Page 17 of One Wild Wish

She squished her lithe body farther from mine. “Kind of coincidental, don’t you think? Did you follow me?”

“I got here before you. If anyone is stalking, it’s you tailing me.”

Indignation colored her cheeks. “I didn’tfollow you. I saw a flyer and thought it looked interesting, but you obviously read it, too. If I’d known you’d be here”—aggravation laced her hushed tone—“I’d never have shown up.”

Her harsh words had me fisting my hands, or maybe it was how tempting the line of her neck looked, that column of tanned skin shifting as she swallowed. But she was right: having a diversion wouldn’t help my plan. “Then we’re on the same page.”

“Excuse me?”

“Since we’re both here for the contest, we can pretend that night never happened.”

Her face fell, but a beat later, she said, “Good,” nothing but ice in her voice.

I followed with “Great.”

She spat, “Fine.”

So much for stamping out the awkward.

Waiters began moving through the space, small measures of white wine poured into each glass. A reporter sat at the bar, snapping photos and taking notes.

“Besides,” she added, “we won’t have to worry about seeing each other once you’re eliminated.”

Hot, and cocky to boot. “You’re right, we won’t. You’ll be gone by week two and won’t get to congratulate me on my win.”

The same competitive streak that had sparked between us at The Blue Door resurfaced, along with a punch of lust heading south. That night, we’d played drinking games, sipping wine and listing the notes dancing on our tongues. Then, at my place, I’d tasted them on her. A dribble in the hollow of her throat. A splash between her breasts. A dab of Cabernet on her pussy.

I almost groaned at the memory, but rustling at the front of the room saved me.

Alonzo Adriano had just introduced himself, and I hadn’t even noticed him enter. He may have been a head shorter than my six foot two, his cufflinks and navy suit camouflaging him in this room of wannabes, but I should have been focused.

The group was rapt, hanging on the man’s every syllable, and here I was, fantasizing about a woman.

Alonzo gave a brief rundown about his two brothers and their restaurants, his dark eyes intent as he gestured to the wall of wine bottles, extolling the beauty of their collection, reverence in his voice. At least the man was passionate.

A final contestant hurried into the room, the man’s blond hair parted so severely, the edge of his scalp shone. He tightened his tie, distaste on his face as he judged my tattoos, but he slid into the chair opposite my dirty princess. Moisture beaded on his large forehead.

We sat in silence as a sign-in sheet was passed around. When it reached me, I didn’t hesitate. I printed Jimmy Leon, using my mother’s maiden name. If I’d written Giannopoulos, it wouldn’t be long before Alonzo sussed out that his Offshoot Winery bottles came from my family vineyard, and this whole ruse would be shot to shit.

The dirty princess rolled her pen through her fingers, her gaze lingering on the page before she wrote Rachel Kates. The letters were as neat and tidy as her appearance, but there was a wild woman beneath the surface. One I’d had grinding against my hips. My mind drifted back to that night again, to our sweaty bodies and her passionate cries, and my cock stirred.

Jesus. Next session, I’d need to find a seat away from her.

As she passed the page across the table, the latecomer made sure they brushed fingers. An obvious move. He thrust his hand toward her. “I’m Rufus. Looks like we’ll be spending the next two months together”—he eyed the sheet—“Rachel.”

She sat straighter. “Looks like it.”

Her hand slipped into his, and I barely refrained from slipping my arm around her shoulders. To claim her? To mark her as mine? The notion grated at me. A couple of women I’d been with frequented the dive bar where I worked. We’d have our night of fun, then I’d pour them drinks at Rudy’s Tavern and we’d make small talk and go on like it had never happened. Once and done. Here I was, jealous over some jerk with enough hair gel to lube a Slip 'N Slide.

His slicked blond head and three-piece suit were more her style anyway. Probably came with a lot less baggage, too.

Still, after their exchange, I couldn’t resist leaning over and whispering in her ear. “You know, if you marry him, you won’t be able to take his last name.”

She shivered, then craned her neck to check the sheet as he got up to pass it to the next table. A laugh exploded from her, the same bark of a cackle she’d let loose at my place, like an asthma sufferer on laughing gas. Annoyed glances shot our way, but I chuckled.

“It is a shitty name,” she whispered.

“Downright crap,” I agreed.