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

Chapter 7

Seven

Tiff

Dumb. Dumb.

Did I say dumb?

He was leaving, and I prolonged this torture.

I don’t even know the man.

Except that he made sure he paid me back.

Yeah, by kidnapping me.

And by bringing me the items I couldn’t afford and had to put back this morning.

And ice cream.

And he made me a makeshift charcuterie board, feeding me because he heard my stomach growl.

Well, really, he couldn’t miss my stomach growling.

But still, he sent me off to put clothes on and then made me food.

Except…he sent me off to put clothes on.

That settles some place not nice, and I almost wish I could take my request for him to stay back. Maybe this was just some sort of moral obligation and he doesn’t want to be here. Maybe….he doesn’t like what he sees.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone thought that.

But before the uncertainty can take over, before I can hop to my feet and escort him to the door, before I lock up—lock up this strange, long day, lock up these strange, unfathomable emotions—he slowly spins to face me.

He’s really quite beautiful.

His features could be on a marble statue in one of the museums I’ve dreamed about visiting.

His skin softly tanned, as though he’s spent time on a white sand beach that only exists in my fantasies.

The stubble on his jaw, the effortless fall of his hair, the strength in his body as he prowls toward me, his eyes searching mine is even more impressive than anything that existed in my mind before now.

“You would probably be wise to tell me to go,” he says softly, his hand resting on the back of the couch.

An inch from my shoulder, from tangling in the damp strands of my hair.

It would be easy to lean in, to close that distance between us.

I swivel, tucking my leg beneath myself, turning to face him.

But not summoning the courage to actually make contact with his hand.

That’s a step too far.

Coward, my inner mean girl says.

Look, I asked him to stay, okay? I snap back at her. That’s enough.

No, it’s not, she replies. Don’t you want to have something more in your life than struggling to pay for a crappy apartment while taking care of your parents?

The pang that goes through my heart is sharp enough that I lean forward, set my wine glass on the coffee table, and rub my hand over my chest, trying to soothe the ache.

Is my life small?

Yes.

Is it likely insignificant to other people?

Also, yes.

But am I alive and living out my small dreams of going to college, living on my own, and working a job when a decade ago that future was uncertain?

Yes.

And am I?—

Jean-Michel shifts and I snap out of my internal musings. Okay, my internal argument.

Something that likely makes me insane.

But also something I partake in often.

Probably because I’ve spent far too much time alone, too much time in my thoughts, too much time hoping that things could be different.

“I should go,” he says softly.

I almost let him, the nerves in my belly twining around and around, climbing up my throat, trapping my words before they can emerge.

But then I hear it.

The same sound as what emanated from my stomach all of ten minutes ago.

He’s hungry too.

“You made me food,” I whisper.

He shifts again. “I hardly call slapping a few things on a plate making you food.”

“Well, I do.”

He snorts but doesn’t otherwise comment.

I nibble at my bottom lip.

Because he also doesn’t move, and eventually, that loosens my tongue. “Have you even eaten anything since that sandwich and chips this morning?”

He rocks back slightly on his heels, a flash of surprise dancing through his expression before it goes soft, and then he does the most wonderful thing—he reaches out a takes hold of a strand of my hair, rubbing it gently between thumb and forefinger. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “I was going to get something now.”

I hold up my plate. “We can share.”

Warmth in his blue eyes. “Aw, buttercup, that’s for you.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I curl my other foot beneath me, snag the stack of mail and toss it on the table, then pat the cushion in front of me. “I’m good at sharing.”

He’s silent for long enough that I know, know he’s going to say no.

That he’s going to turn and leave.

So, it’s almost with desperation that I pat the cushion again and whisper, “Please don’t make me eat alone.”

He unsticks then, coming around to the front of the couch, sitting beside me.

My couch is tiny—more loveseat than sofa—and our legs tangle. But when I go to shift over, he places a hand on my thigh, holding me in place. That big palm scorches through the fabric of my pajamas, burning into my skin. “Here,” he says, snagging the plate from me. He sets it on the table next to the glass of wine. Then he’s tugging my feet forward, settling them in his lap.

I have my feet in a billionaire’s lap.

What alternate reality have I fallen into?

Before I can truly freak out about that, he leans forward, grabs the plate again, and tops one of the slices of bread with meat and cheese.

Then he passes it over to me.

“I—”

“You’re hungry,” he says gruffly.

“You are too.” I try to pass it back.

He pushes it toward me. “Eat, buttercup.”

“You brought it,” I protest. “You should?—”

Thunk .

The plate lands on the table and suddenly his face is in mine, his blue eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and impatience. “Just eat the fucking food, yeah?”

My throat goes tight.

I felt his words on my lips.

If I inched forward, I could?—

Well, he could.

Well, our mouths could touch and?—

He sits back, and I shake myself, see that he’s lifting his brows as though waiting for something.

Or…he’s waiting for me to eat.

Testing that, I lift the bread to my mouth, nibble at the corner of the slice. The crust has that perfect sourdough crunch, tough enough that my jaw could get tired from chewing it—if I ate an entire loaf, that is.

And I have—picking up a loaf from the store, coming home and slathering each piece with butter.

Adoring the crunchy, chewy crust and how it gives way to a fluffy, light center with the hint of sour that gives the bread its name.

A perfect complement to the sweet butter.

What Jean-Michel put together for me is even more so, especially with the addition of the creamy cheese, the salty, wafer-thin slice of meat.

Flavor sparks on my tongue, bursts out along my taste buds.

It’s simple.

It’s nothing.

And yet, it’s everything .

And pretty soon, I’ve eaten the entire slice.

I watch as he tops another piece of bread, don’t argue as he passes it over to me. But as I take it from his long, capable fingers, I say, “Your turn.”

He just jerks his chin at the food in my hands, and I sigh, start eating it.

Finishing it.

He passes me a third.

“You really should?—”

“Eat,” he orders.

I weigh continuing to argue then decide it’s just easier to eat the bread and cheese and meat. There’s more in the kitchen. I can make him a plate once he’s decided I’ve filled my belly.

Which…

By the time I finish the third and he passes me a fourth, that task is accomplished.

I’m stuffed.

And thirsty.

“Enough?” he asks.

I nod and reach for the glass of wine, but he beats me to it, snagging it from the table, leaving the decimated plate next to my laptop and cards and pens. Frowning, I ask, “What are?—”

In answer, he just lifts the glass to my lips.

“I—”

He leans close, his voice a rasp in my ear, his spicy scent teasing my nose.

Then he tips up the glass, splashing a small sip of the wine onto my tongue, and asks,

“What do you taste?”