Page 48 of The Sweetness of Life

“Or maybe it’s the opposite and there’s nothing, which is why he’s never made a move.”

I don’t understand how she could possibly think there is nothing there. It’s so clear to everyone around them—even Zach watches them. She pulls two bottles from the cooler and starts walking away.

“Michelle, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way he watches you, and after the way he behaved last night when he thought Jack was into you, I’m telling you, there’s something there.”

She stiffens and pauses as she thinks about what I’ve said. Quietly, she turns back to face me. “I could say the same to you.” Neither of us says anything, and then she shrugs as she moves back to the new customers to pour the next wine in the tasting flight.

I suppose she could.

Zach surprised me last night when he told me he was sorry. Then again, he surprises me every time I see him. He’s up, he’s down. He’s happy, he’s angry. He’s loud, he’s reserved . . . I have no idea what to expect, and it seems I need to add jealous to the list. Jealousy radiated off him each time he saw James talking to me, even after he kissed me senseless in my room, but he still left with the guys at the end of the night, only giving me a nod, a mumbled thanks for the dinner, and a promise to text me tomorrow about a time to meet—which is why I’m here now, waiting for him.

Taking in a deep breath, I remind myself it’s only a few more days—six, to be exact. I need to push all of these mixed emotions over a guy aside, a guy I have no intention of seeing after this week, and focus on the assignment—and my future.

Feeling a motivated sense of resolute purpose, I sit a little taller and take a sip of my delicious wine, and that’s when I notice the air at my back has heated. An earthy clean smell floats around me, and my eyelids drift shut as I soak it in. I really do love the way he smells.

Looking over my shoulder, I find Zach standing next to me with a wary expression on his face. Crossing my legs, I remind myself I only have less than a week left here and twist on the chair to face him, wondering which version I’ll get tonight.

“How long have you been sitting here?” he asks me, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Not too long.” I eye him suspiciously. “How long have you been standing there?”

He chuckles. “Long enough.”

Moving to stand next to me and lean against the bar, the tension in his shoulders lightens as he takes his time drinking me in with those electric blue eyes of his. So much for my pep talk. Sixty seconds—that’s all it took for me to lose my sense of balance, while he remains completely calm and sure of himself. It’s as if he’s immune to the charged air between us. My heart rate picks up, butterflies have scattered, and I curse myself for having this crazy reaction to him.

Breaking the connection, I grab my glass, take a huge swallow of wine, and clear my throat. “I was ready and bored, so I came here a little early to hang out with Michelle.” I glance down the bar; she’s washing glasses and still frowning. My heart frowns with her.

Zach makes a humming noise, pulling my eyes back to him. He looks at my glass and at the mostly empty bottle in front of me.

“Did you eat?” He sounds slightly irritated, and a giggle bursts out of me.

“Did you really just ask me that?” I shake my head at him. “Don’t you know a chef never misses a meal?”

The muscles in his face relax, and one side of his mouth tips into a grin.

“So, are we Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde today?” I ask him while leaning back in my seat and adjusting my skirt over my legs.

“What do you mean?” He crosses his arms over his chest, and the muscles bulge against the fabric, momentarily distracting me.

“Just want to be prepared for whatever kind of mood you’re in before we get started.”

He contemplates what I’ve said as a scowl drops into place. “It isn’t like that.”

“Oh, yes, it is.” I laugh back at him.

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. It’s then I realize his hair is styled . . . and so are his clothes. He has on a pair of navy dress slacks, a pale blue long-sleeve button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and a camel-colored belt with matching shoes. He looks delectable and insanely irresistible.

“You look nice,” I say, trying to remain composed and keep the peace. His lips mash together and then his eyes sweep down over me again.

“You do, too . . . but you always do,” he says softly, numbing me with the sincerity and warmth in his eyes. I manage to keep to myself the fact that the dress and shoes I’m wearing were chosen with his reaction in mind.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the sparked tension between us veering more toward that of a yearning.

Shifting in my chair, the strap on my left shoulder slips out of place, and his eyes follow it. Taking a step closer to me, putting him right in my personal space, he raises a hand and runs his finger up my arm, from wrist to collarbone. I watch goose bumps chase after him, and he pushes the strap back in place. His hand lingers on my shoulder, searing me with the warmth of his touch.

Trailing my eyes up his chest, I see the top button on his shirt is undone, and I have the strongest urge to reach out and touch the bottom of his throat. He swallows and I continue my ascent, admiring the tiny details others wouldn’t notice: the scar right above his top lip, the bump on his nose where it must have been broken at some point, and the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs and smiles. I find it all incredibly tempting and sexy.

His hand tightens on my shoulder, and his thumb slips back under the strap and traces the edge as if he wants to take it off. Without thinking, I lean in toward him, and he does the same, his eyes latching onto my mouth. The air thickens, heats . . . electrifies. This guy is my kryptonite, and when he looks at me as if he wants me, I feel completely at his mercy. If he were to kiss me right now, here in front of his employees and these visitors to the tasting room, I would let him.