Page 24 of One Wild Wish

“You need to write down five names. What kind of crappy pens run out of ink after five names?”

I gritted my teeth. My phone buzzed again, him and that noise equally as grating. He also didn’t return the pen. Not only did he not return it, but he placed his index finger at the base of my other one and tapped it out of position. I moved it back perpendicular. He tapped it again.

Motherfucker.

I dug my fingers into his side and pinched. “Next time I go for the nipple. Don’t mess with me.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

Probably both. My phone vibrated again, my mother never one to trust voicemail. (What if you’re abducted and can’t get to the phone? What if you’ve had a seizure?) Unable to add her to my stress, I reached in and silenced my cell. To afford participating in this contest, I’d taken a receptionist job at my gym. So unless I wanted to fold towels for a living, it was time to get my head in the game.

I plucked my remaining pen from the table, took a deep breath, and swirled the first glass. From nothing but a sniff and sip we had to name the region, extra points awarded for the winery and year.

My father had belonged to a wine club. Once I’d shown interest, he brought me along to tastings. Some were lateral, where we’d compare one wine across vintages. Others compared grape varieties. When I got them right, he’d hold up my sheet and boast about it to the room, then we’d talk wine the whole drive home. Hopefully those nights had left their mark.

The Nose already had his schnozinator in his glass, no doubt picking up every nuance. Jimmy was in no rush, swirling and sniffing. I steadied my hand, lifted my glass, and inhaled.

Black cherry.That was a given for most Pinots. I mentally reviewed the classes I’d taken, searching for the characteristics that defined each region. Dark plum for New Zealand, cranberry and earth for Oregon, and the subtle barnyard aroma from France. I sipped and swirled and inhaled, narrowing the possibilities. Guessing the years would be harder, the wineries a shot in the dark. Good thing I’d pored over Crush’s wine list the past week.

As I lifted my second glass again, Jimmy whispered, “Number three happened on my living room floor. After the butt shot.”

My wine nearly sloshed on the table.

Us. Naked. On his floor. After the butt shot he wasn’t supposed to mention. But I didn’t even care. That must have been the memory that resurfaced, and I wanted to disappear in those sensations again—us rocking together, skin against skin.

If we’d been alone, no test or audience around, I’d have given up my charade. I’d have straddled him on that chair, ground against him and eased the ache building under my skirt. Passion. Lust. Cravings. Things I’d never experienced lit under my skin in a tantalizing cocktail. But we had an audience, and I had a test to ace.

The rest went relatively smoothly. Except for the moments Jimmy leaned over to list how orgasms four, five, and six had gone down—in his kitchen, the last two between his sheets. God have mercy. Wines four and five gave me trouble, but by the time my final answers were on the page, I was pleased.

The Nose folded his arms, smug as hell. Jimmy took his time.

He tapped my pen on the table, his bedroom eyes back on me, my skirt ready to combust. “You think you did well?” he asked.

I sat straighter, hiding my answers. “Do you doubt my ability?”

“I don’t doubt you. The real question is, do you still doubt me? Do I need to prove I can make you scream my name with a lick of my tongue?”

Bad Boy didn’t mince words, and I liked it—his dangerous air, his confidence. He had me rethinking my stance on one-night stands. Or two-night stands. My awkwardness with him had receded, jokes and flirtations in its place. He had me at ease. Yes, I wanted a relationship and he wouldn’t be that man, but for the first time ever, I felt as though I could pull off a fling.

May as well strike while the iron was hot. “If you pass this session,” I said, my determination building, “I might consider testing your claim. For scientific reasons.”

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.