Page 24 of Legs

Her pink lips turned down, but she didn’t push.

I grabbed my jacket and spun for the exit, but my sights snagged on an Offshoot wine bottle. Our Cabernet, of course. Nothing but lies in sleek packaging.

My mind tripped back to the day my younger brother Dimitri and I caught our winemaker playing with our flagship Cabernet Sauvignon, blending in more than the twenty-five percent of other varietals allowed. We’d been on him to trim costs. His brilliant solution: pass off inferior—cheaper—grapes as Cabernet.

Dimitri had always been lazy, more corners cut than followed, and he didn’t bat an eye. I, on the other hand, was furious, could never have my name linked to such deceit. My father’s reaction was to list wine’s illustrious history, telling us of Pliny the Elder’s claims that most wines were adulterated, falsehoods wrapped in scents of black cherry and spice.

Neither of them gave a damn.

I’d sure as shit cared, but I lost the winery before I could make things right.

Now it was time. I was stuck in a rut, that lie tethering me to my past, and this contest was my best shot. Placing an anonymous call wouldn’t work. Laws weren’t as strict in Napa Valley as they were in Europe, and Dimitri had too many wine critics in his pocket. With the top experts in the field present at the final round, I’d work the tables, plant seeds and watch the gossip spark. The fire would catch before Dimitri could control it. They’d be forced to recall all mislabeled wines, and their reputation would nose-dive. It was unavoidable.

It was also tragic.

The winery my grandfather and I had poured our lives into would crumble, his legacy forever tarnished. My gut hollowed at the thought.

Ignoring the queasiness, I made for the door, hoping to find Rachel and clear my head. Luck was on my side. She’d stopped a few blocks down to rummage through her purse. Probably for her cell. Last session it had vibrated incessantly until she’d shut it off. A guy calling her, maybe. Someone in her life who didn’t spin hot and cold. That didn’t seem like her style, to flirt with me and go home to someone else, but if my ex Sophia taught me anything, it was people weren’t always who they seemed.

I glanced at my bike and debated leaving, not pursuing her pull. Not offering some weak explanation for my behavior. That would mean sitting through another session, waiting for a glance from Rachel. A twitch of her lips. Any reaction to me.

Fuck it all to hell.

She was on the move and turned into a grocery store. I jogged after her, unsure what I was after, unable to stop.

I found her in the produce section. A bag of cherries was in the basket on her arm. Her hips swayed in her black skirt, the folds of her white blouse whispering across her skin as she moved. She always wore conservative clothes, always black, white, or gray. I couldn’t be sure who the real Rachel was—the woman with the witty humor, sexual appetite, and wild laugh, or the woman who wore prim outfits, straightened her pens, and couldn’t come with any other man’s head between her thighs. If I had to guess, I’d say she didn’t know her true self, either.

Her back was to me as I approached, her attention fixed on an employee. “Do you have black currants?”

He scratched his pock-marked cheek. “Only dried, I think. Aisle three, with the bulk foods.”

“And licorice? The real kind, black. Not the strawberry Twizzlers.”

“Aisle two, with the candy. Should be there.”

Cherries in her basket, currants and licorice—she either had some odd eating habits, or she was training her nose for the Cabernet Sauvignon tasting.

“You don’t want licorice,” I said.

Her shoulders jumped. She swiveled, surprise in her wide brown eyes. Her attention lingered on my leather jacket and dipped down the front of my T-shirt, landing on my belt buckle. Her eyes flicked up to my face, irritation replacing her desire. I saw it, though—the quickening of her breath, the parting of her lips. All wasn’t lost.

“If I asked for licorice,” she said, “then I want licorice.”

“Not if you’re using it to prepare for next class. For that, you need star anise and these.” I grabbed a pint of blackberries and tossed them in her basket.

Her scowl was adorable. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you.”

The pink tinge on her chest rushed to her cheeks, indignation in her hitched shoulders. “I don’t want your help, Jimmy. Since you need it spelled out, I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but this cat-and-mouse game doesn’t do it for me.” She grabbed the blackberries and shoved them at my chest. “Keep your hands out of my basket.”

Except I wanted my hands in her basket, my fingers smudging her refined edges. I returned the blackberries to her bin and smirked.

She huffed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m determined. I need to explain about last session.”

She stepped to the side, hand on the berries to return them herself, and my heart stopped. No, not stopped. It lurched against my ribs, the muscle nothing but a giant bruise.