Page 23 of Legs

His tongue stroked his bottom lip, leaving it wet and red and kissable. “Then I better get this last wine right.”

He’d better.

Unlike me, who’d moved back and forth between my five wines, comparing and questioning and driving myself nuts, he’d sipped each in turn, leisurely. He was as contemplative with his final Pinot. The contrast of his strong hands, the chunky ring on his middle finger, and the leather cuff as he swirled his glass was strangely sensual. Those hands would look downright brutish on my freckled skin.

He observed the alcohol clinging to the crystal, assessing the legs that dripped downward. His focus was absolute. Then he brought the rim to his nose, inhaled…

And something changed.

His brows pulled tight, a deep crease sinking between them. The sip that followed sent a symphony of expressions across his face—jaw flexing, cheeks reddening, lips flattening into a grim line. His blue-gray eyes glazed. He plunked his glass down and pushed it aside, as though it were tainted, corked. Gone was the relaxed toss of his posture. Now he was all straight spine and crossed arms. His flirty glances ceased, too.

Nothing about wine five struck me as odd. It was a local California Pinot Noir, of that I was sure, but I couldn’t peg the winery. Unsure what soured him, I didn’t intrude. Aside from a hot night I barely recalled, and some flirting, we hardly knew each other. His scowl didn’t invite questions, his sudden chill frosting my mood further.

Alonzo returned, but I barely listened as he explained the day’s results would be emailed. Bitterness pulsed off Jimmy. He wouldn’t glance my way and didn’t make a joke when the Nose sneezed. I’d gone from unable to shake him to invisible. It shouldn’t have hurt; he didn’t owe me anything. But the emotional whiplash was jarring.

The second we were dismissed, he was up and out of his chair, his boots thunking toward the stairs, not a word to me. Like the flirting had never happened. Like he hadn’t teased me all session with sensual promises, only to leave me wanting. I snatched my purse and pens and hurried after him. If nothing else, I wanted to grab his shirt and yank him around and ask what his problem was, but he was too quick. I made it outside as he straddled the motorcycle, of course, revved the engine, and tore off. Bad Boy with an attitude.

Seven

Jimmy

I’m not sure when I became such a dick. Maybe when my family ripped the ground out from under my feet. It could have been when Sophia left me. All I knew was a sweet woman, who’d been honest about her sexual desires and awkwardness, had gotten caught in the crossfire. And it wasn’t cool.

I’d clocked a lot of miles on my bike since our last session at Crush, pounded a punching bag within an inch of its life. My family’s Pinot Noir still lingered on my tongue. It tasted of nights watching my grandfather bottle wine and days helping pick grapes. It tasted of deception.

One sip had sent me for a spin.

The other thing that had my knuckles raw from rounds of pummeling a speed ball was the hurt on Rachel’s face when I blew her off. The woman who’d made me laugh, who matched my sarcasm blow for blow, didn’t deserve to be toyed with. She didn’t warrant my attitude. She was all long lines and soft skin, a little innocent and a lot of fun. All either of us wanted was another night, and I couldn’t even manage that.

But I could muster an apology.

I got to our next session early and waited, knee bouncing, fists clenching, hoping to see her. If she’d been eliminated, I’d have no way to get in touch. I’d have to live with the tightness in my chest. With a second to spare, she waltzed in, and I relaxed. She sat on the far side of the room, stoic. She didn’t spare me a glance. I deserved as much, and worse. All I could do was stare, guilt and frustration coiling.

We had to uncork Champagne, a tough feat for the uninitiated, and she struggled. If I were beside her, I’d have whispered some tricks. Angle the bottle at forty-five degrees. Rotate the bottle, not the cork. The blind tasting afterward was a sampling of Merlot, easy for me, but I watched her, apprehensive, worried she’d get cut. That I’d lose my chance to explain.

It was over too soon.

As Alonzo thanked us for coming, the man beside Rachel—his forehead as shiny as his dark hair—leaned into her side. He whispered to her and touched her elbow. He got as close as I had last week. She smiled at him, her nose crinkling in amusement.

Jealousy flashed behind my eyes. I wanted to capture that sunny smile. Bask in it. Hear her silly laugh, because it was real. As were her orgasms when I’d gone down on her. Knowing I’d been the only man to make her buck and moan with my tongue was a thrill. It made me want to pound my chest and growl, prove only I could reduce her to incoherent sounds.

The whole thing was a mess. I wanted her. For more than one night, maybe, but I’d already proven I wasn’t ready for a girl like Rachel. Where did that leave us?

Alonzo scrubbed his goatee as he addressed the room, his blue suit more mobster than restauranteur. “Like last time, emails will be sent with results, and two of you will be cut. Next session will be Cabernet Sauvignon. Since our numbers are still high, four will be eliminated.” He nodded. “Until next week.”

My gaze cut to Rachel, who went white as a sheet. The night we’d hooked up, and I uncorked the Screaming Eagle, she’d lamented her challenge with Cabs, complaining that she’d always struggled tasting the grape. She wouldn’t remember that confession, but there was no denying the worry in her pinched brow. Another four lost would take us down to twenty-two. She wasn’t sure she’d last.

Which meant my time with her could be limited.

She was up and at the stairs as I reached for my jacket, but a tap on my shoulder stopped me from following her. “Have we met before?”

I turned and searched the woman’s face. She had blond hair and narrow features, excessive makeup highlighting her blue eyes. Nothing about her was familiar. “Don’t think so.”

She studied me. “I just thought we’d met—at an event or something. I’m April. I pour wines for functions in Napa.”

The odds of her remembering me from an Offshoot Winery tasting were slim. Back then my hair was clipped short, my face clean shaven. I had no tattoos, not a thread loose on my jeans. The prospect of being recognized wasn’t pleasant. If Alonzo found out who I was, he’d plaster my name through the papers to up his publicity, and my plan would fall apart.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” I repeated. “I just moved to town. Must have a twin around.”