Page 44 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

JIMMY

No fucking condom. Not sure what I was thinking, letting that go down. Following Rachel’s rule and sleeping with her, no strings attached, had the potential to mess me up. Doing it bare pulled the rug from under me.

I stilled, breathing hard, all that heat and wetness surrounding me. I ached for another round, but Rachel turned in on herself, wrenching her gaze away. For a moment, she’d been with me. Feeling our connection. There was no hiding the emotion in her big, brown eyes. Then it was gone.

“So, wow,” she said. “That was pretty unreal.” She slipped out from under me, pushing me to the side, when all I wanted was to pull her closer. “And that head,” she went on, a regular Chatty Cathy, “you certainly know what you’re doing down there. Since we’re in agreement, and I was sober for the fireworks, we don’t have to do this again. But it was fun. The next girl you’re with will be very lucky.” She gathered her jeans and underwear, holding them over her body. Then she bit her lip. “Do you have a T-shirt I could borrow? My blouse didn’t survive intact.”

Neither had my heart. Still, if she wanted to pretend we hadn’t shared something intense, I’d play along. I’d promised her as much. It didn’t mean I had to make it easy.

I strode to my dresser, naked, and pulled out a gray T-shirt. I sauntered toward her and held out my offering, but when she reached for it, I tugged it away. “You sure you want to leave? I was just getting started.”

Her gaze dropped to my dick, and she licked her lips. “Yeah, no. Probably best if I go. I have an early shift at the gym, and I like to be punctual. Get there early, actually.”

“I could wake you up. I’m really good at wake ups.” I hid the T-shirt behind my back, and her focus stayed on my dick. “I also make killer pancakes.”

Her determination wavered. “Your cock?”

I squinted at her. “My cock?”

She waved a frantic hand as she blushed. “Cook. You cook. Not your cock. Jesus. I just can’t picture you cooking.” She pursed her lips and reached around me, snatching the shirt from my hands.

“Like a five star chef,” I said. “Spent time at a restaurant in Italy. I make pasta from scratch.”

Ignoring me, she marched into my bathroom and slammed the door, but I shouted, “I often cook naked, so you can still look at my cock.”

“Such a comedian,” she called.

I chuckled and pulled on a pair of sweats. I should have stayed pissed, frustrated that her fears drove her actions, but I had my own demons to slay. A woman like Rachel deserved a man willing to risk things for her. A man with a future, and I’d had one, once upon a time. I’d had a winery and would have been able to offer her everything. If I wanted Rachel, I needed to get my shit together.

The sooner I forced my family to fix their wines, the sooner I could move on. If their deceit came to light down the road, it could hurt me. Tarnish my reputation and prevent me from returning to the wine world. This way it was under my control. I’d give my real name at the final round, claim I’d just learned of the fraud, and let the drama unfold. If it happened by my hand, I’d rise above the scandal. Distance myself from it until the mess blew over.

Find some peace.

But queasiness clogged my throat, those grapevines tied to who I was, at my core.

My grandfather and I had tended them. Gave them life. When he’d started our winery, he’d struggled to make ends meet. If someone gave him a sob story about their money woes, he’d practically give his wine away. If customers claimed they’d fallen on tough times, he’d tell them to pay him in a week or a month, but the money never came. My father took over the operation and called him a fool. I called him smart and generous and loving.

Destroying the vines, even by reputation, was akin to destroying my grandfather’s memory, killing a piece of myself. But I was floundering, my options always circling back to my plan, a way to forget the cruel things my father had said to me. To forget that my family had put me in this position.

Until that time, better to focus on Rachel.

Our next sommelier session was in two days, but I’d wager my Harley she’d text before then. I looked for her purse in the living room. I fished out her phone and changed my name to Eight in her contact list, chuckling to myself.

Seconds later, she hurried into the room, my paint-stained T-shirt hanging over her jeans. She snatched up her purse, but hesitated. “I just want to make sure things will be fine on Tuesday. I don’t want it to be weird.”

“It won’t be weird.”

“Okay. Good. Thanks.”

“Especially since we’ll be doing this again.”

She fisted her hands. “It’s not a good idea.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against my couch. “It’s a brilliant idea.”

“Jimmy, you promised this was casual.”