Page 43 of Legs

Destroying the vines, even by reputation, was akin to destroying my grandfather’s memory, killing a piece of myself. But I was floundering, my options always circling back to my plan, a way to forget the cruel things my father had said to me. To forget that my family had put me in this position.

Until that time, better to focus on Rachel.

Our next sommelier session was in two days, but I’d wager my Harley she’d text before then. I looked for her purse in the living room. I fished out her phone and changed my name to Eight in her contact list, chuckling to myself.

Seconds later, she hurried into the room, my paint-stained T-shirt hanging over her jeans. She snatched up her purse, but hesitated. “I just want to make sure things will be fine on Tuesday. I don’t want it to be weird.”

“It won’t be weird.”

“Okay. Good. Thanks.”

“Especially since we’ll be doing this again.”

She fisted her hands. “It’s not a good idea.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against my couch. “It’s a brilliant idea.”

“Jimmy, you promised this was casual.”

“I didn’t propose marriage. I just suggested you’d be so desperate to fuck me again you’d be begging for another round. So it won’t be weird. Sitting in Crush’s cellar, imagining me taking you from behind, will be fun. Don’t you think?”

Her slender fingers drifted to her neck. She stared at my bare chest. “Maybe…”

“Definitely?”

“God, you’re annoying.” She hurried toward the door.

“I aim to please. And Ray,” I said, as she was one step out, “I changed my name in your phone. Thought you should know. Don’t want you freaking out when you can’t find my number.”

“I won’t be using it.”

“You will.”

Her breathing escalated, a deep rose coloring her cheeks. Like at the bar, her brown eyes went hazy, everything about her telling me she wanted this, too. Then she blurted, “I have to go,” and left.

Thirty minutes later, my cell buzzed. Rachel’s text read: You’re coming over tomorrow.

I nearly fist-pumped. Sure thing, Sunshine.

My phone buzzed again, my grin widening as I checked it, but the name that popped up had me scratching my head. Owen Phillips? I hadn’t seen Owen since we’d played soccer in high school, the fucker always one move ahead of me—his passing slightly stronger, his ball handling a notch better. Last I heard, he was working at some Washington D.C. finance firm, married and living the life. I hadn’t seen him in twelve years.

Got your number from your folks, he texted. Just moved back to San Fran. Wanna grab a beer sometime?

After Rachel’s quick turnaround, Owen’s message brightened my mood further. It was nice to smile again, to think about a future that didn’t involve me alone in my shell of an apartment. Moving around Rachel in a kitchen, flour on my hands, her hips brushing mine, sounded pretty fucking good. Having a drink with an old buddy was appealing, too.

Name the time, I replied.

Fourteen

Rachel

Jimmy had been a relentless flirt all week. We’d spent three nights at his place and three at mine, always naked, always with him asking for a sleepover, always with me saying no. He’d then ask for dinner, and I’d say no. He’d ask for a movie night, a walk, an ice cream date…and I’d decline. I’d remind myself he was just a fling, a portal to my other dimensions. I’d also given us a time limit.

At the end of the sommelier contest, we’d be done.

My insistence on keeping us casual didn’t stop his flirtatiousness. Our contest group had thinned after recent eliminations, so our corner had become even more remote. The man took advantage. Today’s service component involved us decanting wines in pairs. As I poured his glass (expertly), he said, “I can see down your top.”

He was one move shy from getting voted off the island.