Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 3

Three

Tiff

I’m getting back into the car with my kidnapper.

And I can still feel the imprint of his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

“Up you go,” he mutters, opening the truck door and hefting me into the passenger’s seat with all the aplomb of lifting a bag of rocks.

I glance down at him. “I?—”

But he slams the door shut before I finish.

Then I’m watching him walk away again, this time in my side mirror, as he strides behind the back of the trunk, disappearing, meaning I miss out on those piercing blue eyes, the dark hair with the hint of silver at his temples, the stubble clinging to a strong jaw.

His door opens, drawing my gaze, and I’m surprised again at the strength of him.

He’s older than me—or at least, that’s what the gray in his hair and beard, the lines at the corners of his eyes tell me—but he’s in better shape than most of the guys I’ve seen on campus. The muscles on his forearms stand out in sharp relief, his biceps pushing at the hems of his T-shirt sleeves. Not to mention, his flat stomach and strong thighs and?—

“I like the look in your eyes, buttercup,” he murmurs, “but unless you stop, your groceries are going to go bad.”

I suck in a breath so quickly that I choke on my own spit.

And I’m rewarded for it.

Which makes no sense, but it’s the first thing I think of when his big palm settles on my back and he strokes gently, up and down, up and down, up and?—

“Drink,” he orders quietly, holding up a bottle of water.

My throat settles, and I accept the bottle of water he passes me, drinking deeply, mostly so I have something to do that isn’t staring at this beautiful man next to me.

“Okay?”

I nod.

He nods in return then grips the back of my seat, turning toward me, stealing my breath again in a rapid inhale.

At least this time I don’t choke.

Probably because his striking blue eyes aren’t focused on me.

They’re scanning the parking lot as he backs out of the stall, then focusing forward as they navigate the truck back onto the freeway.

“I…”

A flick of that piercing blue gaze in my direction—stealing my thoughts, my words.

But he doesn’t push, just looks forward and gives me the explanation I didn’t realize I was asking for. “I was working offsite today, helping with the delivery of some equipment. Things got messy”—his eyes flick down to the stains on her arms, his shirt and pants—“and I guess my phone and wallet must have fallen out.” He shakes his head. “Or I set them down on something and forgot.”

“Do you?—”

He glances at me again, and something settles in me when I don’t spy any impatience on his face.

I take a breath. Release it. Something’s that helped by the fact that we’re getting off the freeway at the correct exit and turning in the direction of the grocery store.

Only…

It’s not just relief sliding through my belly as we drive.

It’s also…disappointment.

Like some small part of me doesn’t want this interaction to end.

Dumb.

“Do you lose your phone and wallet a lot?” I ask.

We pause at a signal and he turns toward me. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t. In fact, I can’t remember a time when my cell wasn’t practically glued to my hand.”

“That sounds…”

The light turns green and we start forward, but not before I see his brows flick up in question.

“Intense,” I finish.

“My job is kind of intense.”

I think of the huge office building, the stainless steel and glass walls, the security, the assistant, and…

Then I think of the truck I’m sitting in—it’s old but in good shape, the leather seats worn, the dashboard housing an old ass radio and plenty of dirt and dust.

“Right,” I whisper. “And what exactly is that job?”

He turns into the parking lot of the grocery store and parks next to my car, which is equally as beat up.

Then again, I’m not a bigshot businessman.

“I own Oak Ridge Vineyards,” he says, and I feel my eyes go wide. That’s a huge local winery and their bottles aren’t cheap—definitely outside my grocery budget.

But then my eyes narrow, because the building didn’t have any signs about Oak Ridge. In fact, it didn’t have any signs at all.

“What’s that look for?”

“Do all wineries have giant office buildings filled with assistants and security officers?”

He puts the truck into park, and I don’t miss the approval in his eyes. “That’s because I don’t just own Oak Ridge.”

“Oh,” I whisper.

“I’m the CEO of Titan Capital.”

Now my eyes go wide again.

Titan Capital is…

Big.

Like big big.

A conglomeration of finance and tech companies who are worth…

Well, I’m not sure how many zeroes come after that first comma, but it’s billions.

And this man, who’s worried about $23.26, is the CEO?

What the heck?

“You’ve heard of it, then?” he asks.

I nod mutely then watch as his mouth kicks up, and he extends his hand over the console.

I stare at it, not sure what he wants.

Then his warm, rough fingers wrap around mine. “I’m Jean-Michel.”

The way he says it, the soft French accent wrapping around the vowels, is…well, it’s freaking hot. So hot that butterflies in my stomach take flight and I feel my pulse skipping through my veins.

He lifts a brow.

“What?” I ask quietly.

“What’s your name, baby?”

I blink. “Why?”

His mouth curves. “So I can write you your check.”

Another flicker of disappointment in my belly, but I manage to not be a total idiot when I say, “Tiffany.”

He squeezes my hand lightly. “Nice to meet you, Tiffany?—”

“My friends call me Tiff,” I blurt.

“Tiff,” he corrects, finishing the shake then releasing my hand, pulling out the checkbook his assistant brought down for him. “Tiff what?” he asks after uncapping his pen.

“Um, Hernandez,” I murmur.

A nod, his gaze focused on the check, and I press my lips together, part of me hoping that I’ll get another glimpse of those startling blue eyes, the rest of me pushing down the itch to yank at the handle and go back to my car, my quiet life.

I just…

Can’t quite make myself.

Plus, he all but kidnapped me to pay me back, he’s not going to let me go this close to the finish line.

“Well, Tiffany, Tiff , Hernandez”—I hear the rip of the check being torn free—“thank you again for your kindness.”

His head lifts, eyes locking onto mine as he extends the slip of paper.

“I didn’t do it to get paid back,” I whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing it into the palm of my hand, waiting until my fingers close around it to let go.

“Right,” I say into the silence that falls. I hitch my head toward my car. “Well, I should?—”

“Go,” he agrees, leaning back and opening the driver’s side door.

The disappointment in my belly isn’t just a flicker this time.

It’s…

“Dumb,” I whisper, shoving the check into my pocket and reaching for the handle.

But before I can wrap my fingers around the lever, the door is opened with a creak and Jean-Michel reaches for my forearm, helping me down from the seat.

It’s such a small thing, an effortless motion—one he doesn’t seem to even think about, just offering up on instinct.

Yet, it feels…

Huge.

Like I said, dumb.

I step away from the door, reach into my purse for my keys.

He takes them from me and unlocks my car, then tugs open the metal panel, nodding at me to climb in.

I sink into my seat, shove my keys into the ignition, and wrack my brain for something to say.

Only, I don’t get around to it.

“Drive safe, buttercup,” he murmurs and closes the door.

It takes me a minute to unstick and back out.

But—my eyes flick to the rearview as I exit the lot and turn toward my apartment—I don’t miss that he waits until I’ve left before he drives away.