Chapter 8
Eight
Jean-Michel
She inhales sharply.
Then promptly chokes.
“Shit,” I mutter, quickly setting the glass down, gently reaching around her and smoothing my hand up and down her back. “Easy now, buttercup.”
She coughs. “Sor?—”
“Easy,” I order. “Just take your time and breathe.”
“Sorry,” she rasps, not taking her time nor stopping to breathe.
“Tiff—”
“I’m a mess,” she says, her voice still rasping out of her. “Choking on a hundred dollar bottle of wine.”
“It’s a two-hundred dollar bottle.”
Her eyes go wide, but before she can start choking again, I pick up the glass. “Drink,” I command, “and tell me what you taste.”
Now her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Humor me.”
A spark of irritation that has my already unhealthy interest in this woman growing. Spine and steel. Sweet and soft.
“Why?” she asks again.
“Humor me,” I say again.
She sighs then takes the glass from my hand when I hold it out to her. I watch the nostrils on her cute little nose flare as she inhales.
“What do you smell?”
“Why do you care?”
“This is my job and something I enjoy.” I shrug. “I’m curious.”
“Hmm.”
“Tell me.”
“You like giving orders, don’t you?” she asks, stroking her finger along the rim of the glass. “Or is it that you’re just used to people obeying them?”
I laugh.
“What?” she asks, her brown eyes filling with some curiosity of her own.
“Tit for tat,” I say. “You ask something. I answer. I ask something. You answer.”
Her tone is tart when she says, “More orders. I should refuse on principle.”
“But you won’t.”
Her nose wrinkles.
Cute. She’s fucking cute.
“I smell berries,” she murmurs, and I can’t push down the wave of triumph that washes through me when she gives me what I asked for.
A good girl.
I can’t wait to see how good…and how bad she might be, just for me.
“What else?”
“Isn’t it my turn for a question?”
“You haven’t told me all you smell yet.”
An exhale. “Berries and chocolate and vanilla.”
“From the oak barrels it’s aged in,” I murmur.
“Is that why it’s called Oak Ridge?” she asks.
I nod. “Part of the reason.”
“Why else?”
“Drink,” I order, nudging the bottom of the glass up. “And I’ll tell you.”
“More orders.” She shakes her head, her mouth curved into a rueful smile but she obliges me and sips—then sighs in satisfaction and sips again, deeper this time.
“Good?” I ask.
“Much better than my bargain basement bottle from earlier today, that’s for sure. Now why else is your winery called Oak Ridge?”
“Because of the oak trees,” I tell her. “We have a grove of oaks that are over a hundred years old. They form this perfect circle up on the ridge, and if you step between the trunks, you’ll find a clearing filled with wildflowers and native grasses.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
“It’s my favorite place on the property. There’s nothing better than sitting on the flat rock that’s almost dead center, staring out at the view while listening to the leaves rustling and watching the clouds float by.” My mouth hitches up. “Of course, one time I found myself trying to share the space with a rattlesnake who was sunning itself on the rock and that was less enjoyable.”
“Then what happened?”
“I backed up slowly and decided that I’d go somewhere else to find my peace that day.” I grin. “Thankfully, she hasn’t been back since.”
“She?”
“I figure she was smart enough to warn me off without wasting the energy to bite, so it had to be a female snake.”
Her lips twitch.
I nudge the glass up again. “Drink and tell me what you taste.”
“Why?”
“I shared,” I remind her. “Now it’s your turn. Tit for tat, remember?”
A put-upon sigh, but her eyes are dancing. “You’re saying that I get a story about a rattlesnake and you get to hear me talk about your wine through my limited palate?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Those eyes dance again. “Works for me.” She takes another sip, exhales softly.
I lift my brows.
“Not just berries, but black berries.”
I nod.
“And definitely those notes of vanilla and chocolate and—” Her face screws up. “Something earthy like…lavender?”
I nod again. “Good, buttercup.”
She drinks again, this time without me prompting her, and I watch as she concentrates, allowing the wine to sit on her tongue, inhaling again from the glass. “It’s faint,” she says softly. “I almost can’t place it.”
“You will.”
Our stares connect, hold.
Heat blooms in her eyes, wrapping delicate phantom fingers around my cock and stroking once, twice, three ?—
“Pepper.”
Ignoring my dick, I reach forward, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good, baby.”
Pink on her cheeks, but she doesn’t comment on that, just says, “Tell me more about the rattlesnake.”
“There’s not much to say. It was a cool spring morning, and the sun was shining. She needed something to sit on while she warmed her cold blood. I gave her the space to do that and survived the day.”
She holds up the glass for me to sip from. “What do you taste?”
I don’t need to drink to know exactly what this wine tastes like.
But I do anyway, my cock twitching, knowing that my lips are where hers were only a few moments before.
I sip, allowing the complex flavor to dance over my tongue. “I taste the spice of the black pepper, the sweetness of plum, the tang of blackberries, the earthy notes lavender and the bite of dark chocolate.”
“All of that?”
I shrug, pass her back the glass. “I’ve had lots of practice tasting it.”
“I’m still impressed.”
“I’ll let my vintner know.”
“Who’s that?”
“She’s the woman who’s in charge of all things wine at Oak Ridge. I just get to cut checks, drink wine, and learn little tidbits like this bottle is one that pairs well with meats and rich cheeses.”
Tiff relaxes against the armrest and takes another sip. “Like the food you brought for me.”
I lift a shoulder, drop it in a haphazard shrug. “Yes, but it was also something I could put together without burning it or fucking up the spice ratio.”
“You’re not much of a cook?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, now,” she teases, “I guess you can’t have everything.”
I don’t want everything.
There was a time I did, a time I thought it might be the only way to survive, to exist, to thrive.
Now…I know better.
But I don’t want to think about that, don’t want to think about her .
Don’t want to taint the sweetness of this woman’s space.
Not with Angela.
Not with my many mistakes.
Not with?—
“Jean-Michel?”
I blink at the soft fingers brushing mine, the worry creeping into brown eyes.
“Are you okay?” she murmurs.
I’m okay…and I’m not. Marie would say I haven’t been okay for months, and my daughter, Chrissy, would agree with that sentiment—that I’m functioning, making it through the days, but I’m not okay.
What they both don’t know— can’t know—is that it’s been years since I’ve been okay.
Decades maybe.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing my smile back into place as I jerk my chin toward the table. “Tell me about the notecards.”
For a moment, she looks as though she’s going to argue.
But then she passes me the glass of wine again and her gaze shifts to the table. “It’s for school.”
“What are you studying?”
“I want to be a translator.” The words are quiet, as though that’s an outrageous thing to say.
Instead, I’m even more intrigued. “How many languages do you speak?”
Pink spreading out over her cheeks, but she answers me, “Three.” A shrug. “Four if you count sign language.”
“What are the other three?”
“English”—her mouth quirks—“Italian, and Spanish.”
My brows lift. “And working on German, French, and…” I glance at the cards again. “Japanese?”
“Korean,” she corrects quietly.
“Très bien.”
Her eyes go wide. “You speak French.”
“Yeah.” I touch my chest. “I’m French Canadian.”
“So you come by it naturally.”
“Growing up immersed with it definitely helps,” I agree.
“Do you speak any other languages?”
“German, Italian, Spanish—though all of those conversationally, not fluently.”
“That’s it?” she teases.
“Well, it’s not sign language or Korean,” I tease back. “And you’re young to have learned so much. When did you decide you wanted to be a translator?”
She’s silent for long time. “I spent a lot of time in the hospital as a kid,” she murmurs. “Made for plenty of opportunity to look for any way to pass the time.”
My heart spasms.
“One of the nurses spoke Spanish. I asked her to teach me.” She shrugs. “Turns out I was good at it.”
“How much is a lot of time, buttercup?”
She jerks, as though so lost in memories she forgot what she was saying. “A while according to some,” she tells me in non-answer. “But not as long as others.”
Right.
I don’t like that answer at all.
And I like it less when she hops to her feet, moves to the kitchen, saying, “You’re hungry and haven’t eaten. I’ll make you a plate.”
I shift from the couch, set the glass down, and follow her.
Liking it even less when she takes a step away from me when I get close.
“Why were you in the hospital, baby?”
Fucking hating it when she spins away from me, her hands dropping to the counter, her head dropping forward so her chin rests on her chest. She sighs deeply. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Her head comes up, eyes locking onto mine.
“Why?” she whispers. “Why do you care?”
And I reply with the only response I have,
“I don’t know.”