Chapter Seventeen MURPHY
Chapter Seventeen
M URPHY
When I get to Wes’s cabin later that evening, I stand outside his door for a few minutes before knocking.
My nerves are shot. I’ve been distracted all day, trying to keep my mind off what tonight might bring. The two of us alone and tucked away in his cabin. Possibly finishing what we started in the kitchen several weeks ago.
Letting out a long breath to calm my nerves, I finally knock. I hear movement inside, a thump, and then footsteps.
When Wes answers, he gives me that smile—the one that’s charming as hell, that about knocked me off my feet the first time I saw it at the gas station—before inviting me inside. I’m instantly hit with the delicious aroma of something warm and rich.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door and then tugging me in for a kiss. One that’s somehow both chaste and sensual at the same time.
I grin at him once he pulls away. “Hi.”
He leans in and kisses me one more time, then turns and heads into the little kitchenette in the corner.
“I don’t have the same supplies here as I do in the restaurant kitchen.” He tugs something out of the tiny microwave oven on his countertop. “But all good chefs know how to use a microwave.”
I cross the room, grinning when I see the little mugs with brownies inside. Wes then pulls a small container of vanilla ice cream from the freezer and scoops some into each of the mugs.
“This is perfect,” I tell him. “Nothing sounds better right now than a warm brownie with some ice cream.”
He grins, hands me a mug, and then clinks his against mine.
“Bon appétit . ”
We lean against the counters as we enjoy our treat, making small talk about how training went in the afternoon, when Wes went over everything the new servers and hosts need to know.
“I can’t believe we’re opening in two days.” I shake my head. “It feels so fast.”
“It always feels fast,” he tells me, finishing off his last bite and then putting his mug and spoon in the sink. “I’ve never opened a restaurant and felt ready on the first day. You just have to jump in and make it work, or it’ll never happen.”
I nod. “I guess that makes sense. How many restaurants have you opened?”
“Five.”
My eyebrows rise. “Wow. That’s a lot.”
“It is. And it’s always exhausting, but it’s also incredibly gratifying.”
“Really?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Just all the work that goes into it. You know, chefs are inherently people who find pleasure in feeding others. There’s a kind of satisfaction that comes along with preparing a meal and knowing that someone who was hungry has now been fed. Most chefs aren’t a part of a restaurant’s opening, so they don’t get to see all the nitty-gritty and hours of prep and planning that go into the months and years before that first service.”
Wes takes my mug once I’ve finished my last bite and places it next to his in the sink.
“And there is nothing like putting in all that work, plating the first meal, and looking out into the dining room to see someone smile as they eat what you’ve made.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever thought about any of that before. Or how much joy might come from watching someone eat what you cook. Is that—”
My words choke off, and I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks when I realize what I was about to ask him.
A curious look comes over Wes’s face. “Is that what?”
I nibble on my lip for a second, considering, before I decide to just ask.
“Is that how you felt when you made me the butternut squash ravioli?”
Wes’s voice dips low. “You mean, did I get pleasure out of feeding you?” A mischievous grin lifts the edges of his lips. “Of course I did.” Then he takes a step forward, his body coming close to mine. “It’s why I made you brownies tonight, too.”
“It is?”
He braces his arms on either side of me against the counter, caging me in. “You make these little sounds when you like the way something tastes,” he continues, his mouth dropping so it’s close to my ear. “Little moans that turn me on.”
I close my eyes.
Any other time, I’d be curious what he means, the idea that a small sound could turn someone on a new concept to me.
But having his voice rumbling low and sensual in my ear is sending little threads of lust to every corner of my body, and his words make perfect sense.
“You closed your eyes,” he continues, pressing his lips, light and soft, against the curve of my neck. “Moaned around your spoon.” He kisses the underside of my jaw. “And it made me wonder what other things I could do to make you moan.”
He kisses my mouth then, and the taste of him is mixed with the hint of chocolate and vanilla, the sweetest treat I can ever remember on my tongue.
Wes moves his hands to my waist, grips my ass and squeezes, then trails up the back of my shirt. His fingers trace lightly against my bare back, sending shivers racing through my body. I feel my nipples go hard when he unhooks my bra and slips his hands under the cups.
I whimper into his mouth when he pinches them, my own hands grabbing on to his biceps, partially to keep my balance and partially because I’m desperate to touch him any and everywhere I can.
My top is off seconds later, Wes pulling it over my head, and my bra immediately after that. And then he licks up the center of my breasts, his hands pressing them together before he turns his head slightly and strokes his tongue in circles around one taut bud.
I squirm, the sensation tugging at something in my core. My hands come up to the back of his head, my fingers stroking through his hair.
He groans, then switches to my other breast as his hands begin to work at the button on my jeans.
“I’m on the pill,” I tell him, feeling out of breath even though I’ve barely moved.
Wes begins kissing down my stomach, then drops to his knees, tugging at my zipper and beginning to shimmy my pants down my legs.
“Good to know, but we’re not having sex tonight.”
My body freezes. “What?”
He continues working at my pants, but looks up at me with a mischievous grin. “We’re going to open the restaurant this weekend, and then on our first day off, I’m taking you on a date.”
Wes taps my right foot and I lift it off the ground. He tugs my pants off my right leg, then repeats on the left.
“So then what are we doing?” I ask, realizing that I’m standing in just my underwear in the middle of Wes’s kitchen, while he’s still fully dressed.
“Having a little ... dessert,” he replies, that mischief still present in every line of his smile.
His hands stroke up my legs, the gentle movements again sending shivers through my body. He traces along the backs of my knees and then the sides of my thighs before his fingers slip under the edges of my panties and tug them up just slightly.
I moan, the movement causing a tiny bit of pressure against my clit, and I shift my hips, wanting so desperately for things to continue.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I tell him as he slides my underwear to the side, exposing my lips to his gaze. “I won’t be mad at you for keeping sex off the table tonight if you promise to let me give you a blow job.”
He pauses, looking up at me with an arched brow. “Is this a trick?”
I laugh, but it turns to a moan as Wes presses his lips against me, and I feel his tongue stroke through my center. “Oh fuck.”
Watching him is incredibly erotic, the visual mixing with the physical pleasure, and then he grips one of my thighs and lifts to the side, opening me up so his tongue is able to stroke along every ridge and valley.
My head falls back as he slips one finger and then two inside of me, the pressure ratcheting up my response. I grab my breasts and begin tugging on the tips, and it’s only a few seconds later that I feel the warmth pooling below my belly button, letting me know I’m heading toward the peak.
“Wes, I’m almost there,” I tell him, looking back to where he’s still kneeling before me.
“What do you need?” His fingers still pulse gently inside me, and his tongue flutters against my clit.
Instead of answering, I pull away from him, then tug him up off his knees and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my mouth to his. Then I’m pushing him backward as we kiss, my fingers making quick work of his fly.
“Last time, you made me come alone,” I tell him as I reach for his belt. “What I need is for us to come together.”
He tugs his shirt over his head as I push his pants to the floor, but I pause when I see the extensive tattoos covering his skin.
“How did I not know about these?” I ask, roaming my hands along his chest and shoulders, then down his arms.
It’s my first time seeing him shirtless, and I’m almost irritated that I didn’t get to see him like this sooner.
“Long sleeves and chef coats,” he tells me, and then I feel his body shiver at the way I’m lightly tracing my hands over his skin. “Besides, I didn’t want you objectifying me.”
I pin him with an amused look, enjoying the way his smile stretches across his face.
“Okay, I’m joking. Can you please objectify me as often as possible?”
I laugh, but Wes cuts me off by pressing his lips to mine again, and then we’re falling into his bed, our kissing a much more languid affair, our hands moving and touching and stroking anywhere we can.
When Wes’s hands travel between my legs again, I follow, letting my hand reach between his legs and grip on to the thick length of him. He moans into my mouth, then bites my lip just a pinch too hard, the move sending a shot of pleasure through me.
He feels large in my hand, warm, and I can feel the throb of his pulse as I stroke him up and down.
“God, you drive me crazy,” he says, shifting his hips and thrusting into my palm. “Why is everything with you so damn good?”
I twist my hand and his head falls back. His hand stills where he’d been drawing infuriatingly slow circles around my clit.
“I want to taste you when you come,” he tells me, his voice raspy and strained. “Sit on my face.”
I smile, maneuvering my body so I’m straddling him backward. His hands come between my thighs and tug me backward, and his mouth is back on me, his arms wrapping around my hips and holding me there.
I cry out and begin shifting my hips against him, before dropping down and taking his dick deep into my mouth until I feel the tip of him against the back of my throat.
Wes shouts, the wet heat of my mouth surprising him, and then he dives back into my pussy. We’re both ravenous, the joy of giving and receiving pleasure driving each of us forward, our movements beginning to mirror each other.
The warmth at my core begins to build again, and I grip his thighs, moaning as I suck, desperate for him to come when I do.
And when I feel my body tip over the edge, white heat races through me, constricting each muscle in my body. Wes follows seconds later, and I pull off to stroke him through it.
I roll off Wes and collapse on the bed beside him, trying to catch my breath as little tremors still flicker their way through me.
“When we actually have sex, you’re going to kill me,” he says, his words coming out between pants.
I giggle, trying to imagine how anything could possibly be better than what just happened between us.
Wes shifts his body and crawls around so that he’s now sprawled next to me, slipping his arm under my head and tugging me close.
Eventually, we fall asleep like that. Our arms wrapped around each other.
Naked.
Sated.
Warm.
Together.
I’m wrapping up the second day of training for the waitstaff when Micah steps through the doors. I can see two of my new part-time hostesses visibly swoon at the sight of him, and I know anything else I say is going to be in one ear and out the other.
“I’ll see you all here tomorrow at three,” I say. “Good job, everyone.”
As the staff shuffles around, grabbing their things, I head over to Micah.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Just swinging through to see how things are going,” he says, but it feels like there’s more on his mind.
Part of me wants to find out what Wes is up to. I haven’t seen him much all day. I’ve been too focused on training and getting the final details wrapped for all the visuals through the restaurant. It’s wild how much time can fly by when you’re setting up table centerpieces and rolling napkins, even when several people are helping.
But I haven’t seen my baby brother nearly enough since I moved home, so I’m thrilled that he’s stopped by unexpectedly. And I know I should take advantage of this opportunity to spend some time with him.
“I have to slip the final menus into their covers. Wanna help?”
He grins. “Sure.”
We make quick work of setting up a station where my brother slips the left page in and then passes it to me to add the right. And as we work, Micah talks about one of the vines on the west side of the property that has contracted red blotch, a new virus that has been identified only in the past few years that impacts the flavor of the grape.
“The plan is to tug up the current roots and plant new sav ones. Red blotch doesn’t really affect the whites as much, so we’ll test that for a little while to see if that’s a long-term solution.”
Micah is smart. Really smart.
Sometimes I wonder if my dad and brother give him the credit he deserves for the incredible way his mind works.
“Do you think . . .”
My voice trails off when I spot Wes emerging from the kitchen, his chef coat slung over his shoulder. He slows briefly when he sees Micah and gives us both a wave before crossing through the restaurant and heading out the door.
“Still wanna pretend like nothing’s going on?” Micah’s voice drags my attention away from Wes’s retreating form and back to where we’re seated. “Because the way you’re looking at him with hearts in your eyes says otherwise.”
I return my focus to the menus, not answering Micah right away, uncertain about what I really want to share.
We’ve always been close, the two of us. Much closer than either of us ever were with Memphis, especially as we got older. And because he has a much higher emotional IQ than my father or older brother, I’ve always tended to be a lot more vulnerable around him. More transparent about the inner workings of my mind.
I’m not entirely sure I want to share what’s been going on between me and Wes with Micah, though. Mostly because it’s so new and still feels fragile.
And partly because sharing kissing stories with my brother doesn’t sound like the most comfortable conversation.
“At least tell me this,” Micah says, tapping my hand lightly to get my attention. “Are you doing this to fuck with Dad or Memphis?”
My eyebrows twist violently. “What are you talking about?” The insinuation lands like a stone in my gut.
He assesses me for a moment before he answers. “I know there’s a lot riding on the restaurant. I’m just making sure you’re not trying to rock the boat.”
I shake my head. “I can’t imagine a world where I would even consider —” I shake my head again. “I would never do anything to intentionally jeopardize the vineyard or the family or the restaurant, okay?”
Micah shrugs. “I know you wouldn’t, but I had to ask.”
Irritation bristles inside me. The entire time I’ve known Wes, it has seemed like the concern has always been how Dad or Memphis might react to us crossing this invisible boundary. He made it clear that this job was the utmost priority.
It never occurred to me that anyone in my family would assume I’m doing something nefarious. Like some kind of sabotage. That is just ... wild. And hurtful.
“Look, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” Micah says, his voice soft. He reaches out and places a hand on mine. “I’ve just been really concerned about things with the vineyard. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
It doesn’t surprise me that my brother instantly catches on to how hurt I am. He’s sensitive like that. Knows how to pay attention to the small things.
And knowing that there really are some serious problems going on at the vineyard, I can’t be too mad at him for picking up on the fact things are in a precarious spot.
So I place my other hand on top of his and give it a squeeze.
“Love you,” I whisper.
“Love you,” he whispers back.
We continue working on the menus, leaving the conversation of Wes behind and instead returning to the vines.
It’s the topic my brother loves the most, so it isn’t surprising that he slips right back into it.
Something warms in my heart, sitting here, setting up menus with my baby brother. Knowing that I get these moments with him now that I’m back home makes a rickety part of my heart click into place.
I think it’s the first time I’ve truly felt thankful to be back.
The very next day, we’re opening the doors for our first dinner when Memphis drops a bomb on me.
“I need you to go get your guitar.”
I look at my brother, confusion surely covering every square inch of my face.
“We’re ten minutes into our first service,” I tell him, plucking a few menus from the basket at the host stand. “I’m not going to get my guitar.”
“You have everyone working tonight, and I know they know what they’re doing because I watched you train them. They’re good without you. But the guy who was supposed to be playing live music called and said he had a family emergency and wouldn’t be coming, so ...” He points to the spot in the corner where I performed for the family dinner, where there’s now a stool and microphone set up. “I need you to do it.”
I roll my eyes. “The guests will be fine without music, Memphis.”
“Murphy, you asked me what you could do to help,” he says. “You said you have extra hands. This is what I need.”
I pin him with a glare and purse my lips. “You don’t get to just pull that out every time you want me to do something. And there’s no way that me singing tonight is going to help save the vineyard, or whatever.”
“Murphy, please?”
I grit my teeth, my eyes tracking around the room. But as hard as I try to find something I desperately need to be doing right now, it’s very clear that Harper and Enid are fine at the host stand without me, and that the servers on the floor are in control and doing their jobs.
So I let out a loud, grating sigh and untie my apron from around my waist. “Fine.” I chuck the black fabric at his chest. “But don’t ever spring something like this on me again.”
He beams at me. “You won’t regret it.”
I ask Enid to keep an eye on things for me before heading out the front door and finding the little golf cart that Dad likes to drive around the property. I ride it through the vineyard and over to the house. It takes me only a few minutes each way, and before I know it, I’m unbuckling my case and throwing the guitar strap around my shoulders.
The conversation across the room quiets just slightly, and I see people glancing at me with interest as I twist the pegs and pluck at the strings.
Something thick coats my throat, and I clear it a few times before feeling fully ready to go. I lift onto the stool and place one heel on a footrest, leaving the other on the floor. I scan the room and remind myself that I’ve done this before. That this is just for tonight ... just for Memphis and to help out.
I strum lightly against the strings, playing a melody as I try to decide what song to start with.
“Play your stuff, Murphy,” Memphis says as he walks past me with menus in hand and a group following behind him. “No covers.”
I actually smile at that and begin to strum the notes to “Tragic Mess,” the song I sang to Wes in the car when he was having his anxiety attack. Closing my eyes, I begin to sing, staying far enough away from the mic that I’m giving our patrons some light background music instead of a full-fledged performance.
This was a song I wrote in high school, surprisingly. It perfectly encapsulates my hormonal teenage years—all the times I felt like I wasn’t enough coming together in a single song.
As I’m singing the last chorus, I glance to the side and see Wes standing just outside the kitchen, his gaze thoughtful on me.
He’s seen me perform before, though the first time it wasn’t my own music and the second time it was a quiet solo performance in his car. So something proud and beautiful blooms in my chest at the way he’s watching me. At the way he’s nodding his head along with the beat of it.
There’s a pride there. A happiness for me that has nothing to do with him.
I’m starting to learn that Wes is selfless like that.
And it makes me love him even more than I already do.