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Laughing, they lifted their glasses to that truth. “How’s the vineyard?” Running a winery wasn’t a cakewalk either, but Ezra had gotten better at delegating, focusing his efforts on the business side and leaving everything to do with the grapes to Archer.
“Good,” Ezra said. “Winding down from harvest and starting winter prep. There are groups through each day, but we’re not booked solid. More locals and Bay Area folks than tourists.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“So lovely.” Ezra sighed with his whole body. Al didn’t think she’d ever seen him so relaxed. Until he wrinkled his nose in a dramatic cringe. “Except for Archer.”
“Bored panda?”
“The worst,” Noah chimed in as he set a pile of sliced focaccia and a plate of olive oil and balsamic at Ezra’s elbow on the island.
Ezra dipped a slice and popped it into his mouth. “No more parade of tourists to fuck.”
“Can’t he go into San Francisco?” Al asked.
“He could, but he’s too attached to the land already. You know how he gets. Dirt under the nails, yada yada.”
“There a party close anytime soon?”
“January, Rocky and James’s place up here.”
“Oh, they’re great hosts.” She and Ezra had met the pair over a decade ago at a party in San Francisco. Al had spent a wonderful night bossing around all three men, Rocky a delightful switch who was willing to defer to her Domme. While Ezra was no longer playing in public—he and Noah preferred to keep their kinks private—she and Archer had had some fun with Rocky and James last fall when they’d babysat the vineyard until Ezra had arrived. “They do a good job making everyone feel comfortable.”
“Except I’m having to twist Archer’s arm to go.”
Hmm. She’d never known Archer to turn down an invite to a scene. But Ezra didn’t give her time to contemplate, turning that same scrutiny on her. “What about you? Did you contact any of the names on the list I emailed?” He may have been out of the scene himself, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still well-connected to the queer and kinky community in their home bases. “Or any leads from Dram or Greg or Tony?”
She sipped her wine and avoided his searching gaze, staring out at the moonlight reflecting on the water of the pool. “I went to several parties in the spring and summer when work was slow, but now that things have picked up again, time’s tight.”
“Don’t become me, Al.” A fork scraping across a plate drew her attention back to Ezra, and her stomach growled at the forkful of pasta and mushrooms he lifted to his mouth. “You like sex too much,” he said after a bite, “with and in front of others, to cage all that energy up.”
“Who says I haven’t been having any?”
The fork clattered as it missed the plate and hit the island. “What’s this now?” he mumbled around another bite.
“Have you lost all your manners?” she teased. “And what did Noah fix you to go with the Aglianico?”
Noah circled the island, his own plate in hand, and sat beside Ezra. “Creamy mushroom and leek pasta. Basically an umami bomb.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“Answer the question, counselor,” Ezra said, undeterred.
“Nothing now, except my own hand between my legs.”
“They leave town?”
“No, she’s the opposing counsel on the deal I’m trying to close.”
Noah’s cringe mirrored Ezra’s. “Ain’t that just the luck.”
She gulped back the rest of her wine. Nothing lucky about it.
Chapter Six
“Ms. Rosin.”
Al turned from the twentieth-floor lobby view of the Superdome to a suited white man standing beside the garlanded reception desk. Midseventies, judging by his deep facial wrinkles, the thinning white hair on his head, and the much bushier white hair of his brows and mustache, the latter yellowed in the center from what Al guessed was decades of smoking. His voice had the gravel of a smoker too. “Welcome to our firm.” He crossed the lobby with his hand extended. “I’m Ted Macy.”
