"No. A Persian poet. He's the one who said, 'All I need is wine, women and song.' Or maybe it was 'a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.’”
I laugh. "Do you recognize that those are two entirely different statements? In the second phrase, the man is obviously thinking about a special woman."
"I'll drink to that!" he says, raising his glass to me. "A salute to my new muse."
"Me? What did I do?"
"What muses usually do," he says cryptically. "Remember our talk at the cabin, and that song I sang to Posey today to calm her down?"
"Yes."
"That's going to be my new hit single."
"Pretty sure about that, aren't you, Mr. Rockstar?"
Cameron smirks. He takes a bottle and corkscrew, his strong hands working to ease out the cork. Then he pours the wine into glasses, the candlelight catching the deep burgundy liquid.
"Try it. I bet you'll like it," he says, raising the glass to me.
"Just a sip. I don't want to lose my head."
The wine tastes delicious on my tongue—rich, complex, intoxicating. I look up to see Cameron's eyes burning into me. Then he leans forward and kisses me.
The touch of his lips fills me with desire. The suppressed passion I felt for him when we were trapped in the cabin floods back with punishing intensity.
He pulls back slightly, his forehead against mine, breathing hard. "Tara," he says, his voice rough. "Before we... there's something we need to discuss."
CHAPTER 32
TARA
Cameron refills our glasses. Candlelight flickers across his face as he settles beside me.
The storm feels like hours ago, but I can still taste the rain on his kiss.
"Tara," he says, swirling the dark wine. "There's something I need to tell you."
His tone makes me set down my glass.
"Okay."
"You're quirky. But in a good way," he says with an easy smile. "You have a knack for charming dogs and four-year-olds alike. Not many people would think to turn on the sprinklers and blast opera music to clean off a muddy Lab."
I laugh despite the seriousness in his voice. "That's your opening line?"
"I'm being specific." His fingers trace along my wrist. "You quote Shakespeare to drunk stars in hotel lobbies. You make butterfly waffles sound like haute cuisine. You got my daughter to sit cross-legged on a dirt floor without a single complaint about her dress."
"Cameron—"
"But here's the thing."
His thumb stops their delicious circles around the curve of my face. "I don't do relationships, Tara. I'm not built for them."
The wine suddenly tastes bitter in my mouth. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want you."
His voice drops to that rough register that makes my pulse quicken.
