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

Chapter 6

Six

Jean-Michel

I know I shouldn’t be here.

I know I could have DoorDashed the food, had one of my assistants—aside from Marie because she’s too fucking smart and asking too many questions already—drop by the wine.

Christ, Tiff was clearly in the shower, ready to wind down for the day, and I’m…

Here.

In a tiny studio apartment in a semi-decent part of town with no fucking security or doorman.

I was able to walk right up to the door, to knock, to be let into her space.

A space that’s cluttered, but clean beneath the smattering of books and pens and notecards and laundry and dishes in the sink. It’s warm and bright and homey—the space of someone who cares.

And who likes her school supplies.

My mouth tips up as I glance at the pencils and pens I picked up from the floor. I take in the writing, crisp and neat and clean, before what’s really on the card catches my focus. I pause for a moment, studying the eclectic mishmash of words emblazoned on the notecards—French and German and…Japanese? Korean? I’m not as familiar with Asian languages, but I’ve studied a little bit in preparation and during meetings in the countries. Not enough to be fluent, but like I began when I started learning German—wanting to know how to navigate the country when I traveled there, knowing it would give me an edge if I can pick up some words when the people I’m negotiating with don’t think I can read or speak it.

This mix she has, though, is an interesting smattering.

“What’s in the bag?” she blurts, and I freeze, my eyes going to hers, all thoughts of language left behind.

God, she’s pretty.

Kissable lips, gentle curves, deep chocolate eyes that draw a man’s focus. Not to mention that flush from her shower spreading out into a blush on her cheeks, trailing along her throat.

Tempting, so fucking tempting.

To drag my mouth down her neck, to spread the fabric of her robe, to?—

“What’ll you give to find out?” I ask, my voice a rasp.

“Wh-what?”

Her brows draw together and she looks so young, so innocent.

While I’m sitting here, lusting after her.

And I feel like a sick fuck all over again.

She’s just a couple of years older than my daughter, Chrissy. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be thinking this shit.

I’m a decade and a half older than her.

It’s fucking despicable.

And yet, I don’t get up and leave.

Something in me makes it so I can’t .

Instead, I repeat, “What will you give to find out?”

Confusion in those deep chocolate eyes. “What will I g-give?”

She’s close enough for me to spot the golden flecks in her irises, to smell the soft floral scent of her shampoo, and the urge to see more than just the sliver of skin bared by her robe parting is intense. I want to push the fabric further apart, expose that lush thigh, the full trail of freckles leading higher, calling for my fingers and lips and…my tongue.

“Yeah, buttercup, what will you give?”

I want to kiss that befuddled look off her face.

Instead, I extend a hand in her direction, helping her to her feet, snagging the bag—and the bottle—on our way up.

I don’t release her hand as I walk to the tiny kitchen that’s really just a slip of countertop, a fridge, range-microwave combination, and the…sink full of dishes.

It’s not that many dishes.

The sink is tiny.

But she was embarrassed by them, I saw it in the way her shoulders sagged when she spotted what could barely be considered a mess before she hurried by them, heading to straighten up her laundry.

I turn my back on them now, set the bag I brought on that small slip of counter, the bottle of wine beside it.

Then I release her hand and pull out what I brought.

Meat. Cheese. Bread. And…

Ice cream.

Her mouth parts, and though I don’t hear the shaky exhale, I see it in the trembling of her bottom lip.

“Everyone should have ice cream,” I murmur.

“I—” She shoves back a strand of hair that’s fallen in her face, and I see what’s been nagging at me.

The dark circles under her eyes.

The pale skin beneath the blush.

The fatigue that seems to cling to her bones.

The—

Her stomach rumbles, and even though her hand moves to cover it, the sound is unmistakable.

She’s hungry.

I nod toward the only door—besides the entrance to her apartment—in the space. It’s open, a steamed-up mirror visible. “Go get your pajamas on,” I order.

“Jean-Michel?—”

“PJs, buttercup.”

Her eyes flash with something, but I ignore it. I have to ignore it.

“ PJs.”

“But—”

I step close, cup her cheeks in my palms, and tilt her head up. This time I hear it, the shaky exhale. This time I feel it on my skin, that trembling puff of air.

“PJs.” It’s a rasp, but coupled with a gentle shove back, she finally nods and turns away, walking to a beat up dresser shoved against the far wall, opening a drawer with a soft screech.

I watch as she snags some clothing, moves to the bathroom.

She darts a glance over her shoulder at me, lips parting again.

Click.

Then the door is shut.

In an effort to distract myself from the fact that her robe is no doubt sliding off, exposing all of those dangerous curves, that naked silky skin, I focus.

Ice cream in the freezer.

A plate from one of the cabinets that I fill with the salami, with several pieces of bread I saw off the loaf with a dull bread knife. I use an equally dull knife to cut hunks of cheese and set them next to the bread and meat.

I’m just washing the last knife when the bathroom door opens with a soft squeak.

I set the knife on the drying rack, turn around, and…

Freeze.

Christ. I thought the robe was bad.

The expanse of her legs on display, the material parting with each movement, tempting me.

Her pajamas?

Fuck.

When did simple cotton ever look so sexy?

On Tiff it does.

The long-sleeved T-shirt clings to her wrists, her forearms and biceps, her…

Breasts.

My curse rumbles up in my chest, and I barely bite it back.

I’ve always been a breast man, and the pair that Tiff has been hiding are magnificent—high and round, perfect to fit in my palms as I hold them, kiss them, tease the hardened peaks of her nipples. They push against the plain black fabric of her shirt and the material cups them back just as lovingly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, pausing, her brows dragged together, her head tilting to the side.

I tear my gaze from her tits and drag it back up to her face, though not without taking a detour to the curves of her hips, the thighs I want wrapped around my waist. “Come here, baby,” I murmur.

Her eyes go wide, but to her credit, she starts walking again.

But only for a second.

Because she trips, and I lunge toward her, our bodies colliding as I wrap an arm around her waist to steady her.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Considering I get to feel those gorgeous tits pressed to my chest, I’m not thinking any apologies are necessary. I soak in that feeling, know that I’m a fucking scumbag for enjoying it, even as I’m unable to set her away from me.

Thankfully, her stomach rumbles again before I say what I’m thinking out loud, and it gives me something to do besides being a pervert.

I draw her back into the kitchen. “Here,” I say, taking the plate and all but shoving it into her hands. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

She takes it, and I expect her to sit at the tiny round table pushed into the corner, or to maybe take it to the couch.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she just holds the plate and stares down at it. “Why did you do this?”

“It’s not fancy,” I say, feeling oddly hesitant. I look away, snagging the opener I found in one of the drawers, along with the single wine glass, and pour her some of the Petite Sirah I brought. She put back a bottle of cabernet this morning, but Oak Ridge produces an award-winning Sirah.

Was I trying to impress her when I chose this bottle from my wine fridge?

Of course I was.

Am.

Which is why I get my shit together and draw her over to the tiny excuse for a couch, set the glass on the coffee table.

She looks up and her expression is…unreadable. “Jean-Michel?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why are you doing this?”

I still, my lungs wanting to spasm, but I push the sensation down.

I don’t want to think about why I’m doing this, not closely anyway. I just want to do it.

Then I go back to the bottle of wine, pushing in the stopper. “I don’t know,” I admit.

Which is a big fucking admission for a man like me.

Something she seems to sense.

Because she goes still, quiet.

“I should go,” I say into that silence. “Let you get on with the rest of your night.”

She doesn’t reply…which is a reply in of itself.

And I know that despite the urge to stay, to make sure she eats, sleeps, I’ve probably pushed it far enough.

I’m a stranger who all but kidnapped her and then showed up unannounced at her apartment.

I really should go.

I turn for the door.

“I’ll go?—”

“Jean-Michel?”

My gaze swivels to the couch and I see she’s watching me, brown eyes intent. “Yeah, buttercup?”

“Did you?—?”

She pauses, cheeks going pink, but before I can prompt her, she goes on.

“Did you maybe want to stay a while?”