as Parker could like that guy, I had no clue. But I certainly wasn’t going to waste a perfect nice summer day worrying about him.
I had vino to drink. And a trip to finish packing for.
Andiamo, Jules. The next adventure awaits.
3
COLE
Either the sun, or too much whiskey, had gotten to me. Sitting on a corner of the deck off-limits to festival goers—this section of the inn being part of the old house and Mason and Pia’s private living space—I found myself watching Delaney’s friend.
Again.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?”
Parker had come from the kitchen, Yuengling in hand. I rose my brows, asking the silent question as he sat down beside me.
“Can’t do it. Just not a wine guy.”
“Don’t let Delaney see you with that. I distinctly remember you telling her that Parker 2.0 was going to become a wine drinker with her. And we are”—I waved my hand to the scene below—“at a wine festival.”
He grimaced. “Parker 2.0 has tried more wines this summer than are in all of Italy. Or Napa. Or wherever wine is from.”
I loved the guy, but sometimes I wondered about him.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“What? How the hell do I know? I don’t drink the stuff,” he said, taking a long swig of whatever IPA Mason was into these days.
“Wine, like beer, doesn’t come from just one place,” I explained, slowly.
“Fuck off.”
I held back a smile. And inadvertently sought her out.
“You were a bit of an asshole to her.”
I averted my gaze toward the main wine tent.
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Apparently, I’d been too late.
