Page 29 of One Wild Wish

Fifty percent bad boy, fifty percent smooth talker. “The part where I outperform you in the contest?”

A smirk eclipsed his scowl. He placed the corkscrew down, pushed to his feet, and prowled around the counter. My apartment was nothing but a uniform square. Kitchen, countertop, and stools in one corner, a king bed with my Ikea closet behind the headboard opposite; across were a couch, coffee table, and TV, my desk and book shelves finishing off the geometric shape. It was ordered. Precise. It was everything I tried to emulate, the details never quite in my grasp.

Jimmy threw it all askew.

Each thunk of his boots echoed in my belly. I gripped the edge of the sink, the cool stainless steel a contrast to the heat building below my ribs. He stopped at my back, a whisper of his body brushing mine. “I prefer the part where you wanted to perform a scientific study with my head between your legs.”

His voice deepened, more gravel invading his tone, and my knuckles whitened on the counter. Need pulsed through me. I could have leaned back, just a millimeter, until the hard planes of his body pressed to mine, but I had a sneaking suspicion a simple touch wouldn’t be enough.

Our one wild night wasn’t my modus operandi. I was a relationship girl, mornings cuddling in bed and dinners out what I craved. Jimmy was trouble, and I was desperately attracted to him, in an unfamiliar way. Animalistic, almost. Every time he raked his hair—untidy waves that hung shaggy over his forehead, cresting the tips of his ears, brushing the base of his neck—I wanted to grip the dark strands and pull his head between my thighs, find out if he was all talk, once and for all. Or sit on his face. Either would work.

But playing girlfriend to make his ex jealous had changed things. As did learning about his past. A woman he loved enough to marry, gone. A family lost. His future career pulled from him. Ferment those ingredients together and you’d get vinegar, not wine. Something told me he was more fruit than acid, and one sip would lead to two, until tasting wouldn’t be enough. I would end up wanting more. Relationship more. Nothing about him fit into my world.

“I’m not sure about that particular study,” I said. “I’ve heard the side effects can be hazardous. Let’s stick to our deal. I helped with Sophia, now you help with my tasting.”

He hovered at my back, his hot breath caressing my hair. Then he stepped away. “Tasting it is.”

We set up on my couch, and I stuffed a pillow between us, the lilac silk comical next to his roughness. But I needed space. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to help me pass our next test. Since I’d botched most of the service exercises, the tastings were my clincher. If I messed those up, I’d be back at my computer, searching for jobs, having to explain my umpteenth failure to my family. Thanks, but no thanks.

I sat with my back straight and legs crossed. Jimmy draped himself over my gray couch, his long legs sprawled apart. He tossed his arm behind me, resting his hand precariously close to my neck. It reminded me of The Blue Door, how he’d distracted me from my tasting. Come to think of it, maybe he was undermining me again. Using his manly wiles to mess with my game. “Is this a ploy?”

“Yes.” He didn’t miss a beat.

“Seriously?”

“Did you want me to lie?”

“But we have a deal.”

“I’m holding up my end, Sunshine.”

That nickname vacillated between sweet and claw-his-eyes-out, this particular rendition landing on vexing. “So you expect me to do a tasting with you when you’ve admitted you plan to feed me false information.”

“I have planned no such thing.”

“You just said it’s a ploy.”

“Because it is. To make you reconsider joining me for your scientific study.” The Pot Stirrer ran a finger through my hair, the edge of his nail dragging behind my ear. Goose bumps erupted in its wake.

I smacked his hand away. “Fat chance.” But one more second of his fingers stroking my hair could work in his favor. The bastard knew it. “Can you stop with the games for a moment and answer something for me?”

“Anything.”

That was quite the window of opportunity. Instead of asking my intended question—why help me when we were competing against each other—I opted for one of more value. “What happened with Sophia? I barely know you, but she doesn’t seem like your type.”

Not that I did, either. Sophia reminded me of Ainsley, primped and polished to perfection, curves for miles. A hint of jealousy had burned at the sight of her, but I’d squashed that nonsense. Jimmy wasn’t mine. But Sophia was one step from posing for Vogue, and I was a J. Crew catalogue in the making. Then there was Jimmy and his bad, bad self. None of it fit.

He pushed a hand up the back of his hair. “Sophia and I dated for two years. I looked a lot different then, more like the cardboard cutouts in the contest.”

No freaking way. “Was your hair short?”

“Yep.”

“Did you have tattoos?”

“Nope.” He popped the P at the end and winked.

The man was lethal. “I am intrigued.”