He hurries on, “I’ve gone enough times alone that I know there would be no comparison if you were there with me.” Then he tacks on, “Plus, I’ll buy you emotional support wine.”
I scoot my chair back and make my way around the table. “That’s a pretty big sell, Mr. Walsh, but you’re leaving something important out.”
He pushes his chair back enough for me to straddle his legs. “What’s that?”
Excitement flutters in my chest when I whisper what I really want—him, naked in our hotel room—in his ear. Immediately, I feel his cock harden beneath me. “Think you can handle that?”
His fingers grip my hips so hard, I think they might leave marks. His smile is slow and sure. “Let me see if I got this right. You want me to distract you before and after the game by making love to you?”
My eyes hold his without wavering when I answer, “Non-negotiable terms.”
“You drive a tough bargain, Maya.” He says nothing after, just studies me intently for long moments. “But one I’m more than ready for. Are you?”
Am I? My pulse races, but I still manage a small nod.
He pulls me in close so I’m resting my head against his shoulder. “Then I’ll book the flights tomorrow. Kent, London, the game, and home?”
I suck in a deep breath, knowing he’s asking for so much more than a confirmation of our itinerary. This is about us coming out to every known news outlet and to my ex.
Am I ready after just a month of being with Troy twenty-four hours a day? What have I learned about him that I never knew about my high school sweetheart?
He’s honest. Kind. Loyal. Troy gets in the trenches with the people who work alongside him. He places family first and love above all.
Damn it, yes. I may not be ready to commit to forever, but I’m ready to take the next step with this man. I can already picture the way he’ll look down at me beneath a gray London sky. The way he’ll laugh when I shout obscenities at the referees. How he’ll hold me close in the middle of the night.
My newly kickstarted heart says, “You know I’m not flying to London to watch football, right?”
He kisses me slowly. When he lifts his head, he murmurs, “I’m counting on you doing it for me.”
34
STUFFED: RUNNER STOPPED IMMEDIATELY AT LINE OF SCRIMMAGE.
Kent is a whole different world from the parts of England I’ve traveled to in the past. The air feels softer. In some ways, it reminds me of that perfect first bite of a fresh apple, crisp with a faint sweetness that isn’t replicated anywhere else. The wildflowers and distant sea add to the persistent freshness that wafts through the air as Troy walks beside me through the rows of vines that stretch in every direction as if he’sbeen here a hundred times instead of this being his first visit. He squeezes my hand, understanding my awe. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible.”
“Aren’t you glad I convinced you to dress casually?” He teases as my boot gets caught in some mud just before we enter the tasting house.
I’m about to tease him about catching a damsel in distress when our guide—Chelsea Harcourt, the vineyard’s owner—makes her appearance. She’s beautiful in a refined British way that makes me think her lineage must contain royal blood. Her outfit also doesn’t comprise dark mud-caked jeans. No, she’s wearing a Bottega Veneta linen dress with her hair swept up in what must be a real pearl clip, and diamond studs that wink when she turns her head toward Troy and smiles.
Coming around the counter, she takes his extended hand with both of hers. “Troy Walsh. It’s been far too long since I invited you during the vintners convention in Munich.”
“Chelsea. Good to see you again. I’d like to introduce you to?—”
Her face loses its warmth the second her brown eyes land on me, and her voice noticeably cools. “Maya Cox. Of course, I’ve heard of you.”
Troy doesn’t pick up on either her nuanced insult or my reaction as Chelsea turns the charm back on. “When Corbin told me you would be visiting, we were thrilled. It’s not every day we get someone with your family’s lineage interested in English reds.”
I listen to her prattle on for a few moments and try to dissect what it is about this woman that bothers me. Is it because I didn’t grow up in this world of influence? No, I have more confidence than that. Is it me being self-conscious of the fact she speaks wine so easily? No, because with all my travel, I follow the conversation fairly easily.
Then I realize it’s the fact that she’s cut me out of the conversation completely. It’s her use of “we” meaning her, Troy, and some man named “Corbin,” without including me when I’m standing right here holding his hand that grates.
I feel stupid. Troy and I haven’t labeled what we are, and here I am having a moment where my blue eyes are turning bright green all because Chelsea’s gracious. Polite. But I can’t quite prevent my teeth grinding every time she looks at him—forget about when she lays her hands on his arm like she’s tenderizing every inch of her next meal.
Troy doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he’s too kind and tactful to make a scene. “Figured it was time to see how you’re pulling off pinot in this climate.”
“We make do,” she says, eyes lingering on him in a way that makes it clear she’s thinking about more than wine. Chelsea saunters toward the back room, hips swaying. “Follow me, and I’ll show you where the magic starts.”
