Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Prescott
“What drink would you have paired with this dish?” I cross my feet at the ankles and lean back in my chair.
I really need to go. I’m already risking an interrogation from Papa.
I’ve spent the whole day with Haven, and I’m still with him.
It’s just so comfortable. The conversation is flowing.
And Haven cooking in the kitchen in his tight shirt with his wide shoulders is a treat I don’t ever get. “Something from Foster House?”
“Whiskey. All the way.” He stuffs the last bite of his coleslaw in his mouth. The man didn’t just serve me fried fish. He had cubed melon and fresh coleslaw already in his fridge, and he took a box of cookies out of the freezer.
The guys I’ve dated before never had their shit together this well. “Butter Barrel or Haven’s Rye?”
“Either. The food is mild enough. Our Golden Nugget would be good too. You haven’t tried that yet.”
He gets up and goes to a wooden stand in the corner. It’s like an armoire but for spirits. On one side, he selects a bottle of amber liquid. From the other side, he gathers two glasses in one hand, the same as the ones he had me drink from at the tasting room, and brings them to the table.
“You’re prepared,” I say, shifting my chair to face him more.
“I didn’t have to be a Boy Scout to learn some skills.” He moves his chair so we’re facing each other and pours a small amount into each glass. “I know you have to work, but you have to taste Golden Nugget before you go.”
He doesn’t drink his. He watches me as I raise the glass. Awareness dances over my skin. Maybe it’s because his attention is on me, but I take my time. I swirl the glass slowly. Sensually. His pupils dilate.
There should be nothing sexy about this moment.
I’m in moisture-wicking material, the smell of the river and neoprene waders clinging to me.
My hair must be a frizzed halo around my head, and my skin feels both sticky and oily from the sunscreen.
Yet the way he’s looking at me, it’s like I’m in a slinky dress that flatters the flare of my hips and the pooch of my belly that no shapewear can hide.
I put the glass to my lips, and he leans forward. His gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes and back down. The thin ring of his brown irises is midnight against the black pupil.
Tipping the glass ever so slightly, the whiskey hits my lips and then my tongue. My heart beats slow and steady, hard thump after thump fortifying my nerves. Why am I doing this? Why am I at his house? I should be at work.
“How is it?” His rough voice distracts me enough that I forget to shut off my nose. Whiskey sears the back of my throat and swoops up into my sinuses. I start coughing .
“Shit. Sorry.” He jumps up and retrieves a glass of water.
I gather myself together enough to take the water. “It’s not your fault.” It is, but not in the way he thinks.
“Yes, it is. Golden Nugget is one of our strongest whiskeys, and it’s a rye. Very peppery.”
I’ll say it is. I nod and polish off my water. “Whiskey just isn’t my thing.”
He scoots his chair closer. “Some of it just needs to be softened. Add a little water to it.”
I eye him dubiously, but he reaches next to me, mere inches away, and takes my mostly empty glass of water. He shakes two drops into the glass of whiskey.
“Try it now.” The stern but encouraging way he says it is apparently a new kink of mine. Kneel and take it into your mouth. I’d do it without thinking.
I have to be logical. It’s just whiskey. “That little amount of water is going to make that much difference?”
“For some palates, it makes all the difference. Drink.”
I go through the same motions, but only because he’s on the edge of his seat, our knees touching. He needs me to put my lips on this glass. So I do.
This time, I don’t burn my vocal cords or singe my sinuses. I roll the whiskey on my tongue.
No way. The peppery sting isn’t as strong, and the flavors sink into my taste buds instead of assaulting them. “Oh, wow. It’s better. Just a little water does that? What else?”
His gaze stays on mine, the brown swirling with his thoughts. My pulse kicks up a few notches. Why do I feel like I never want to move from this spot ever?
Then he picks up his untouched whiskey and takes a drink.
But he doesn’t swallow. Instead, he leans even closer and cups my chin.
Despite my confusion, I sway toward him, closing the distance.
He places his lips on mine, tickling the sensitive skin around my mouth, and scoots to the edge of his chair, coaxing me to do the same.
Our legs are intertwined, and damn, my ass is barely on the seat.
But his knee is right there. Close enough to grind on.
As if his voice is in my head, I part my lips. He opens his and a trickle of whiskey slips into my mouth.
I moan. The flavor is warmer, richer. Spicy.
I guess I am a whiskey girl.
More smooth liquid fills my mouth, and I drink him in. He sweeps his tongue in, and I grip his shirt, meeting him stroke for stroke. It’s like I’ve been parched for months, and he’s here with all the life-saving water I need in the form of whiskey.
My fingers are curled so tight in the material of his shirt that his heart hammers against them. I’m not the only one affected by this kiss.
Oh god. A kiss.
I’m kissing Haven, and I don’t want to stop.
I rip away with a gasp, and he lurches forward. I’ve still got a hold on his shirt. My fingers are stiff when I let go. “Sorry.”
“Why?” He hasn’t backed away. His lips are glistening. Mine must be the same. Swollen and puffy. Demanding more.
I rise, pushing away the chair and dancing out from between it and him. Meadow raises her head from a bed that looks new.
He stands behind me. “Prescott.”
“I’ve got to get to work.” I continue through the kitchen. What was I thinking? Now I know how well he kisses. That wasn’t just any lightning-fast make-out session either. He gave me a special tasting. He showed me what whiskey tastes like with him in it.
How many others have gotten that?
Ugh. This is why I don’t mess around with guys like him. Attractive. Charming. Successful. Someone like me will never be enough.
“Red.”
I push through the front door, but it doesn’t slam shut behind me.
“Prescott, please.”
It’s the please . I stop and turn. Irritation rises like sandpaper across my skin.
Prescott, please. It was just a kiss.
Prescott, please. It didn’t mean anything.
Prescott, please. Did you really think I would be happy with only you?
“I don’t want a relationship,” I say firmly, but his fraught gaze digs into my chest. “You really do seem like a decent guy, but I’m really not in a place to trust anyone. And I’m not in the mindset where I can kiss and have it mean nothing.”
The stress in his features eases, but the concern remains. “You’re telling me that it’s not me, it’s you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not you, Prescott. It’s everyone who let you down.”
“Do you mean my dad? Or every cheating ex in my dating history? Because there’s been more than one.”
Anger flares in his eyes. “Fuck those guys.” His expression flickers. “Well, not Silas, but you know what I mean.”
“Usually, they fucked someone else. There’s always someone better.”
“Not all men are like them. ”
“So you’re telling me that you’re ready to get serious?
” The way he draws back tells me everything.
“I’m done being good enough for a good time, but not a long time.
” I continue to my car. “The next guy I get serious with is going to be endgame. There’s going to be monogamy and vows.
Commitment. Real commitment and not smoke and mirrors and endless hours, days, weeks to himself.
No more excuses for years for why he can’t settle. ”
Haven works his jaw back and forth. He stares into the distance.
Yep. That’s what I thought. “Thanks for the fishing experience. I’ll still honor the senior pictures. And the lasagna.” Crap, there’s more. “The old movie. And the birthday cake. But that’s all. Experiences. Without kisses.”
His brows draw together. “Experiences without kisses?” A muscle in the corner of his jaw flexes, but he nods. “See you.”