No one likes to show their weak side . . . and that’s exactly what happened. She already knows how I feel about weakness, and now she knows mine. Fucking migraine hit, and I folded into her like a deck of cards. I didn’t even think twice about it.
Most people don’t know about the migraines. It isn’t something that I talk about publicly, but after yesterday, there’ll be no way to evade her questions. Not that I blame her. She was scared shitless, I saw it all over her face, but she held it together and took care of me. Thank God I wasn’t out by myself somewhere. I never would have made it home. Even today, I’ve spent most of it flat on my back. Kyle checked in a few times, but when these episodes happen, nurse Michelle takes over.
The thing about being laid up and bored is that it allows for a lot of time to think and reflect. Both of which I did today.
I’ve replayed what I saw and the conversation I heard at the Feeding America event over and over in my head. I know I didn’t get it wrong, she said, “If he had known I was a critic, I would have gotten better food. How he stays in business, I will never know.”
How bad could the food have possibly been?
But then I hear her talking about how she loves to find new places and looks for the magic in each one, and I don’t understand. Yesterday, she said it wasn’t always about the food, that it was about the total experience. Something doesn’t add up, and the more I try to figure it out and remind myself that in the end she’s still a critic, the more unsettled I feel.
Just thinking that I might have pegged her all wrong causes uneasiness to creep its way in. The way I’ve talked to her, the way I’ve made her feel, even the plan we derived to win her over . . .
I find myself questioning everything.
And then to make it worse, I keep hearing the excitement in Lexi’s voice when she talked about introducing us. She’s Lexi’s friend, and Lexi is a very good judge of character. Then again, someone being a critic isn’t a character flaw to her, but it is to me, that and she’s a workaholic. Not that what Shelby thinks of me as a person really matters. She’s been here for almost a week and only has one to go. Who knows if or when I’ll ever see her again. Not that I intend to. I only need her to write a glowing article, and a stellar blog post. A blog that she does for fun, because one job isn’t enough for her, she needs to give up all her time.
Shaking my head, I pull myself out of bed, take a quick shower, grab some stuff, and lock my door behind me. I remind myself to stick to the plan and head down to the cottage to spend the evening with Shelby and keep things low-key.
When I reach the cottage, I let myself in. I know it’s probably rude, but technically, it’s my house, and other than me, who is coming down here to see her? Still, I make it a point to close the door loudly and make noise as I walk inside.
“Hey,” she calls out from the kitchen when she sees me. “How are you feeling?” She wipes her hands across an apron tied around her waist and smiles at me. Her eyes are bright but filled with concern, and my heart thuds against my chest unexpectedly. Her and that damn smile. I hate that I have this involuntary reaction to her.
“Better. I’m really sorry about yesterday. I’m sure having to take care of me wasn’t on your list of things to do. I appreciate it, so thank you.” I place the bag I brought down on the island and sit on a stool across from her.
There’s a sincerity in her expression as she studies my face. I know she’s looking for lingering traces of the migraine, and it makes me feel exposed and cared for at the same time.
“Michelle says it happens a lot.” She moves to the cabinet, grabs a glass, and fills it with water before setting it in front of me. Her thoughtfulness in gestures like this doesn’t go unnoticed, and again I’m reminded that it’s reasons like this she’s friends with Lexi.
Taking a swallow, I soak in her appearance. She’s got her hair all tied up and messy on top of her head, her face is makeup free, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that reads: Will write for food.
Shit.
Her adorability factor is rising, and I really need to stop noticing these things.
“More like comes and goes, but lately it feels like a lot,” I tell her honestly.
She frowns. It’s the same frown she wore yesterday when I walked away from her.
Kyle was at the side door of the manor waiting for us as she tore down the driveway. He handed me a pill before I even got out of the truck, which I swallowed dry before I started the mental countdown I knew it took for the medicine to kick in. Kyle slung an arm around my shoulder and helped me up the steps to the west wing. I heard Shelby ask if she could do anything to help, but Michelle told her no and that she and Kyle would take it from there. For a split second, I wanted to argue with her and tell her it was fine, but the energy required to talk was more than I had in me, and it was taking every bit of power I had not to lose my lunch all over the ground. Collapsing in my bed, I missed the smell of honey and her fingers in my hair. No one has ever rubbed my head like that, and I wanted more.
Looking around the kitchen, I chuckle at the mess she’s made. “Wow, you’ve cooked a lot today.” There are large platters of food that look as if they could feed a dozen people lined along the top of the island. “And you made the biscuits.” My mouth starts watering.
She grins and wipes the counter down in front of her. “I told you I would, and I did make a lot. I needed to make sure I had the correct measurements. A few of them I made more than once to see which version I liked better.”
Next to me there are three bowls of macaroni-and-cheese. “What are you going to do with all this food?”
“I thought I would take it to Michelle to see if she wants to put it out at the bar to let the tasters try. Is that all right with you?” Her eyes widen as she waits for the answer, and again I find myself in a situation where I can’t tell her no. Not that I would, this food looks amazing.
“I think it’s a great idea, and I’ll help you here in a bit, but first, I brought the reds down. I thought we could taste them here. It’s quieter and there’s no audience.”
“Don’t we need to call the photographer?” She pulls the strings of the apron and it slips off her waist, leaving her in a pair of gray leggings that show off their shape and hug her perfectly.
“Nah, he can meet us another time and get a picture of us drinking the reds then.”
“Should you be drinking these after that headache?” Her face is full of concern.
“I’ll be fine. We really aren’t drinking much, just tasting, and interestingly I haven’t found the wines to be much of a trigger.”
She looks at me hesitantly, shrugs her shoulders and then smiles. “Okay, well let’s see what you brought.”
Opening the bag, I pull out our four bottles of red wine, four tasting glasses, and a wine key.
“Will you grab us another glass of water. Palate cleanse between each one.”
“Sure.” Shelby turns around, giving me an awesome view of her ass, and grabs the extra glass.
“When most people come in to do the wine tasting, it’s just that—a tasting. They sip the wines, laugh with their friends, and then move on. But to truly taste a wine, it takes a little more than that and has to involve the other senses.”
After opening my wine key, I grab each bottle in turn, keeping the labels faced toward me, and open them with practiced precision. After each one, I set the bottle next to me making sure to keep the label away from Shelby.
“Meg and I have gone to tastings before, and I freely admit to falling into the in-and-out category like the masses.” She’s watching my hands as I move between the bottles, and I hate to admit it, but I like it.
“And that’s quite all right with us. The majority of people who come in are no different, but to those who’ve made wine tasting a hobby, it’s more involved than that.”
“So teach me, oh great one.” She folds her arms in front of her on the island and leans toward me.
A smile splits across my face, and I shake my head at her. She smiles back, and the air in my lungs freezes. Damn, she’s beautiful.
I pour each wine into a glass and set the four glasses next to its respective bottle.
“First is sight and then smell. They say you eat with your eyes first, right? Well, drinking wine is no different. A lot of the time, people make an immediate assumption based on the color or clarity. If it’s light it must be weak, watered down, or flat, but if it’s dark and thick, it’s sweet like grape juice, et cetera. But don’t let the way something looks fool you.”
“Like don’t judge a book by its cover?” She grins at me.
“Something like that.” I push the first glass in front of her and continue, “But I’ll admit, I do. I’m guilty of keeping or passing on a book based on its cover.”
“Tsk-tsk, Mr. Wolff. You should take your own advice.” My eyes find hers and there’s a playfulness in them. Is she usually like this? Until yesterday, she’s been guarded and all business. The first time I saw this side of her was when she spun in a circle and forced me to eat honey. The slips in her armor seem to be coming more frequently, and I find myself becoming more confused and intrigued by what I see—a woman who doesn’t fit the image of a dream killer like I’ve created in my mind.
“Maybe. Here, take a good look at this and then smell it.” She picks up the glass, swirls the wine, and tentatively brings it to her nose to sniff it.
“What do you think?” I lean into the island to get closer to her.
“I think its color is a deep red, looks almost like blood, and it smells like pepper.” She looks at me for an affirmation.
“Do you smell anything else?” I nod to the glass, and she picks it up again.
“Maybe a little clove and licorice?” she asks questioningly.
“Very good.” I smile at her.
“Okay, now taste it.”
She smells it again before shifting the rim to her lips, lips I’m suddenly fascinated by. With her eyes on me, she takes a sip of the wine. Her nose scrunches and her lips pucker together.
“It’s good, it’s just not for me.” She licks her lips and swallows again before sliding the glass in my direction.
Reaching for the glass, she freely gives it to me, and I taste the wine, too. I like the peppery undertones, always have. So, I take another sip before sliding the glass back to her.
“Taste it again. Just like eating some candy, say Sour Patch Kids. Your mouth needs time to adjust.”
She sips it again and then reaches for the water. “Well, that time it was a little better, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Why?”
“I like dry, bold wines that are more smooth. This one is way too spicy.” She shakes her head and frowns.
“Swirl the glass again.” I slide it back across the island to her. She complies, and as she swirls, I continue, “Do you see the streaks running down the sides? Those are called legs. Loose legs usually indicate the wine is light to medium with a lower alcohol content, and thick legs tell us that it’s a more full-bodied wine with a high alcohol content.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s a great tip.”
“Yeah, if you plan on drinking for a while, it’s a mental reminder to either have at it or take it slow. This wine is a syrah.” I turn the bottle around so she can see the label, pick up the glass, and swallow the rest of the wine in one swallow, enjoying the subtle kick it leaves behind. Delicious.
Reaching for my water, she mimics me, and we both cleanse the palate to start over.
She nods her head in understanding and picks up the next glass. “And let’s do it again, swirl this one a few times and deeply inhale it.”
She swirls, sniffs, and starts laughing. Her eyes are bright and her laugh is infectious. I grin along with her as a spot in my chest warms. Damn, I really like the sound of her laugh. “I know this is part of it, and a lot of people do it, but they look dumb and I feel stupid.”
“I actually agree with you. Some people take the nose sniffing way too seriously, but . . . if wine is your thing, then it’s a must.” I shrug my shoulders, still smiling at her.
“What’s your thing?” she asks, holding the glass out in front of her, twisting her wrist to roll the wine. Some people make the action looked forced, as if they’re trying to be something they’re not, and others it looks so natural. Like it does on her.
Folding my arms in front of me on the counter, I lean into them and closer to her. “Well, for almost thirty years, it was football. Since I’ve settled in here at the winery, it’s making sure it grows and keeping it successful.”
She lifts the glass, sniffs it again, and then tastes it as she regards me.
“Are the headaches why you stopped playing?”
Stopped playing. This makes me frown, and a longing for my former life hits me. I loved playing football. Some play it because they’re good at it and it’s their ticket to a better life, but I played to play. Everyone thinks their sport is the greatest, but to me, nothing compares to football.
“Not really, but they seem to be a residual side effect that I can’t get rid of.” Just thinking about the headaches causes me to tense. A normal headache people pop two aspirin and it goes away, not me. I’m down for the count.
“I’m sorry,” she says sympathetically.
“Why?” I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. Everyone felt sorry for me, but it is what it is.
“Because. If I had to give up food, that would suck, and I imagine it did for you. Makes me feel bad for you.”
From what I know, her whole world is food. So, hearing her compare something that I love to something she loves makes that ache for the grass, heat and the sweat. Swallowing, I push down the emotion and remind myself how lucky I was to have another life already waiting for me.
“Don’t. I’ve always known I was headed here next. I love this, too.” I nod to her glass, asking, “What do you think of this one?”
“This one’s tasty, takes over your whole mouth.” She takes another sip, hands me the glass, and moves around to my side of the island to sit on the chair next to me. I shift in my seat and twist the bottles so she can’t see the labels.
I taste the wine, and after I swallow, it pulls my cheeks in. I hand her back the glass, and she drinks some more. “Do you feel like you have cotton mouth?”
“I do.”
“Those are the tannins from the skins and seeds of the grapes. Tannins are the backbone of red wines, giving them texture and different levels of complexity.”
She passes the glass back, I pour a little more for us.
“What flavors did you taste?”
She swirls and sips. “This one has the cherry flavors like the wine in the cave, and it tastes earthy.”
“You would be right; this is a cabernet. Very similar to the one in the cave.” I turn the bottle around so she can see it, and her face lights up.
“In general, cabernets have been nicknamed ‘the big boy’ wine—big in flavor, big in body, and big in alcohol content. Cabernets will get you the most bang for your buck.”
“That one was luscious.” She licks her lips.
“Yes, it is.” I finish the glass in one swallow, and her eyes zero in on my mouth. Warmth runs through my chest and stomach. As I set the glass down, she breaks her gaze and looks over at the bottles. Her cheeks turn pink. God, what I wouldn’t give to be in her mind right this second.
Clearing my throat, I push the third glass toward her.
She picks it up, swirls it, smells it, and tastes it.
Watching her drink my wines and having her enjoy them is like chasing a wide receiver down the sideline and tackling him after a fifty-five-yard pass. It’s an adrenaline rush and a complete turn on. I’m aching to touch her, so I shift in my seat, placing my knee against hers as I wait.
“The color is lighter than the cabernet. It swirls around the glass quicker. It smells like pie: berries, jam, vanilla, cinnamon. And it tastes fruity, and it’s smoother, softer. I like it.”
“Do you like this one or the cabernet more?”
“I think it depends on what we’re eating and maybe the time of the year. I feel like the cabernet is perfect for a cold winter day and this one I could drink into the summer.”
“Hmm.” I take the glass from her, smell the pie—I’ll never be able to think of this wine in any other way now—and take a sip.
“Do you like it?” she asks me.
“I do. I prefer the cabernets, but I wouldn’t say no to this. Then again, I don’t think I would say no to any of them.”
She smiles at me and reaches for the glass. “I like it.”
Turning the bottle around she sees the label for merlot.
“Speaking of jam.” She jumps off her chair, sets the glass down, and moves through the kitchen. “I made a strawberry fig jam to go with the biscuits. Ask and you shall receive, right?” She smiles at me, and I smile back.
“I did ask for them.”
Grabbing a basket filled with homemade biscuits, a plate with room temperature butter on it, and a jar of the jam, she sets it on the island in front of me. She sits back on her stool facing me, and this time, one of her legs slides between mine so she can prop a foot on my footrest. Tingles race straight to my groin. And just like at the restaurant, she fixes mine for me and passes it over on a small plate.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I say, shoving half of one side into my mouth.
“Do what?” She sits back but doesn’t move her leg.
“Fix my food.”
Her face turns beet red. “Sorry. Honestly, I didn’t even think twice about it. Meg and I both have our quirky routines and fixing snacks is mine.”
I laugh and shake my head a bit. “It’s fine. I’m not complaining, just mentioning that you don’t have to. What’re Meg’s quirks?”
“Oh, she has quite a few, but her biggest one is cleanliness. While I’m fixing, she’s cleaning around me.”
“Someone else who does the cleaning, sign me up.” I’m smiling as I pick up the biscuit and take another bite. Damn, this girl can cook. I remember arguing with Kyle about how I assumed all chefs were overweight, when in reality, it’s probably the spouses and family members that suffer. I’m not sure if I could ever let any of her food go to waste.
Finishing the biscuit, I stare at my plate wishing there was more.
“Tasty, huh,” she mumbles through her bites.
“Very.”
“Just like this wine.” She holds up the glass and takes another swallow.
“Right. So, merlot grapes are small and dark blue on the vine. They’re easy to spot, easy to grow, and have thin skins so they ripen fast. The juice is lighter, smoother, softer, and it’s considered a drink-it-now wine. Aging doesn’t do much for it.”
“Merlot is my go-to wine when we’re out for dinner.”
“It is for most. It’s the number one ordered glass of wine in the United States because it’s an easy pick. But if you ask any winemaker about it, and they will tell you that in the tasting room the merlot is one of the least profitable.”
“Wow, I wouldn’t have thought that,” she mumbles with her mouth full.
“It’s viewed as boring.”
She swallows and gulps down some water before responding. “I don’t think it’s boring.”
“I don’t either, but when people come here, they feel adventurous and usually pick something new and different.”
“That’s interesting.” She pushes her plate back, and I swipe the bite she didn’t eat. See—I have to eat it.
“All right, are you ready for the last one?”
She sits up higher on her stool and wiggles as if she’s having fun, which I hope is the case.
“Bring it on.” She licks her lips, making them shine and my stomach clenches as I push the glass her way.
“This is our flagship wine. It’s our biggest seller and the one most people come here to taste.”
She goes through the motions, and I can’t wait. “What do you think?”
She looks down at the deep red wine, thoughtful, and swirls it in the glass. “I think it’s dry and not as sweet as the others: earthy, coffee, chocolate, maybe cherries. I want to say it has a bit of spice to it like the syrah, but then I don’t know. It has a zing to it also, similar to the whites. What’s it called?”
I turn the bottle around, and she whispers, “Norton.”
“I’ve heard of this wine.” She looks at me for confirmation.
“Yeah?” I raise my eyebrows to her.
“Over the last couple years, it’s popped up more in articles and magazines.”
“This wine is definitely making its comeback.” Pulling the glass from her, my fingers brush against hers, and another longing sets in. What would it feel like to have her hands on me? Her warm fingertips running across my shoulders and down my back. I take a sip of the wine, shaking off the equally wanted and unwanted thought. The wine is very dry, smooth, and has a kick at the backend.
“Tell me about it.” She picks up the bottle and pours more into the glass for us to share.
“The Norton grape is America’s oldest grape. It was bred here and, at one point, was the most widely grown grape in the States, predominantly on the East Coast and in the Midwest. It’s what my ancestors were brought over to grow and harvest.”
“What happened?” She places her elbow on the island and leans into it.
“The Prohibition. Any wine vine that was found, they ripped out. Somehow, they never found ours; I don’t know how they hid them, but those vines are generational and have been going strong now for over a hundred years. The Norton wines, at one time, rivaled the Old World wines.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know. Either people love this wine or they hate it. I love it, not only for its strength, but also for its ability to stay for such a long time. It’s a huge part of our family.”
“It’s my favorite of the reds.” She reaches for the glass, and a piece of her hair slips from behind her ear as she takes a sip. I don’t stop myself from leaning forward or tucking it back in place. She freezes, and when I realize just how close we are, I force myself to lean away from her again.
She chews on the inside of her lip. I affect her. Good.
“It’s great for blending, too. You’ll have to come back once the Norton-Claret we have aging in the cave is ready.” Wait. What? Why did I say that? She’s not coming back here.
“Or, I can mail you a bottle.” I retract the invitation.
Her face falls a little. The move is slight, but I see it, and it makes me feel horrible.
“So, that’s it. Those are our reds.” I need to wrap this up before I say something else.
“I think they’re amazing. Other than the first one, I would buy the other three any time.”
“Shh, don’t say that too loudly, you’ll hurt the syrah’s feelings,” I mock scold her.
She giggles, and I realize it’s time for me to go. We tasted the wines, and there’s no reason for me to be here.
“I’ll leave these here, and we can finish them another time.”
“Okay,” she says quietly.
“What are you doing tonight?” It crosses my mind to invite her to the tasting room, but for what? It isn’t as if I need to spend more time with her. I’m already starting to want what I can’t have, well . . . shouldn’t have, and less time together will definitely be better.
She looks around the cottage and lets out a sigh. “I haven’t decided yet. I might stay here tonight and work on the other article since I need to send it off soon. I appreciate your coming down here for this, saves me the trouble of having to get dressed up for the camera.” She smiles and then slides off the stool and starts moving things to the sink.
Following her lead, I stand and help her clean the mess she made of the kitchen.
“All right, well if you change your mind, Michelle is almost always behind the bar, and I’ll be in my office playing catch-up from yesterday and today.” My inbox is exploding.
“Sounds good. And thanks for taking all of this up there.” She tilts her head toward the food as she washes one of the wine glasses.
I chuckle. “I don’t think there will be any complaints.” I walk to the far end of the island and pick up what looks like barbeque brisket, which makes my mouth water. Then I scan the rest of the food and realize something.
“All of this is perfect for white wines.” I don’t know why I’m so moved by all of it, but I am. She made this for us, for Wolff wines, and it looks amazing.
“Yep, I have a few more things to test over the next week, but I’m super happy with how this stuff turned out. Let me know what you think of the barbeque sauce. I can tweak it so that it’s more your taste, since this is your place.” She wipes her hands off on a towel.
“I’m sure it’s great. My mother always says don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so I can’t imagine I won’t like it.” I look over at her and have this sudden urge to take her in my arms and hold her. Seriously, between her fingers in my hair, those legs, and now this food I’m losing my ability to rationalize.
She smiles, it’s so genuine my insides clench.
Why does she have to be a critic, a workaholic? If she were anyone else . . . doing anything else . . .
Together we grab the dishes, take them out to the cart, and load them into the back. Once we’re finished, she turns away, and I drag my eyes over the length of her. Even in flip-flops, her legs stretch on for days. Like a lost puppy, I follow her.
Spinning around, she catches me staring at her ass and shakes her head at me.
“What?” I shrug my shoulders and grin at her.
“You are something else.” She shakes her head and then keeps walking, heading for the door. Even though her lips are pinched together, her cheeks are red and she’s fighting a smile.
I turn and follow her, noticing her movements are smoother, fluid. The little she-devil likes being watched.
“Do you want me to deny it, because I won’t. I very much enjoy looking at you as often as possible.”
“Wha—” She spins around, collides with my chest, and doesn’t step away. Instead, her fingers wrap around my arm for balance, and I pull her in closer. She doesn’t move, and neither do I.
“Easy there,” I mutter, brushing her hair over and off her shoulder. “And you’re not even wearing any of your ridiculous shoes.”
“Hey, I like my shoes.” She raises an eyebrow and tilts her chin. I suppose the gesture is supposed to show indignation, but instead, it looks inviting.
“I never said I didn’t like them, but the farm might not be the best place for them.”
She opens her mouth to reply, and my eyes drop to her full lips. As she hesitates, I wonder what she would do if I kissed her.
“Whatever, they make me happy.” She pulls out of my hold and walks toward the door.
I want to reply that she’s making me happy, but that’s crazy. She’s still the same person she was when she pulled up to the vineyard—someone I would never see myself with. Only, I can’t seem to stay away from her, and there isn’t anything right now that’s stopping me.
“I think you should eavesdrop and get us some feedback on what everyone likes and what they don’t like.” She throws over her shoulder.
“How could they not like any of it, it all looks amazing.”
“Well, you never know.” She pauses right outside the door and turns to face me. Of course, I followed her, I couldn’t stop myself.
“Forget something?” Her eyes are large and filled with an equal mix of apprehension and anticipation. She clasps her hands in front of her and bites down on the inside of her lip. My eyes again drop to her mouth, and I take in a slow deep breath. I don’t know why it hasn’t dawned on me sooner, but she does this when she’s nervous.
“Yeah, I think I did.” I move closer, and her head tips back so she can look into my eyes. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but what’s one kiss? The constant temptation, pull, and curiosity will end, I’ll get this out of my system, and we can all move on.
Slowly, I raise my hand to cup her chin, and my thumb drags over her bottom lip, freeing it from between her teeth. The inside of it is stained red from the wine and there are tiny marks from her teeth. The fire in me grows hotter with each passing second.
This girl, oh, what she does to me.
I want her.
I want her very much.
Sliding my hand around to the back of her neck, I let my fingers tangle in the silkiness of her hair. She lets out a little noise, almost as if she’s going to resist, but then her eyelids drift shut and the rise and fall of her chest increases.
She should be stopping me, but she isn’t. She’s leaning into my hand, and I soak up every little detail of her face. From the way her hair hangs across her forehead, her long dark blonde eyelashes fan over her cheekbones, the freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the shape of her chin . . . her face is gorgeous.
Then I lean down, letting the heat of her skin hit me first, and I kiss her cheek. Except for the time in the cellar, this is the closest we’ve been, and I’m about to incinerate that memory with this one. She lets out a breath as I tilt her head to the side, slide my lips to the edge of her mouth, and kiss the corner of her lips.
One little kiss.
She trembles in my arms. This moment is just as overwhelming for her as it is for me.
Being this close to her skin, the flavor of honey overtakes me, sweetening my senses. I loved honey before, but now, I could eat it every day for the rest of my life and find myself never being fully satisfied. There’s something about this girl that overrides reason, and it leaves me desperate to get more.
Her lips part, and I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Easing back a little, my eyes find hers, and they’re no longer a light blue, they’re darker. They’re full of emotion and longing. A longing that’s just for me, and it sends a wave of awareness over every nerve in my body. She wants this more than she doesn’t, and I hope she doesn’t regret it.
Her hand lightly slides up my arm as she presses to her tiptoes, and my breath catches as her lips pause in front of mine. That little movement from her is enough to give me the green light, and I take it. My lips fall onto hers, and she-devil be damned, I want this.
I need this.
Wrapping my other arm around her waist, I pull her body against mine and slowly tighten my grip on the back of her head to guide her exactly where I want her. No one has ever tasted this good.
I am kissing Shelby.
Shelby is kissing me.
Her lips are on mine, her tongue is caressing mine, and right this moment she tastes like mine.
All. Mine.
I walk her backward until her back hits the front door and she gasps. Dragging my lips down her jaw, I suck on the skin under her ear. She lets out a low moan, which I catch by claiming her lips again and dipping my tongue back into her mouth.
Dropping my hands, I reach around and grab onto her ass. Her breath catches, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling her hips into mine. I want to feel every curve of hers, so I do. Sliding my hands up her ribcage, I stop just short of her breasts and trace the bottom swells with my thumbs.
She sighs at the touch and pushes farther into me.
Damn, she feels incredible.
I made fun of her during the interview when I implied she was a lush, when maybe it’s me that needs to be worried, because right now—tasting her, touching her, breathing her in—I’m drunk on the smell and feel of her body pressed perfectly against mine. No kiss has ever been like this.
Time stands still.
The world could go up in flames around us, and it wouldn’t matter. All I see and all I feel is her and her hands roaming underneath my shirt across the bare skin of my back. Her hands sliding up the sides of my neck. Her fingers as they thread into my hair and grab on. There’s an intensity to her, an ardor that borders on desperate, and she’s taking everything she can because she knows this kiss is fleeting. Just a moment. A moment that has to end.
Pulling back, I lay my forehead against hers, swallow, and try to pull myself together before opening my eyes and looking at her. I can’t let her know what she’s done to me or how much she’s affected me. It’ll encourage her to ask for more, and I don’t think I can do that.
Feeling her release me, I take a step back and open my eyes. She looks more breathtaking now with her hair mussed and her lips swollen than she did a few minutes ago, and I take a mental picture of the beautiful girl on the front porch of my cottage, hoping to remember it indefinitely.
“Thanks for the tasting and for taking the food up.” She blinks at me and blushes.
The emotions are so thick in my throat I can’t respond, so I nod my head and give her a small smile.
She twists to open the door, and I take another step back, shoving my hands in my pockets. I feel my pants dip down, and her eyes drop to my waist, noticing the movement, too. Damn, her hands or her eyes, everything about her feels good.
“Good night,” I finally choke out . . . and then she’s gone.
Silence settles over me as I stand and stare at the closed door.
What just happened? Or better yet, what just happened to me? My heart is racing, my chest feels tight, and I feel panicked.
Kissing her was supposed to be a means to an end. It was supposed to feel good, satisfying. But I don’t feel any of those things. I feel confused, altered. I think that kiss changed me.
Reality washes over me like a bucket of ice-cold water. She isn’t some random girl. This is Shelby.
I shake my head at how pathetic I am. It’s almost twilight, and I’m still standing here like a complete ass. For the first time since I came up with the plan, I’m starting to wonder if it was the wrong one.
Guilt creeps in, and I squeeze my eyes closed.
Shit.
Being nice to her to try to win her over is one thing, but messing with her physically is another. It takes mixing business with pleasure to a whole new level and crosses a line—one I can’t explore no matter how great it felt. I feel slimy and deceitful, but that feels wrong, too, because that kiss was something else. It was incredible. I’m so confused.
I should have known that one kiss with her wouldn’t be enough, but for her sake and my sanity, it has to be.
Seriously, what was I thinking?