Chapter Twelve
I t was a long drive to Napa, almost six hours from the studio, but Evan felt like he spent most of it half-hard, blood simmering in anticipation of what they might do when they finally got to the hotel Miles had booked.
Miles seemed like he wanted it too, just as much as Evan did. The looks he’d been shooting Evan’s direction were hardly subtle, and his comments were even less so. And every so often he’d put his hands on Evan, casually, in the middle of a conversation, like it didn’t mean anything at all.
But it meant a lot. It meant that Miles worked him up and then carefully made sure he never really calmed down.
Instead of pulling into the hotel parking lot, they sailed right past, and Evan tried not to look too frantic as he opened his phone to verify the reservation. “This was the place,” he said, trying to sound calm and not panicked. Relaxed.
He’d never considered himself particularly sex-obsessed before, but he craved Miles powerfully now that he’d actually allowed himself to.
“What?” Miles asked, as laid-back as ever. Evan wanted to strangle him and also shove his dick down his throat. He really hated how desperate Miles had made him—just by being himself.
“That was our hotel,” Evan got out in a strangled voice. “We just passed it!”
“Oh yeah,” Miles said. “It was. Good eye.”
“What are you doing!” Evan didn’t even recognize his own voice.
“Don’t worry,” Miles said, leaning over and resting a warm palm conveniently on Evan’s thigh. Evan sucked in a breath. “We’ll get there soon enough. I made us a wine tasting reservation first. A few of them, actually.”
“A few?” Evan squeaked.
Miles shot him a soft, scorching smile. “A few, yeah. Is that a problem?”
If Miles thought Evan was going to be the first to break down and demand sex, he was crazy.
“No,” Evan said, pulling himself back together only because he’d done it his whole life. “I’m good.”
It was a complete and total lie, and Miles’ expression made it clear he knew just how untruthful Evan was being.
“Yeah, you are,” Miles said, and his voice was a slick caress across Evan’s skin.
He was going to kill him by the time they made it back to the hotel. Or maybe he’d do as Miles had suggested and just fuck him to death.
“This,” the sommelier said, “is our unoaked chardonnay.” He poured a little of the golden liquid into each of their glasses. Evan shifted uncomfortably on his wooden stool.
He’d always believed wine tasting would be fun.
Anything involving alcohol was supposed to be, right?
But from the moment they’d driven up the winding road to the huge, imposing winery, with its expensive fixtures and obvious antiques, to being shown into the private tasting room, Evan had been on edge.
And not even the fun sort of edge that Miles had honed during the drive up.
This was the edge where Evan never knew what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to act, what he was supposed to say. All accompanied by the fear and horror of choosing wrong and revealing himself as a fraud.
He might look the part of a young, successful adult, but it still felt like an act and like he might be exposed at any moment.
Reed had wondered once why Evan always made sure he was meticulously prepared and so extensively researched. This was why.
But Miles had dragged him up to these wineries before he could look into their dress codes, their wine lists, their tasting room etiquettes.
Evan didn’t know how Miles could look so calm when he had no clue what he was supposed to say about the stupid wine.
Usually he looked up reviews, and formed an opinion before he even tasted it, because it helped create a good frame of reference. Evan knew he was wine-ignorant and even as he took a sip now, letting the liquid swell in his mouth, he was lost.
Miles didn’t help at all, just tasted, expression thoughtful and frustratingly blank.
“What do you think?” the sommelier asked.
Miles had introduced him as Nate, one of his roommates’ ex-boyfriends, and he looked the part of a professional sommelier—polished and urbane, his shoes probably costing more than Evan’s whole outfit.
He’d only longingly glanced at the beautifully burnished cognac leather loafers a few times before they’d sat down.
The test had come and Evan had known there was no way he could pass. He didn’t drink boxed wine, but he definitely bought wine under ten dollars. Sometimes even under seven dollars. He didn’t have a rarified or educated palate.
Even though Miles claimed not to know much either, Miles still knew more because he’d worked at Terroir, and he’d lived in Napa.
“It’s got a surprisingly buttery finish,” Miles said, saving him even though he couldn’t know how tense Evan had become at being asked to provide an opinion on the wine. “I thought you said it wasn’t oaked.”
“It’s not,” Nate sniffed.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Miles said, downing the rest of the glass.
Nate scowled. “Amazing, you’re still an asshole.”
But Miles just smiled back, all charming congeniality. “And you’re still a fucking snob. But you pour good wine, which is why we’re here. So do your job, and pour us some more wine.”
It shouldn’t have been sexy hearing Miles tell off the sommelier, but it was an unexpected turn-on.
Evan squirmed in his chair, torn between annoyance and fondness.
He shouldn’t want or like Miles as much as he did, but that ship had already sailed and there was absolutely nothing Evan could do about it now.
“This,” Nate said, shooting a snooty glare from his brown eyes, “is an oaked chardonnay.”
Evan glanced at the tasting card resting between them on the gleaming wood bar top. There was only one chardonnay listed—the one they’d just finished. He might not know anything about wine, but he did know how to read, so he spoke up.
“Which chardonnay is this one again? I don’t see it listed.”
Nate glared harder, but Miles’ gaze met Evan’s across their glasses, and they shared a conspiratorial, secret look that made Evan’s stomach somersault.
“Costa, what would your old roommates say if they knew you were dating?” The sommelier lifted a glossy brown eyebrow, flawlessly groomed.
“We’re not dating,” Evan corrected frostily, and briefly considered explaining they were just fucking. But not enough for Evan’s peace of mind.
“He’s my producer,” Miles said, completely breaking protocol by reaching over and pouring some more of the first chardonnay in his glass. “And that second chardonnay is disgusting. Don’t pour that again.”
He looked over at Evan, and the warmth in his expression made Evan wonder if he’d lied earlier. Were they dating? Was this a date? Was this whole weekend a date? Weren’t you supposed to go on a lot of silly, short dates before you took someone on a weekend getaway?
It was stupid to even think it. They didn’t even like each other, and they couldn’t stop fighting for five minutes put together.
But the times they weren’t fighting? Evan lived for those moments.
For the soft, sweet Miles who made him want to be soft and sweet too.
Miles, who made him believe that he could be, even though he’d assumed for so long that he was hopeless.
Too shut off, too closed, too much of a workaholic.
Miles made him want things he couldn’t define.
“And to answer your question, we’re going to a late dinner at the house tonight, so maybe you can call up Wyatt and ask him what he thinks.”
Nate stiffened, and Evan would have had to be a lot more obtuse to miss the flash of hurt in his eyes. It was gone almost instantly, but it had been unmistakable.
“This,” Nate said coldly after they’d drained their glasses, “is one of our library cabernet sauvignons. I hope your palate will appreciate it.”
It was rich and complex, an enigmatic combination of the light and the dark. And Evan said so, out loud, before he could stop himself.
Nate merely looked constipated, but Miles smiled encouragingly. “It is good,” he said. “Surprisingly dark, smooth finish, but light and drinkable. I like it.” He downed the glass. “And you already know my palate won’t appreciate it.”
“True,” Nate said. “But you,” and he pointed to Evan, “actually have some potential, unlike that idiot sitting next to you.”
Evan was almost stupid enough to protest, because of course he didn’t have any potential.
He drank cheap wine. He didn’t really care too much what it tasted like—in fact, he ignored what it tasted like, because for so long, he couldn’t afford anything better, and drinking wine at all had felt like a luxury, like he was better than he really was.
But all that did was force him to remember who he was and where he’d come from.
If Nate the snooty sommelier said his palate had potential, then it did.
Miles’ smile was supportive. “Don’t give him too many ideas, he’ll be talking about cigar smoke and mahogany next.” His hand reached out and rested on Evan’s knee. It was big and warm and delicate and it made Evan shiver. He wanted to drag Miles away and damn the wine tasting to hell.
How Miles ever thought he was going to relax while winding him tighter than he’d ever been, Evan wasn’t sure.
Nate poured a merlot next, which was apparently the winery’s newest release. This time he looked to Evan for his impressions, barely glancing at Miles.
Emboldened by the compliment to his palate and the wine he’d already drunk, Evan felt marginally more comfortable offering his opinion. “It’s spicy and burns a little, but a good burn,” he said cautiously.
“You really shouldn’t bring him over to that hellhole,” Nate said as they were getting ready to go.
They hadn’t bought any wine, but when they were getting ready to go, Nate had pushed over a bottle in a brown paper bag.
“For tonight,” was all he said, and Miles had frowned.
Evan was pretty sure the frown had something to do with Nate's ex-boyfriend, Wyatt. Miles’ friend.
“It’s not a hellhole. I lived there for two years,” Miles said.