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“Of course I made a reservation. Blue Mountain Farm’s restaurant is the fucking tits. I can’t wait for you to try it.”
“Is it so good I’m going to die?”
Opening the trunk, he glances at me over his shoulder. “You’re starting back up with the puns already?”
“You’re right, sorry, it’s too soon. I’ll wait until after dinner.” I reach for the passenger door handle but Brooks beats me to it. For a guy of his size, he’s quick.
He holds open the door as I climb inside, inhaling that new car smell. I notice there are two bottled waters in the cup holders, except one of them is filled with something brown.
“What’s this?” I hold it up.
Brooks lifts a massive shoulder. “Wild Turkey. I’ve got some ginger ale in the back too, just in case you wanted to start cocktail hour early. I know you’ve had a long-ass week. A long-ass year, actually.”
The butterflies are everywhere now. My stomach, my chest. The back of my throat.
This weekend is going to be capital-F Fun.
Is being so thoughtful an older guy thing or just a Brooks thing? And does he have to look so good as he rounds the front of the car, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he digs his keys out of his pocket?
For a split second, I’m gripped by the certainty that going on this trip is a bad idea. Keira was right. How the hell am I going to keep my hands off this guy? And how will the embarrassment of him pushing me away—of him politely turning me down—not kill me?
How will this raging unrequited crush not kill me?
Jesus, these dumb murder puns just keep coming.
“So I thought we could listen to another podcast produced by the Mountain Murders people,” Brooks is saying as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “The Charleston one? I already listened to the one set in New Orleans. The alligator! How insane was that?”
I might actually need that Wild Turkey. This man right here? This thoughtful, kind, handsome son of a bitch who is probably very, very good in bed?
This is the kind of man I should lose my virginity to. He clearly knows what he’s doing; he wouldn’t take so many women home if he didn’t. I imagine his thoughtfulness—his generosity—extends to sex too. He wouldn’t be drunk or sweaty or a sloppy kisser.
He’d be intense.
Knowledgeable.
Thorough.
I bite my lip as I imagine him climbing over me, shirt off, running a hand up my side before leaning in for a deep, devastating kiss.
I reach for the Wild Turkey and unscrew the cap.
Brooks smirks. “Starting already?”
“You have no idea how badly I need this.” I take a swig.
The immediate buzz only makes my blood rush hotter.
Thinking about screwing Brooks just made me realize how screwed I am.
I wish I could say I hated it. But I don’t. Which is a problem, because Brooks won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.
Someone else at Blue Mountain Farm might, though. It’s a classy place; maybe I can meet a classy guy there. One who isn’t George’s buddy.
One who will help me take care of this raging sense of need—of arousal—that won’t go away.
Chapter Ten
BROOKS
Greer puts a hand on her stomach and leans back in her chair, moaning. “Wow.”
“Good?” I shovel the last of my blackberry bread pudding into my mouth.
“Orgasmic. Truly.”
It’s all I can do not to groan. I fucking love how she says what she means. No bullshit. No beating around the bush. It’s refreshing, not having to wade through any kind of pretense or politeness to figure out what she’s feeling.
And the obvious pleasure she took in the meal we just shared—that little moan she just made—it’s the best in the worst way possible.
My skin feels hot. Tight. At first I thought it was because of the glass of red wine I’d ordered off Blue Mountain’s extensive wine list. Two sips in, and my body was lit up.
But then it fucking pulsed as I watched Greer demolish a huge slice of hummingbird cake. She licked her lips, and it hit me that the wine had nothing to do with the way I’m feeling.
It’s all Greer. The way her skin glows in the low light of the restaurant. How her cheeks are a little pink from the heat of the wood-burning fireplace beside our table.
Her brown eyes. Soft. Sated. Happy.
She’s so damn pretty it hurts.
“What about you? How’s the bread pudding?”
Of course she’d ask that.
Of course she’d give a shit.
“Good. Really good.”
“Good.” She smiles at me, hand still on her full stomach, and desire arrows through my center. “But not orgasmic?”
I tighten my grip on the stem of my wine glass. It’s empty but I tip it back anyway. I’m desperate for the distraction.
I can’t stop looking at her full lips. The inside edges are darkened with wine. I wonder if they’d taste like wine too. How they’d feel wrapped around my dick. If she keeps smiling at me this way, all softness and eagerness and contentment—
